What I Don't Do - Part II

Back when I wrote about things I don't do, did I add 'sewing absolutely anything' to that list? Part of me said that if I didn't, I certainly should have. The other side of me said that learning takes patience and verve and the ability to keep going. People become boring if they forget that.

All of this thinking yesterday while experiencing total angst at the kitchen table. I was sewing.

It's in the moments where I'm completely frustrated that I remember that some of my students are naturally more bent toward math, and still spend 5 hours of a week with me, the teacher who tends to obsess about themes in history. Learning is hard work and being a teacher creates such a humbling experience.

This post is not about teaching though....surprise of your life, I am sure. Instead, it's about sewing. Everything I know about it, and why it matters. Here goes.

Jenna and I planned to make infinity scarves, and spent yesterday morning working on this project together. Every so often one of us (usually me) would jam the sewing machine. Then I became like a 4 year old and called for my mom for help. It felt like a nightmare, and I know why. I am not detail oriented, struggle with spatial concepts, and have much more patience for people compared to tasks. Sewing is precise too, which is something I like in other people, or spelling words, or your basic conversation.

I cried and swore a little and asked all sorts of existential questions that are overly dramatic and don't fit with the times. Then, I am sorry to say, I had to go wash my face because I cried a little (the NOT comforting kind of crying) and my eyes were burning. At this point, my dad came in and gently asked if I really wanted to sew something. I guess there is an ideal, and then a reality. That was my response. For some reason it made him laugh. I still kept working. I like finishing projects, even if they look like crap at the end.

Here's a look into the internal thoughts I have when I'm sewing.....

Ok, so I'm making myself do something crafty every once in a while to step out of a comfort zone. It's initially appealing. Fabric is pretty and creating things is meaningful and cool. That's the good part of it. But what ensues generally becomes me unhinging in a very distinct way. It surprises even me. I get angsty when I think about how mass-produced everything really is in the world right now (the costs and benefits of it, and then, let's be honest, how grateful I am for it) and how my existence would be different if I were required to sew for hours a day just to make it in the world. I've read enough books about history to know it was shameful to women not to do this well.

I think about THAT for two seconds longer and shuck THAT out the door. I believe what you do should come out of your natural gifts and abilities, and fine tune your life so that it hums in good recognition of balance, purpose and grace. But isn't that a newer message to more recent generations? Maybe you couldn't have access to the same ideas back then. But you can here and now.

In earlier times, with etiquette and suffocating decorum, here's what I would do. I imagine the silence of a dusty old room and expectations from some stiff and unyielding aunt radiating from another chair. (My aunts aren't stiff and unyielding by the way...) There I'd sit, not breathing very well, having to sit up straight (every minute of the day, not just when I wanted to), and having bleeding fingers and feeling trapped and claustrophobic every time I looked at the clock. Then I imagine narrowing my eyes and standing up and throwing my limp, eternally restitched project across the room and leaving to write books.

Do I sound like a nut case to think about this much while fixing a sewing machine? Maybe, but maybe not.

This ruminating inside of me sounds an awful lot like my role as Peggy in our 2nd grade class play about the American Revolution. This is probably where I am getting this from...back in 1992, my teacher encouraged me to be outraged. I'm extremely timid in the home video, but I was outraged inside. I remember it. I started the play lamenting about women's roles in 1775. 'In and out, in and out, pushing a needle in and out! That's all I ever do around here. I want to help George Washington.' I've literally said that before, in front of a crowd of people.

What a weird part of my life.

Do you want to know what happens next? We all sit around, sewing (we used our weaving projects from art, or borrowed cross stitching hoops from our moms) and discussing the men and the troops. Betsy Allister was Betsy Ross, which I found so lovely and fitting since it was her name...that's the fun of 2nd grade you know. And then the play ends with Will Daniels and Karl Anderson as Washington and his aid, thanking us for our contributions to the war effort by sewing the flag. When I went to D.C. with my students this summer and saw the flag that flew over Fort McHenry, I thought about this play again. Different American conflict. Same idea.

Yesterday I really wondered about those who DIDN'T have to sew clothes fro themselves...well, at that point you're talking about the wealthy. and someone still DID have to make clothes for them, at least before the Industrial Revolution regulated products the way they did. I found myself hoping that in an earlier time if I were rich like that and couldn't even make my own clothes, I would remember to be sincerely thankful for the person who stayed up in the night (by candlelight) making things for me.

Back to normalcy. I live without servants, in times when mass-production has been around for over 100 years and electricity is available to most people I know. I don't have to mkae my own clothes. And women in the past didn't just sew. But that's the deep dark fear I have when I jam the sewing machine. And I know that some of them had to be radical and ostracized to get past that in the first place.

I state it boldly. Sewing is just not my thing.

It's awfully dramatic to go in this direction, but I DO imagine these scenarios every once in a while. How can women of today even imagine life before now though? We were given different messages. And it's clear from this post that I am obviously questioning just about everything in my own society anyway. Insert someone from this time into any other place in the past and of course we would balk at sewing...unless it's a natural love. My friend Alyssa is an excellent seamstress. She makes it look fun. Actually, lots of my friends do. They create beautiful things, and without the shame and pressure of the past, I have felt very liberated sitting right next to them and just talking instead.

At said Christmas party, I did make a pine cone ornament this year using felt and hot glue. It took me an hour and a half. And so it goes.

Here's the upswing....despite this tangle of words, I have not been down on myself for very long at all.

Molly, who is one of my very best friends, recently talked with me about both the act of sewing and why it is not a big deal. She reminded me of a project we tackled in high school making doll clothes....it was not our idea, but it was hosted by one of our friends...a true Renaissance woman, even still today. At this party, Molly and I were mildly successful. It wasn't the best outcome but it worked....the doll had summer outfits in winter prints....we had to keep cutting the fabric to get it right. It is a hilarious memory.

Molly also reminded me of our experiences in 7th grade home ec class. How did someone teach 30 7th graders how to sew AT THE SAME TIME? Also hilarious. Even knowing middle school culture, this would be one of my worst nightmares. I remember discussing injuries that could obtained by the sewing needle if you weren't careful....we were probably discussing this while waiting with our hand up for our weary looking teacher to fix the jammed machine.

So, what have I learned?  I don’t sew (well).  I feel grateful to be living in these times with good people in my life.  I had more thoughts about sewing than I thought I did. I guess I have early childhood memories of the American Revolution.  And as of yesterday, I’ve got newfound compassion for the difficult moments in learning something new.  And there are many other things that make my life hum and remind me of balance and purpose and grace.  More of that to come.