The Problem with Endangered Crafts

There’s a quiet crisis happening—some of the world’s oldest and most meaningful crafts are slipping away. In this thoughtful episode, we’ll talk about what endangered crafts are, why they matter, and how even one curious soul can help keep a tradition alive. You’ll hear about fascinating old-world skills like scissor making, flax processing, rush seating, and the ancient yarn art of nalbinding. If you’ve ever felt drawn to learn something timeless, this episode is your gentle nudge to try your hand and become part of a beautiful legacy.

Lists of Endangered Crafts

Transcript

Episode 178 – The Problem with Endangered Crafts

There’s something uniquely satisfying about learning a skill that’s been handed down through generations. Whether it’s something as familiar as quilting or as rare as spoon carving, the act of learning an old craft can feel like stepping into a quiet conversation with history.

But here’s the thing—not all of those conversations are still happening. Some no longer have a voice, and some are starting to fade.

And that’s what I want to talk about today.

See, not everything we call “handmade” is the same. There’s a difference between hot-gluing a wreath for the front door and spending hours weaving a basket from willow branches harvested by hand. Now don’t get me wrong—y’all know just how much I love a good craft project. But there’s something deeply meaningful about practicing a skill that people once relied on for daily life. Something that connects you to the past in a way that’s quiet, soulful, and honestly, a little bit sacred.

Unfortunately, some of those old crafts are slipping through the cracks.

We live in a world that loves quick results and convenience. We have machines that can do things in seconds that used to take days. And that’s not always a bad thing—progress has its perks. But the downside is this: as we’ve modernized, we’ve let go of certain skills. And not just let go—they’re on the verge of being lost completely.

They’ve even got a name for them now—endangered crafts.

These are traditional skills that are no longer widely practiced, and in some cases, there are only a handful of people left who still know how to do them. Think about that. Skills that once shaped entire communities are now quietly disappearing.

And it’s not just the exotic ones, either.

Take scissor making, for example. You wouldn’t think much of it, right? We can buy scissors just about anywhere. But handmade scissors—the kind that require precision shaping, balancing, and hardening by someone who understands both metal and muscle memory—well, there are only a couple of artisans left in the world who still do it that way. And once they’re gone?

The knowledge goes with them.

Or flax processing—that’s another one -and one I’m trying my best to figure out how I can do it here on the farm. Before we had cotton blends and synthetics, flax was turned into linen. But turning a plant into soft, strong linen fabric is no small feat. You’ve got to soak it, break it, scutch it, heckle it, spin it, weave it. Each step is an art in itself. Most people today don’t even know what half of those words mean, let alone how to do them. And yet—linen was once found in nearly every home.

And then there’s Nalbinding.

Now that’s a word you might not have heard before. Or, if you’ve read my book, How to Cook a Possum, you may have.  It’s spelled just like it sounds—N-A-L-B-I-N-D-I-N-G—and it’s older than knitting. I mean really old. We’re talking ancient Scandinavia, long before your average Viking had even heard of a crochet hook.

Nalbinding uses a single needle, often made of bone or wood, short lengths of yarn, and your thumb. You work with loops, stitching them in ways that look almost like a cousin to knitting—but with a twist. It doesn’t unravel like knitting does, which made it great for cold-weather gear, especially mittens and socks.

There’s a beautiful rhythm to it. And while it takes a bit of getting used to, there’s something almost meditative about that steady in-and-out, looping each stitch by hand.

But here’s the thing—not many people know how to do it anymore. It’s considered a “rare” skill. There are folks out there trying to preserve it, teach it, and pass it along, but it’s not something you’ll find in your average craft store class schedule. You’ve got to seek it out.

And that, right there, is part of the problem—and the opportunity.

See, when a craft gets labeled as endangered, it means it’s at a tipping point. There are fewer and fewer hands doing the work, and if something doesn’t change, it may vanish altogether. But that also means we’re in a unique place to do something about it.

We have a chance to pick up these threads—literally and figuratively—and carry them forward.

And that’s something worth thinking about.

Because endangered crafts aren’t just about quaint hobbies or rustic decor. They’re about memory. Culture. Ingenuity. They represent a time when people had to make do, use what they had, and create beauty and function out of very little.

They also represent a different pace of life. One where value wasn’t measured in speed or output, but in care and skill.

And there’s something about that slower, more intentional rhythm that I think speaks to us today—especially for those of us trying to live a simple life. A meaningful one.

Imagine spending a winter afternoon learning to make your own rush-seated stool—yes, rush. As in the plant. You gather it, soak it, twist it, and weave it into a strong, beautiful seat. Or learning Passementerie – which is the skill of making decorative fringe, tassels, and cording, or making Buttons. My friend Karen is an expert in both of these, and I’m hoping at some point in the near future I can take a few classes from her. Or lacemaking. These crafts aren’t just for decoration, but something made to honor the season and bring hope for the next.

What about wooden hay rake making? That one might not seem relevant unless you live on a farm but think about what it means to make your own tools. To understand the materials, to shape something useful with your own hands. That’s a lost art all by itself.

Even the way we used to mend—darning with skill and pride—has slipped away. Today, we’re more likely to toss a sock than mend it. But once, those little repairs were acts of care. Of respect for the things we owned.

So here’s the question I keep turning over in my mind: What would it look like if we each picked one endangered craft—just one—and tried it?

Not to become experts. Not to add something else to our to-do lists. But just to keep the thread alive. To say, “This mattered once. It might still matter now.”

Maybe it becomes a hobby. Maybe you fall in love with it. Or maybe you try it once, hang the results on your wall, and smile every time you pass it.

Either way—you’ll be part of something bigger. A kind of quiet rescue mission. One stitch, one spoon, one spindle at a time.

And I’ll be honest—there’s also something just plain fun about learning a skill that almost no one else knows. There’s a little spark in that. A little curiosity. A little wonder.

Because you never know where it might lead.

You might start out trying your hand at nalbinding and end up writing your own pattern. Or learning to make ink with oak galls and find yourself journaling more than ever. Or carving a wooden butter knife just for the joy of spreading jam on toast with something you made. 

Or, what would happen if you started from the very beginning? Look up how to make a drop spindle, then make one. Get some wool roving, and learn how to spin with your drop spindle. Then make yourself a wooden needle and use that yarn you just spun to make yourself a pair of nalbinding mittens or socks.

These crafts don’t just teach technique. They teach patience. They teach presence. They teach you how to be okay with imperfection and how to find joy in the process—not just the product.

And in a world that’s always rushing, always scrolling, always chasing the next new thing—endangered crafts remind us that slowness has value, too.

So maybe today, you start by looking something up. Watching a video. Reading an old book. Finding a Facebook group full of people who are keeping the tradition alive. Maybe you even track down someone in your town or your region who still practices one of these skills and ask if they’d be willing to teach you—or just tell you about it.

Because preserving a craft doesn’t always start with doing. Sometimes it starts with listening.

And I think we need more of that, too.

More listening. More learning. More humble hands, ready to try.

And maybe most of all—we need more hearts that are willing to care about something simply because it’s worth caring about.

Not because it’s trendy. Or useful. Or profitable. But because it’s beautiful. Because it connects us to the long, handmade history of being human.

So if you feel a tug on your heart to try something new—or something very, very old—I hope you’ll lean into that.

Try Nalbinding. Or basket weaving. Or hand-forging a garden trowel. Try bookbinding, or spinning, or dyeing cloth with things you find in your backyard. To help you choose, you’ll find a free downloadable list of different endangered crafts in the show notes. You can select one from the list, or do a search for endangered crafts and find one that suits you best.

Whatever it is, let yourself be a beginner. Be a little awkward. Let it take time. That’s part of the charm.

Because when we keep these crafts alive, we’re not just keeping history—we’re keeping a slower, richer, more thoughtful way of life within reach.

And if you ask me? That’s a craft worth learning.