My grandmother is holding a white handkerchief with a salmon-colored crocheted lace edge in her hand. “I crocheted the lace myself 70 years ago”, she explains. “Did you really do such a neat job?” asks my grandfather, impressed. He himself once learned how to crochet in school but quickly forgot how to afterwards. Crocheting was more of a women’s thing, he thought. My mother later tells me that the Bavarian Ministry of Education saw it similarly in 1970. Girls and boys had separate classes. Boys learned woodworking, while she had lessons in needlework and had to crochet a hat. In the 2000s, my classmates and I only learned the simplified finger crochet technique. “You don’t really need it nowadays” was the mantra of my teacher. Still, I wanted to learn it. So I asked my mother if she could teach me. With a needle and wool in hand, she showed me where to insert the needle into the stitches. But I couldn’t recognize the individual stitches in the square piece of wool at all, so I gave up immediately.

Crocheting and other domestic arts, like knitting, mending, and embroidery, immediately evoke the Biedermeier era and the image of a woman confined to her home, caring for children, clothing, and cooking. As a feminist, I should probably reject all of this as obsolete. However, it’s no surprise that the COVID lockdowns made me want give it a try again. Over Facetime, my mother showed me how to loop the stitches once more, and now I could see them. Instructions that once felt like programming code now made sense to me, indicating the start of a circle with single and double crochets.

Instead of hiding away in my apartment with my yarn and needle, I began to crochet everywhere and relentlessly. Stuck in a boring conversation? — crochet. Waiting in front of a café because a friend is running late? — crochet. Unwinding alone in a bar in the evening? — crochet. The needle is like a small protective shield in public spaces. It signals that I have a purpose in going to the bar, the café or the park bench. It also makes it clear that I am busy and do not wish to be disturbed. With it in hand, I do not receive comments in a pub about whether my date did not show up. I do not get pitying looks from people who, like me before, do not dare to go to a place alone. Now I am not alone; I have my needle with me. Fifteen centimeters of metal and 150 meters of yarn accompany me in my everyday life. Once they confined women, but now they open doors for me.

At first, I was mainly motivated to produce items I wanted but couldn’t find on the market: the pink sun hat for summer, the glitter balaclava for autumn, the colorful sweater for winter, and the striped vest for spring. Now, I have entire boxes full of yarn but no personal desires left. I crochet just for the sake of crocheting. Others find relaxation in the smell of Palo Santo, the sound of ocean waves, or a glass of red wine; for me, crocheting induces this feeling. The movement clears my mind. It’s mentally engaging enough to prevent rumination, yet so effortless that I don’t have to strain. If I start to worry, they’re no longer omnipresent until my finger starts to cramp. One hand holds the yarn, the other the needle, and my gaze is focused on my work. There’s no hand left for the smartphone, no room for Netflix. When I crochet, I fall into a meditative state where I forget everything.

There’s another advantage to all this. Whether it’s Easter, Christmas, or a forgotten birthday, my crochet basket always bears a suitable gift. Since there is no machine method for making crochet items, they are full of personal dedication. Most people appreciate that.