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About This Author
My name is Joy, and I love to write.
Why poetry, here? Because poetry uplifts its writer, and if she is lucky enough, her readers, too. Around us, so many objects abound to write about. Once a poet starts with a smallest, most trivial object, he shall discover that his pen will spill out what is most delicate or most majestic hidden inside him. Since the classics sometimes dealt with lofty subjects with a lofty language, a person with poetry in his soul may incline to emulate that. That is understandable. Poetry does that to a person: it enlarges the soul and gives it wings. Yet, to really soar, a poet needs to take off from the ground.
 
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Daily Cascade #1082711 added January 23, 2025 at 12:02pm
Restrictions: None
My Grandmother's Embroidery
Prompt:
"Embroidery is just magical for me from start to finish."
Write about something that is magical for you.
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Talking about magical, life itself is magical to me because I can't predict, from one moment to the next, what it will suddenly produce from its vast treasury. When the setting sun turns the sky into a colorful, fiery canvas, the delicate nurturing web inside the new leaves and the spiderwebs, or the morning dew, the feathers of birds, a cat's soft fur, a baby's laughter, the eyes of people, and all human connections are a touch of magic. This is because most things in creation are held together by the invisible threads of love, compassion, and empathy.
In addition, anything that starts with a blank canvas is magical, as is writing to me. Still, I'm going to wax poetic, sort of, about embroidery, and specifically, my grandmother's embroidery, here. Only because my grandmother was such an enthusiast of it and her work was fantastic, always. As for me, not only I am a lost cause with such fine art, but also, I don't have the patience to spend hours on a one-inch square of some thin cloth.
Yet, I admit that embroidery, like most other fancy work, transforms the ordinary into something extraordinary. Each stitch of it weaves a story from the first delicate choice of thread colors to the final knot that secures the piece. As a small child, I watched my grandmother's needle pierce through the each tiny hole between the warp and the weft of a simple piece of cloth and come up in intricate patterns where colors bloomed in gardens, catching fleeting moments and expressions, at times in a flower petal, or maybe, as an abstract swirl of vivid emotion.
So, I soon realized that even the way my grandmother reached to her embroidery hoop was a signal that something extraordinary was about to happen, something that would bridge the tangible with the intangible or even ethereal. Her embroidery was all about expressing her individuality or even bringing to surface her spiritual symbolism. The delicate interplay of shadows, textures, and the shimmer of a few metallic threads, here and there, were the enchanting elements that made her work otherworldly. Her each choice in thread colors, the each interaction of her needle with the cloth added to a much bigger picture, while creating something uniquely her own.
In hindsight, just maybe, my grandmother's embroidery art was mimicking life itself: deliberate, creative, and above all, magical.
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