writing for self-discovery

Things I’ve put off doing are getting done. Like mending. Mending, as in patching up holes in beloved old clothes by the hand-stitch method. The results aren’t elegant, but as an ex-mother-in-law once said, they’re serviceable.

That’s what I was going for today. Serviceable.

Two of the three items were baggy cotton pants with elastic waistbands that I wear to bed. The commercial laundry where I send clothes that can withstand abuse eats elastic. One pair of jammie pants came back last time with a forty inch (101.6 cm) waist. My hips were thirty-five (88.9 cm) at last measure so needless to say the pants fell off.

The second pair were sent home with the back seam blown out and an auxiliary rip down the leg.

The torn ones were Old Navy brand and served me well for about fifteen years. The fabric had worn to see-through condition in some places – namely the rear end – but I loved those pants and could not relegate them to the rag-bag.

At first I tried to use them the way they were. It’s just me in the bed so who cares? But there was a bit of an earthquake that night. If I ever had to evacuate fast, I wouldn’t want to be homeless with bare buns.

So they’ve sat in the bottom of a drawer until today.

The third item in need of repair was a black lace bra. Do you know the Jezebel brand? Sexy! For whose benefit do I own sexy lingerie? Mine. Only mine. It’s black lace with a pink net-like lining. Even though it was a tiny hole, pink showed through and I felt shabby wearing it.

I’d tucked it beside Old Navy in the bottom of the drawer.

After coffee, and journaling, and a long phone conversation with a friend, and yoga, and meditation, and a bowl of fresh dragonfruit with granola, I felt mellow enough to sit still and sew.

I’m noticing I have to pay very close attention to moods during this isolation situation. My morning ritual is essential. It banishes whatever anxiety or restlessness might have taken hold overnight.

At least that’s the theory. The practice is a little less straightforward.

My point, though…I try not to MAKE myself do anything. Until today I could no more have sat still for a couple of hours to sew than I could have scaled the towering Eiffel. But this morning there was just the right kind of soothing music playing on Jango, the perfect balmy breeze billowing the curtains, a gentle loose-muscled laziness in my bones…and mending floated to mind.