Let’s be honest. Most of what we do these days disappears faster than a cup of coffee in a meeting. You post a photo, it’s forgotten in six hours. You send a text, it’s buried under three new group chats and a spam message from DHL that’s not really DHL.
So when you make something with your hands, something that stays, it feels almost rebellious. A little like saying: fine, world, you can scroll past me. But this flower’s not going anywhere.
Why We Make Things That Last
Nobody admits it, but part of creating is a tiny panic about being temporary. Some people have kids, some people plant trees, and some of us make crocheted Vociras that will outlive us all (and possibly enslave humanity).
It’s not about ego. It’s about proof. Proof that you were here. That you did something slow, detailed, and beautiful in a world that rewards fast, average, and cheap. When you spend hours shaping petals that don’t wilt, it’s like you’re quietly time-traveling, leaving behind a soft, colorful fossil.
The Slow Maker Brain
Here’s what psychologists might say if they ever touched yarn. Making things slowly rewires your brain. Every stitch, every petal, every do-I-have-enough-yarn panic (crocheters call it yarn chicken game) keeps you grounded in the moment.
Crocheting isn’t just crafting. It’s a kind of sneaky meditation. You’re counting, focusing, breathing, zoning out in a good way. It’s the opposite of doom scrolling. You finish a flower and realize your brain feels rinsed. Not in a bubble bath way. In a “wow, I made something real” way.
Forever Isn’t About Time
We say “lasts forever,” but that’s not really the point. Forever doesn’t mean indestructible. It means meaningful. It’s the thought that someone, years from now, might find your crochet flower, hold it, and feel something.
It might remind them of you. Or it might just sit on a shelf, judging dust particles. Either way, it exists. And in a world that erases things daily, that’s huge.
The Beautiful and Slightly Creepy Part
I have old crochet pieces that freak me out a little. They’re like tiny time capsules of my past moods, the angry purple one, the hopeful pink one, the “what even is this stitch” experimental disaster, (actually, I have a whole bag of disasters).
They remind me who I was when I made them. That’s both comforting and mildly haunting. But that’s the deal when you make something meant to last, it doesn’t forget.
So Why Do We Do It
Because it feels good to fight against the fade. You see, handmade things carry fingerprints, not barcodes. And when you make something slowly, lovingly, ridiculously obsessively, it becomes a tiny rebellion against everything disposable.
And maybe, just maybe, when someone holds one of your flowers long after you’re done making them, it’ll whisper, “She was here.”
Until next bloom,
Kootsiko