Putting puzzles together calms me down. Is it the sense of control when I pull out all the edge pieces and slowly make a frame? Or when I sort all the colors into grids on the table? Everybody has a different approach, I've discovered, because many people pass by my puzzle table, well, dining room table, and give it a go. I don't mind. Help with puzzling is fine with me.
My husband likes to sort the pieces by shape, so when he really gets involved it blows my system out. Our daughter works well that way too, being a wizard at visualising what fits before she tries it, and our son is pretty flexible and can work with anything. Our son-in-law fits with my rough sort without complaint. And in the end, it comes together.
The one I'm working now came to me via an Etsy shop, via the Goodwill. So far there are no pieces missing. It's a lovely Marjolein Bastin picture, soft watercolors of plants and butterflies, and broken earthenware pots. It's full of life, full of growing things sharing the world with one another, in spite of the broken pots, and getting along just fine, and all of it bathed in a warm sunny light.
I work on it while I'm watching the tv. And I cover it with a placemat when I need to eat a meal. The surprising thing to me is that when I return to the puzzle after leaving it for a day, I can remember the feelings I was having while I was working it the last time. I can remember scenes from a series, and if it's the news, what fresh horror was being revealed. I don't watch much news these days, although I do keep informed, but the puzzle doesn't seem to mind; it still fits together just fine.
If a puzzle brings up pleasant memories I often keep it to work another time. I had a Halloween scene once that was so treasured I kept it for years. It finally disintegrated, the cardboard too worn to fit together, and I just glued it to a piece of cardboard and used it as a decoration that year, and eventually had to discard it. But those little wispy ghosts, the deep blue of the sky, the costumes of the visitors to the barn dance, are still firmly there in my mind even though the puzzle is long gone.
I've had people say they don't know why I do so much puzzling. And I haven't done any for a long time. But these times seem to call me back to something I can put together, make sense of, appreciate. It calms me down. And I never rush. A puzzle can sit out on the table for weeks. The touchstone it represents is necessary for me.
Control over chaos is illusive, impossible for one person, a collective effort that can takes years to come together. But these days taking control of one little corner of a puzzle, fitting a few pieces together securely, represents for me a certainty that eventually, when all the pieces are out on the table, we will collectively and individually find a way to put them together. I think about that a lot.
