I have fond memories of sitting atop my mother's vinyl sewing kit when I was little girl, laughing and squealing as my brothers pushed me around the house, spinning me about like it was a ride at the amusement park. The kit was one of those cushioned ottoman style seats on casters. It provided endless entertainment on a rainy day, but we hardly ever used it, or saw it used, for much else.

Zooming around on that cushion was my first introduction to sewing; that is to say virtually no introduction at all. Apart from the riding, I did like how little shiny notions, cascading pegs of color, and nesting boxes magically appeared when you lifted its seat. Although my convivial introduction to needle arts was not the passing down of knowledge or skill that I would have preferred, I do believe it was responsible for inspiring a feverish excitement for color and texture, and instilling my approach to learning with a sense of fun.

I came to rely heavily upon that sense of fun in tortuous moments when I just couldn't seem to wrap my brain around a how to textbook diagram. It only took me three years to finally figure out how to join yarn to knit a hat in the round. An understanding of the steps suddenly came when trying to knit my husband a hat for Christmas one year. I think it must have been my sheer love for him and his cold ears that finally broke through my fog. As it turned out, it really was simple to join yarn. But just try to convince me of that during any of my previous attempts and you would have received a low rumbling groan.

Was my prolonged self tutorial due to an innate stubbornness or some sort of chink in my learning curve or mental acuity? When I think of all the time spent trying to learn one step, I wonder why I didn't just go to the knitting store and ask for help. You see, I would have had no problem asking someone in my family for a little technical advice if any one of them knew how to knit. But they didn't. Nor did I have any friends at the time who were knitters. So what could account for my resistance to seeking out a professional's advice? Did I fear looking stupid and incompetent? I could, after all, knit other complicated pieces (as long as it was back and forth on two needles). One thought is that if I went to the store, I would look foolish asking for help with such a simple basic step that's suppose to be so easy. Another is that just maybe I wanted to preserve my badge of importance. Have you read it? It says:"100% homegrown, pure and unadulterated, self-taught artisan". Alas, perhaps I evaded seeking help out of sheer arrogance and pride. I have concluded that it is a whole lot of the former (fear of looking stupid) with a pinch of the latter (unadulterated self-taught artist--give me a star!).

The mental aerobics involved in sustaining my stubborn resistance to instruction was beginning to exhaust me. So, when it came time to make the switch from hand sewing to machine sewing this spring, I decided I would do it differently; no expending unnecessary energy or tangling up my neurons in agonizing frustration. Nope, none of that. This time I would confront my fear and learn from a pro! I decided to join a two week sewing class held at my local fabric shop. I'm so glad I did! In one night I learned how to wind a bobbin, thread a needle, change a foot, and sew a pillow case on a machine. But, not without a little discomfort first.

The neophyte of the group and lacking confidence, I looked like an awkward gosling stumbling behind trying to catch up. I laughed nervously every time I attempted a new task because I knew nothing! Difficult as it is to admit, I didn't even know how to press!!!! Sure, my mother taught me how to iron when I was little. Was pressing any different? Come to find out, and as you may already know, yes. No wonder I could never get my squares to match perfectly, I had been stretching them out with all my ironing!

Sewing on a machine always seemed so complicated. Unfamiliar with the technology, I shied away. Funny how, having grown up in the age of computers, I'm right at home designing a website and running an online business. Our fears of and resistance to discovering new horizons are, for the most part, selective and irrational. I had put off learning how to sew on a machine for the past ten years and in the process missed out on ten years of additional fun. The four days spent with my patient sewing teachers were just that--fun. I laughed, created, and went home excited for the first time in a long while. Once again I was a reeling, whirling, chatterbox squealing throughout the house like I had just gotten off the best ride at the amusement park.

For those of us who find it difficult to accept that we can't teach ourselves everything, it is important to remember that to hand the teacher's hat over to another doesn't mean we must wear the dunce's cap. How we look while learning is insignificant. What matters is enjoying the process! When you can learn, sew and craft (and dance and sing and ride about while you do it like no one is looking) then the magic of crafting resurfaces like all those shiny notions in mom's sewing kit.

by Anne Marie Champagne of The Pitchy Patch http://www.thepitchypatch.com