I like sewing.
I'm terrible at it and I can't thread a sewing machine to save my life, although I do like the word bobbin.
Hand sewing, though, is a fish of a different feather.
Just now I sewed up some buttons on a button-down shirt that wants to be unbuttoned more than buttoned down or up, and that's fine in certain situations but not when you're at work, or at the market – anywhere showing off your gallbladder scar isn't your first priority.
I got Grandma's sewing basket out of the closet and found some inconspicuous grey thread. The price tag was still on the spool: 29 cents. You pretty much can't buy anything for 29 cents anymore. I think even 29 cents would cost more than 29 cents.
Dave had to help me thread the needle. I tried cutting the end, licking it, all my limited tricks. The worst my eyes get the harder this job is. Finally I pouted enough that Dave got the job done for me.
Then I sewed.
An immense satisfaction soaked through my fingers and into my bones. The feeling of getting a job done; of fulfilling a task that was put off. There is nothing better.
In my house, sewing is always something put off until there is absolutely nothing else to do.
But today I am exhausted after unpacking from our long weekend camping trip. I am tired to the core, but the laundry is folded, the dishes are done and there are fresh sheets on the bed, waiting for me with scented comfortable softness.
And so, with rain pouring down outside and the leaves unfurling almost before my eyes; the air ripe with budding blossoms and the cat curled up asleep in the window sill, I sew.