During a luncheon date, I shared that I sew a couple times a
week. Often every evening, on wintry nights
when the sun has been shrouded with a dark, sable wrap by six o’clock.
“Every night? What
are you sewing? My friend’s surprised tone
slid up at the question mark.
I shrugged, “Lots of things.
I’m not great,” I took a sip of wine.
“Simple projects. I like straight
lines and uncomplicated patterns. Most
often I make quilted throws, curtains, pajamas for my grandkids.”
We were eating at a restored 1886 Rail Depot in Ann Arbor. Outside the dining room an engine noisily clattered
over the tracks pulling a string of heavy railway cars … clickety clack, clickety
clack. The glass seemed to visibly bow
as sound waves bounced against the oversized windows; even the table moved. I
instinctively closed my fingers around the delicate stem of the wineglass. Choo choo!
In the wake of the caboose, a sacred quiet settled over the
dining area. Our waiter returned setting
a scrumptious Michigan cherry, walnut, blue cheese salad in front of me and a
steaming bowl of creamy lobster bisque for my friend. Simultaneously, eyes met across the white
linen table top, and spontaneously with a clink of crystal, we toasted. Cheers!
After savoring a bite oozing with sweetness of cherries spiked
with the edgy smack of aged cheese, our conversation vibrated from fabric to
art, and as always, we talked of the books we were reading.
On the way home, her initial question about sewing pulsated.
Why do I sew?
A while back, I lived for a year without my sewing machine
and had been caught unaware by the feeling of inner loss. I missed the studio I had designed … a place
of my own where I could work. Being away
from the workplace where I safely exposed my artistic vulnerability was
painful. I became aware that participating
in the creative process is integral to my well-being. For me, sewing is a harmonious, spiritual
expression and the intensity of the effort allows me to thrive.
Stitching and working with a multiplicity of color and
texture is a tactile experience that offers endless design possibilities. Each stack of fabric is an invitation to
journey to an unidentified end. The
array of abstract pigment, viewed in my mind’s eye, are replicated by arranging
rough, smooth, and coarse textures and then, sewing them together. At the moment when I picture where I am
headed, where the fabric wants to go, at that wakefulness, I am aware of an
adrenaline rush. This unique titillation
of every nerve ending permeates my senses motivating me to complete the work.
Once a year, I take inventory of the leftover materials,
discarding some, re-evaluating unfinished projects, prioritizing and
consolidating. This act of taking stock is useful reflection and
promotes upcoming creativity. During the
sorting process, I organize cuts of fabric in groups of like color and
textures. As a result of last year’s
inventory, that included ripping a variety of cotton into rectangular strips, I
completed my first hand-sewn quilt. Hand
sewing had unexpected gratification similar to how I feel when I write an essay
in long-hand. The process kept me close
to the work. Using a machine is more
like the rhythmic clickety clack of a train.
Hand sewing is gliding without noise.
I have stitched together pieces from other projects to
celebrate what has been while looking forward to what can be. A
variety of choices can be re- arranged producing something beautiful and
useful. Like a recent rag quilt made of
leftover fleece from every pair of pajamas made throughout the past ten
years. This quilt was backed and edged,
hand bound, with flannel offering a cozy, warm fabric to snuggle in. Upon completion the comments filled me like a delicious soup on a dreary day. Look, that’s the material you made my pajamas from Grandma! There’s a piece of my baby blanket!
A few months ago, I was given some gorgeous fabric that had
been custom drapes. I re-made into curtains. This endeavor was satisfying and, although
not the same since Scarlet made curtains into a dress, reminded me of that
scene in “Gone With the Wind” when
she looked at the drapes and knew the material could be something else.
Five windows in my home are now accented with what another person was
sick of. And, no one said: ‘Frankly, Susan, I don’t give a damn’. With
each task; the design, the cutting, the pinning, the sewing, the final detail
touches, I am keenly aware of balance… a peace infused into the chaotic, hectic
business of living.
Clickety clack, clickety clack, I am pulling a thread
through time. In the future, I can hear
voices acclaim: Mom made this or Grandma made
that as a comfortable quilt is thrown over cold feet or wrapped around a
new life.
Gandy dancer is a slang term for a railway worker who laid
and maintained the track. When I die, and
my spirit leaves this noisy life, chug, chug, chugging, aside memories, my
sewing and writing will be left behind with intent, to help those I love steady
their wine glasses in the wake of what was ‘me’. It may be winter outside, but inside
different houses my loved ones will be snuggled under soft, functional pieces
of art. If they are mindful, they will
be alert to a vibration, a vibrato … the energy of me in each stitch … clickety
clack, clickety clack, clickety clack.
Cheers!
