SlowSew: how I fell in love with slow-stitching
Callie Di Nello 
Sharing my SlowSew story, and the inspiration behind our SlowSew Gatherings ...
As some of our dear readers will know, CreaTEAvity Studio has recently begun hosting SlowSew Gatherings once a month, held online. A space where we can gather together and work on our slow-stitch samplings, in companionship.
I love the whole process of SlowSew (slow-stitching): from sourcing the fabrics, feeling which ones would like to be used in my next SlowSew sampling, choosing the right thread colours, and allowing the fabrics and thread to weave their creative magic slowly, gently, on my mind, body and soul.
Here's my SlowSew story, of how I fell in love with slow-stitching ... and if you've never tried slow-stitching, perhaps my story will inspire you to seek out a few precious fabric scraps and try it for yourself.
I grew up with grandmothers who were both always very busy with their hands. One grandmother was brilliant with a needle and thread, the other with knitting needles. Back in the early 1970’s, these skills weren’t classified as hobbies, or crafting: they were a necessity. Making clothes, darning socks, knitting jumpers … they were considered essential skills for a woman to have (ugh! The feminist in me is struggling to type this, but it’s history, it’s the truth).
My Nanny Joyce (my maternal grandmother) had a gorgeous Singer treadle sewing machine that she made Army canvas tents on, as a way of earning some money from home. The rhythmic sound of the foot pedal as she sewed long, long lengths of waxed camouflage fabric, would often lull me to sleep. The snipping of cotton, the soft buzzing as the canvas fabric ran under the foot, occasionally catching when crossing seams … all were the soundtrack to my very young years. I can still ‘feel’ the roughness of the netting against my little hands; and vividly trotting behind my Nanny as she struggled to carry her latest stack of finished canvas tents up a steep, narrow white - incredibly dusty - staircase, peeping out across a very dishevelled room, full of camouflage material, finished tents, rucksacks and who-knows-what-else.
My Granna Helen (my paternal grandmother) was a big knitter. How I miss those scratchy, gorgeously-warm Aran jumpers that she would sit knitting for us as Christmas gifts, a labour of love that I didn’t ever fully appreciate - especially as a sullen know-it-all teenager. But she also taught me how to hand-sew, how to darn, and how to satin-stitch. For my 18th birthday, she gifted me her Singer Scarlet 354 sewing machine - which I still own, although sadly it is no longer usable.
The last item I made (to date) was back in June 1990, a gorgeous maternity dress for my friend’s wedding. A complex piece with too many panels to accommodate my growing bump! Once I became a mum, my sewing machine was packed away, only seeing the light of day when I hemmed a pair of curtains, or took up a pair of trousers.
Making things that would be outlast me
When I was diagnosed with cancer in 2011, I became obsessed with making fabric yoyo’s. I would spend all day in a comfy chair, alternating between sleeping off the chemotherapy side-effects, or cutting and stitching circles of fabric into yoyo’s, which I then turned into brooches. Looking back, I wanted to keep myself busy … but also make things that would be a little part of me, should I not pull through.
I then moved on to attempting to make a quilt for my best friend’s baby girl. Who knew that making quilts meant you have to use very recise measurements? Now, maths has never been my strong point - I have all the symptoms of dyscalculia - so my friend’s wise comment that maybe her quilt would be ready for when she sets off to university is most likely set to come true (9 years on, I’ve still not pieced it all together!). To be fair, it’s more because I am terrified of my Janome sewing machine. It’s far too clever for me!
Then the Great British Sewing Bee appeared on our screens in Spring 2013, hosted by Claudia Winkleman. This wonderful show rekindled a love of sewing - not just in me, but throughout in the UK, which is brilliant. My terror of the Janome, and deep reluctance to move around our loft room to make a decent-enough space for the Janome and laying out fabrics to cut, meant I still didn’t use up my fabric stash.
A few years ago (maybe 5 years ago?), I booked to attend the Mental Wealth Festival in central London, at CityLit. There was a number of workshops, and I booked on to a lecture about sleep (one of my favourite subjects, so profoundly healing) and also booked a place on a hand-sewing workshop. We didn’t need to bring along any fabrics or supplies with us, the small fee covered any materials we’d need.
Colours, fabrics and spools ... oh my!
I can clearly remember entering a large studio/classroom in CityLit with enormous windows that allowed the light to flood into the room, just as if it were only yesterday that it had happened. As I moved in to the room to take a seat at one of the large tables, I spied an enormous mound of fabrics … and trims … and what appeared to be hundreds of spools of cotton in a rainbow of colours. My heart lifted with joy! Ohhhhhhh!
And so our teacher shared her love of slow-stitching with us … and as well as bringing along the mountain of textiles, she had also brought her copy of Claire Wellesley-Smith’s gorgeously-tactile book, ‘Slow Stitch : Mindful and Contemplative Textile Art’, which has the most amazing soft-to-the-touch cover.
So we dived into this glorious jumble of preloved fabrics and trims, picked the pieces we’d like to work on … and sat down to stitch by hand. Nothing more elaborate than a simple running stitch, which is the most basic stitch there is.
We sat together, a few people together at each table, but not too close (come on, we’re British! We don’t do up-close with strangers!) and being to piece our fabrics together in a way that pleased us, thread our needle, and began stitching.
And as time passed by, we started to talk amongst ourselves … our slow stitches encouraging us to open up, to talk about ourselves, our fabrics, our memories of stitching … of what was going on in our lives.
Moment of healing
At some point in the workshop, I decided to add a little bit more trim, and moved up to the main table, where the fabrics were waiting patiently to be rediscovered and used. I took a seat, and the conversation started up again. And what happened in the next 5 minutes took my breath away. It is not for me to disclose, but I witnessed the most incredible moment of healing take place in a stranger … something that had been locked away for a long time, yet had shone through as that person hand-stitched their fabric pieces, chatting away companionably about nothing-in-particular in our small group.
I was hooked. Slow-stitching is such a portable way of creating, of opening up a space for mindful activities, and can be done at any time. With no rules, no patterns, no set colours. Just a pastime to help slow our mind and our body down … but when you have an opportunity to sit with others, slow-stitching, wow! It is just amazing what can come to the surface and be explored, reflected on, healed, with no effort whatsoever. Just a willingness to sit, be still, sew slowly with no agenda, and allow yourself to Be.
(The cover image is a tiny part of my piece stitched at that workshop.)
And so that is my SlowSew story … I’d love to hear your own story. And why not join us at a SlowSew Gathering, and feel the magic for yourself?
:: visit our SlowSew bookshelf
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gift yourself permission to play, heal & show your true colours in the CreaTEAvity Studio: a space to nurture, reconnect to, and rejuvenate your creative spirit - wherever you are in the world.
Categories: slowsew