Straight Seams

All day every day.

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

1. I love these stripes.

2. In a real use what you’ve got moment the bedroom is now all gingham.

3. Work work work work work

4. Co-op poetry

5. Mending the winter bedding.

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The bus smells like all of us and some of us are sweaty. In front of me is a family of six and all of the children are sleeping, their heads lolling on loose necks, foreheads rattling against the windows. Up by the driver is a pale, groaning man who is possibly going to vomit. I initially sit too close to him and then have to move to the back for my sanity. In the high, rear seats you can’t see out of the windows and the bus becomes the whole world, a tiny shuttle hurtling through space. I focus on the knitting in my lap until the nauseated man rallies and begins shouting opinions. His voice surprises me- he sounds just like an old family friend and I wonder if he’s from Michigan. One by one he wakes the children up and they straighten their necks and cry for dinner.

By the time I get home I’ve lost all of my steam- calm, quiet kettle, whistled out. I loop in circles around the kitchen putting away dishes and prepping dinner in ineffectual bursts. There’s no point in starting anything in the studio without refueling first, but I keep skeins of yarn on the table and brush my knuckles against them as I make my rounds. I’m building a balaclava in my head as I chop onions and thinking about brioche stitch as I pour olive oil, but I won’t knit tonight, I’ve reserved the evening for sewing.

Dinner is lentil stew with a roasted sweet potato and slices of 1000 day Gouda. I say “that’s a Gouda cheese!” to absolutely no one as I tuck into my virtuous and fiber filled meal. The sweet potato is divine dipped into the hearty broth of the stew. The cheese softens against the warm bowl. My cells sing “fuel!” and I feel hopeful about some hours in the studio once the dishes are finished and laundry is started and and and... I touch wool to steady my convictions. This balaclava will smell like fried onions before it is ever knit.

Some time ago I started working full time outside of the house. Eight hour days plus a small commute. A big shift after nearly a decade of working for myself full time with part time side hustles for the bills. The job is creative and social and it drains me faster than the kitchen sink after I rinse the suds from the last fork. Most days I say that was enough and crawl into a resting position the moment my chores are done (or, let’s be honest, sometimes well before). Everything shy of necessity gets relegated to the short, short weekend and the long, long to do list. Art making languishes in that hope infused limbo, but I am determined to get into the habit of seeing the inside of the studio after work. Systems are needed to make this happen- a better grasp on housework or more willingness to abandon it. Meals that are quick and filling and result in tidy leftovers. I’m nostalgic for the days when working on art meant rolling out of bed and stumbling through the doorframe, well rested and on fire. But I also relish the opportunity to build ritual in service of a beautiful life. I shed the bus funk along with my jacket in the front hallway and chase the rest of it out of my hair with incense. I burn a candle while I cook and slow-roll my hips to The Byrds to shake off the day. I take my time- what is all of this but living?

It’s after nine by the time I open the door to the chilly studio. Best intentions aside, I never finished moving in at the end of summer so the floor is populated by piles. I’ve fallen into the trap of cleaning instead of organizing too many times in a row, so I look the other way and plug in the iron. Waiting for me on the desk are fabric for pillowcases and curtains-a pile of blessedly straight seams. In the brief span before the neighbors go to bed directly under my machine I whip out a pillowcase and press a hem deliciously flat. As I work I’m called back to another time- when I farmed during the day and could barely lift my arms to knit at the end of the night. I ate lentils alone then, too, and worked my projects piecemeal into the gaps in my days until something fell away from my hands finished. My beloved Maya Skylark says: The shape shifter can also return to the shape it once was. I’m pleased to find myself familiar in the uncharted territory of these days. I crawl into bed happy and beyond exhausted.

Nothing profound comes out of these brief sessions. Straight lines and smoothed wrinkles are non-events in the world of textiles, but they sure do silence the lambs. There is a part of me that is heeding urgency in this rebuilding of muscle memory. As the country I grew up in crumbles I want my skills well lubed and within arms reach. I don’t know what role handwork will have in the uncertain future, but it is some of the best of what I have to offer and I do know the future always requires our best and a lot of it.

From the middle of the mending pile,
Grace