When the mind gets flu: A creative remedy
2025 marks a major year of transition for me. After 25 years of having at least one child at home, both my son and daughter now live on the opposite side of the country - literally thousands of kilometres away. I am delighted for them both. They are spreading their wings and following their own life journeys. But I miss them like the devil. Without them here, Perth doesn't feel like the home it used to be.
I moved a lot in my young life and the trend continued during the first half of our marriage. We settled back in Perth 17 years ago. It's by far the longest I've lived in one place. But even so, for me, home isn't about place - it's about people. And my people, both friends and family, seem scattered to the four winds. It's been unsettling, to put it mildly!
This all came to a head a few days ago. I'd been chatting online with friends about "belonging" when the dam inside me finally broke. In floods of tears, I got off the call and went in search of my husband. I explained that I wasn't going to be cooking dinner, that he would have to let me totally fall apart before I could regain some composure, and that I would then be communing with my turtles. He was totally on board with the first two, but the third statement left him baffled. Commune with turtles???
If you've been here a while, you might remember the turtles from this post on Maker DNA. Designed by Kaffe Fassett, it's a huge piece - by far the largest in my stash. Because it's so big, I usually work on it during winter - it's far too hot to have it draped all over me in the summer. Worked entirely in one stitch, all I have to do is follow the colours painted on the canvas. It's painstakingly slow work, and at the rate I'm going, it will take me at least a decade to finish!
This project is different from my usual design work. It's purely personal - something I make time for when I don't have more urgent projects demanding my attention. There's no pressure, no expectations. I work it because I love how the piece came into my life, and the rhythm of the stitching makes me feel really good. Communing with the turtles is a balm for my soul :)
This is only 40% of the whole project - and I still haven’t done half of that, although I’m closer!
Back to my mini breakdown... The night unfolded pretty much as expected. After a storm of tears followed by takeaways for dinner, I perched up in bed with my turtles and Netflix, slowly putting body and soul back together, one stitch at a time. The next day felt a little better, but I was still fragile, so the turtles kept me company for the second evening in a row.
Here's where it gets really interesting. On the same call that triggered my meltdown, someone recommended a book called "A Therapeutic Journey" by Alain de Botton. The modern world being what it is, I had a copy in my hands within 24 hours. In the opening pages, de Botton outlines what a healthy mind looks like and contrasts this with what happens when things go awry. He writes,
"We ... fail to acknowledge the extent to which mental illness is ultimately as common, and as essentially unshameful, as its bodily counterpart - and also comprises a host of more minor ailments, the equivalents of cold sores and broken wrists, abdominal cramps and ingrowing toenails."
As I read this, it dawned on me that I had been experiencing an intense case of mental flu, and that part of the remedy had been gently stitching my turtles. De Botton continues,
"It doesn't help that we are at least a hundred years away from properly fathoming how the brain operates - and how it might be healed. We are in the mental arena roughly equivalent to where we might have been in bodily medicine around the middle of the seventeenth century..."
That's when my brain really started to buzz - "how it might be healed". Because I know without a shadow of doubt that whilst the turtles were the perfect remedy for me after an emotional storm, they would not be of the least help to many others. Not even to some of my fellow stitchers! I don't have a shred of scientific evidence for this - I can't quote you a peer-reviewed paper. But I know instinctively that with frayed nerves, some people might find the coarseness of the wool irritating, or the sheer size of the project overwhelming. Instead of declaring they aren't cooking dinner, some might send everyone out of the kitchen and lose themselves in a baking frenzy, whilst others rhythmically chop vegetables and make a hearty bowl of soup.
This got me thinking more broadly about creative remedies and individual differences. Just as de Botton says, we don't fully understand the detailed mechanisms behind these preferences yet. In fact, in many cases, we are barely scratching the surface. The emerging field of neuroaesthetics is making progress on the broad brush strokes. For example, we know that music helps many Alzheimer's patients, and a recent report analyses the quality of life benefits for both individual patients and their caregivers (https://www.neuroartsresourcecenter.com/post/alzheimers-disease-music-engagement-quality-of). Dance brings demonstrable benefits to many Parkinson's sufferers, a finding now supported by numerous studies (https://danceforparkinsons.org/resources/research/). But there is still a lot of fine detail to explore here, which I believe comes down to a mixture of nature and nurture - the aesthetic experiences that draw you instinctively, balanced with the life experiences that have built associations in your brain around certain activities.
I know for myself that days of mental fragility, when a cold or flu of the mind takes hold, need careful dosing with really simple stitching. The kind that requires very little thought, offers a lovely sprinkling of colour, and provides the rhythm of gentle repetition. If my turtles aren't readily to hand, then simple knitting makes a great alternative. When my mind is strong and healthy, I can dive into more complex design projects with gay abandon. I think of this as preventative medicine - a daily vitamin pill if you will. By making sure I do some stitching most days, my mind stays focused on my creative work, and everyday anxieties or doubts don't get a chance to build up into an unstoppable torrent. But even then, there is nuance. If I've had an especially long and tiring day, I'm more likely to work on repetitive borders that tax my brain less than intricate, layered motifs.
I suspect that as we better understand the mind's complexities, we will come to understand that everyone's aesthetic "medicine" is as unique as they are. In the field of personalised medicine, doctors consider a person's genetics, diet, environment, and lifestyle when helping manage each patient - whether for prevention, diagnosis, or treatment of disease. Managing mental health works exactly the same way. Suggesting that everyone should take up drawing or painting as a cure-all is as ridiculous as insisting we all learn to throw pots, weave scarves, or blow glass. One woman's joy becomes another's trial. Instead, we need to get curious about what works for each of us as individuals.
If you are a crafter, someone has probably asked you, "How many projects do you have on the go at once?" This question often parks debate. Some people insist they must finish one project before starting the next, almost as though doing otherwise reveals a character flaw. At the other extreme, others delight in juggling countless projects, cheerfully admitting that many will never see completion. But maybe we're asking and answering the wrong question. Perhaps it would be more helpful to consider these instead:
What project or craft do I reach for when I'm really tired?
What helps me feel better after emotional turmoil or an argument?
Which project or process helps most when I'm experiencing physical or mental pain?
What do I love to do, make, or create every day that makes me feel joyful and full of life?
Maybe for some people, focusing attention on just one project at a time effectively impacts all these different aspects of their mental health. Or maybe, like me, different projects or techniques work better in different circumstances.
Until the science of the mind catches up, I see part of my role in championing "The Hands Manifesto" as encouraging you to get curious about how hands-on, creative experiences make you feel. You know yourself best, which means you hold the most valuable knowledge for discovering and implementing the specific aesthetic remedies that help you feel better.
For some of you, this will be a deeply private process, and I completely respect that. It might also take time, especially if your busy life hasn't left much space to follow your creative inclinations and discover what artistic and creative practices feel good in your body and mind. But I can promise you that it will be worth the effort.
My stitching has carried me over countless mental hurdles, literally since my teenage years. Now I have my turtles, a self-care project that will sustain me for many more years to come. But perhaps more importantly, I have the knowledge that when life knocks me sideways again - and it will - I have my own personalized remedy for healing, one stitch at a time.
The question now is: what's yours?
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