I spent my day off knitting. Properly knitting. The sort of knitting where the kettle only gets boiled when you realise it’s gone cold again, and daylight quietly slips across the room without asking permission. And it struck me that this would be the perfect place to reflect on how our hobbies can become gateways into that elusive and deeply nourishing flow state - that place where we are fully, gently, gloriously present.
I love all things wool. I always have. I have been known to peer — perhaps a little too closely - at hand-knitted or crocheted garments worn by unsuspecting members of the public. I like to take in the detail: the stitches chosen, the yarn itself, the colours, the weight, the care. Admittedly, this can be mildly disconcerting for the wearer until I explain myself, at which point it usually becomes a moment of hail friend, well met, and we part ways smiling, bonded by fibre and curiosity.
I could happily spend an entire weekend in a wool shop. I am fairly sure these places are as close to heaven as one can reasonably expect on earth — and please, no judgement on my stash. But beneath the humour lies something rather serious. Most of us are drawn to something that draws us into a happy place. Or perhaps more accurately, into a flow state. For you it might be painting or sailing, music or woodwork, wild camping, golf, gardening, baking, or horse riding. The activity itself almost doesn’t matter. What matters is what happens to us when we are absorbed in it.
For me, my woolly projects invite me into a place where time dissolves. There is no tug of past or future, no mental chatter, no background noise demanding attention. There is only the feel of the yarn as each stitch is drawn through my fingers, the gentle rhythm of the rows, the quiet satisfaction of watching a pattern unfold. It is pure relaxation, yes - but more than that, it is a deep immersion into the practice of presence.
Now, as a very busy minister, I am intentional about carving out moments of stillness early in the morning and throughout the working day. Returning again and again to that core presence is not an optional extra for me - it is essential. I honestly could not do what I do without it. But on days off, and especially on retreat, my latest woolly project is always close at hand. It becomes a companion, a doorway into calm that allows me to stay in that spacious, grounded place for longer stretches of time.
And so I have come to believe that our hobbies can serve both our mental and spiritual wellbeing, if we allow them the dignity of unhurried attention. They are not distractions from “real life”. They are invitations back into it.
So what is your hobby? Are there particular materials, textures, or rhythms that you have an affinity with?
I’d love to know what helps you slip into that flow state. Do share in the comments - and if it involves wool, I may ask follow-up questions. 🧶