Folks don't know how much peace skills can bring into one's life. It's a quiet revolution, a fortress built against the clamor of external pressures. For me, that revolution began in the most unlikely of places: the rattling belly of a high school bus.
Every morning, the same rhythm: the low hum of the engine, the shifting weight of bodies, and the click-clack of needles. There she was, always in the same seat, an old lady whose fingers danced with a quiet intensity, conjuring intricate patterns from skeins of yarn. A knitter, I learned. And from that first mesmerized glance, I was hooked. Pun intended. It wasn't a casual fascination; it was an absorption, a deep pull into the intricate world of stitches and loops.
While my friends were discovering the dubious allure of hidden alleys and the hazy camaraderie of shared smoke, I found my escape in yarn stores, in the tactile pleasure of wool, in the quiet discipline of mastering a new stitch. Never had time to smoke 💨 weed with friends and spin the block after school. My hands, once restless, found purpose. My mind, once buzzing with adolescent anxieties, found focus. I was valid within me with what I was doing. CREATING KEPT ME INSIDE, not trapped, but protected, wrapped in the comfort of my own burgeoning talent. The rhythmic motion of knitting, then crocheting, then finally the whir of a sewing machine, became my meditation.
College years arrived, and with them, the need for a different kind of hustle. My crafting evolved. No longer just a hobby, it became a lifeline, a way to make ends meet and express a vibrant creativity that refused to be contained. I began selling custom clothes, doing alterations for dorm-mates hemming jeans, tailoring jackets, transforming thrift store finds into runway-worthy pieces. My dorm room, often overflowing with fabric scraps, design sketches, and the rhythmic pulse of my sewing machine, became my sanctuary and my workshop.
It was during this time that the absurdity struck. One sweltering afternoon, there was a sharp, insistent knock on my door. Two campus security guards, looking far too serious for a typical dorm visit, stood outside. Behind them, peering around the corner of the hallway, was my neighbor, a scrawny kid whose eyes darted nervously. "Falsely ratted me," he had.
"Mr. Francois, we've received reports of... unusual activity from your room. Possible illicit substances," one guard stated, his voice low and formal.
I stared, dumbfounded, then a slow, incredulous smile spread across my face. "Illicit substances? Sir, you've got to be kidding me."
They stepped inside, their expressions quickly shifting from stern suspicion to utter bewilderment. My "drug factory" was a chaotic symphony of creativity: bolts of iridescent silk draped over chairs, a mannequin proudly sporting a half-finished sequined jacket, spools of thread in every color imaginable stacked precariously on my desk, and my trusty sewing machine, humming softly from its last job. There were racks bursting with bespoke hoodies, stacks of perfectly tailored trousers, and bags overflowing with clothes waiting for their new life.
The *kid had apparently thought the constant buzzing of my sewing machine was some kind of strange machinery for illicit production, and the sheer volume of "inventory" meant I had to be dealing. The guards, after a thorough, albeit confused, inspection of my fabric stash and a brief explanation of "bias cut" and "invisible zippers," sheepishly apologized.
WHAT can I say? 🤷🏾♂️... It was a LONG STORY, but folks who know me, they know my only drugzzz are music and crafting. The peace it brings, the satisfaction of turning raw material into something beautiful, the sheer joy of creating – that’s my high. And it's a high that keeps me grounded, valid, and perpetually inspired.
