I used to think macrame was something your aunt made in the 1970s and then quietly donated to Goodwill.
Turns out, the whole craft is having this weird renaissance, and honestly, I get it now. There’s something almost meditative about tying knots for an hour while your podcast plays in the background—your hands just know what to do after the first few repetitions, and suddenly you’ve created this intricate hanging planter that actually looks intentional. The basic square knot, which sounds incredibly boring but is secretly the backbone of like 80% of macrame projects, involves taking four cords and weaving the outer ones around the inner two in a pattern that feels awkward for maybe ten minutes and then becomes second nature. You can find cotton cord at most craft stores, usually in 3mm or 5mm thickness, though I’ve seen people use jute or even hemp if they want that more rustic, slightly scratchy aesthetic. The price varies wildly—I’ve paid anywhere from $8 to $30 for a roll depending on whether I’m buying the fancy stuff or just grabbing whatever’s on sale. What surprised me most was how forgiving the whole process is; if you mess up a knot, you just untie it and start again, which is weirdly reassuring in a way that, say, woodworking is definitely not.
Anyway, here’s the thing about choosing your plant pot. The weight matters more than you’d think. I made my first planter and immediately put a massive terracotta pot in it, and the whole thing stretched out like taffy within a week.
The Spiral Knot Pattern That Actually Makes Sense Once You Stop Overthinking It
So the spiral knot is where things get interesting, or frustrating, depending on your tolerance for repetitive motion. You’re essentially taking one cord and looping it around the others in the same direction over and over—maybe 30 or 40 times—until this twisted rope emerges that looks way more complicated than it actually is. I’ve seen tutorials that make this sound like advanced geometry, but really it’s just: loop left, pull through, tighten, repeat until your fingers hurt or you run out of cord. The trick, and I wish someone had told me this earlier, is keeping consistent tension; if you pull too tight on knot number 7 and too loose on knot 23, you’ll get this lumpy, sad-looking spiral that technically functions but looks like you made it while distracted. Most patterns call for four strands of cord, each around 10 feet long, though I usually add an extra foot or two because running out of cord three-quarters of the way through a project is the kind of thing that makes you question your life choices. The spiral naturally wants to twist as you work, which is normal—don’t fight it, just let the whole piece rotate in your hands. What you end up with is this elegant twist that catches light differently depending on the angle, and when you hang it near a window, it casts these interesting shadows that change throughout the day as the sun moves.
I guess the whole appeal is that slight imperfection.
Double Half-Hitch Knots and Why They’re Secretly the Most Versatile Thing You’ll Learn
The double half-hitch is one of those knots that sounds technical but is actually just wrapping cord around another cord twice and pulling tight. Where it gets useful is in creating horizontal or diagonal lines across your planter—suddenly you can add structure and pattern instead of just straight vertical cords hanging there looking boring. I used to skip this knot entirely because the name intimidated me, which in retrospect is ridiculous, but here we are. You pick one cord as your anchor (this is called the filler cord, though I’ve also heard it called the holding cord depending on which tutorial you’re watching), hold it taut horizontally or at whatever angle you want, and then take each of the other cords and loop them around it twice, working from left to right or right to left. The result is this clean line that looks almost woven, and you can stack multiple rows to create different geometric effects—triangles, diamonds, or just bands of texture that break up the design. I’ve probably made, I don’t know, maybe 15 or 20 planters at this point, and I keep coming back to the double half-hitch because it gives you so much control over the final shape without requiring any additional materials or tools beyond your hands and the cord.
Honestly, wait—maybe that’s the real appeal here.
The Part Where You Actually Assemble Everything and Hope the Physics Work Out
So you’ve tied all your knots, your cords are hanging in this elaborate pattern that took you three hours and two episodes of that true crime show you’re pretending not to be obsessed with, and now you need to actually turn it into a functional planter. Most designs have you gather all the cords at the bottom and tie them into one big finishing knot, which sounds simple but requires surprising grip strength if you’re working with thick cord. I usually wrap the bundle several times before tying it off, just to make sure nothing’s going anywhere—the last thing you want is your pothos crashing to the floor at 2 AM because you skimped on the final knot. Then there’s the top, where you’ll need some kind of ring (metal or wooden, usually 1.5 to 2 inches in diameter) to attach all the cords so you can hang the thing from a ceiling hook. The weight distribution is something I didn’t think about until my second or third project, but it matters: if your pot sits too low or the cords are uneven, the whole thing hangs crooked and will slowly drive you insane every time you walk past it. I’ve learned to measure twice, cut once, and then measure again anyway because I don’t trust myself. The final step is finding the right spot—somewhere with decent light for your plant, obviously, but also where the planter itself becomes part of the room’s aesthetic rather than just dangling there awkwardly like a forgotten piñata. Near windows works well, or in corners where the vertical lines draw the eye upward and make the space feel taller than it actually is, which is a nice bonus if you’re working with a small apartment like I am.
