I recently finished a book recommended to me by a like soul (like-minded, like-hearted, like-spirited). The book had the following passage that went right to the heart:
“She followed a simple coat pattern she had ordered from a catalog. In the evenings, even when it was still bright outside, the trees and roof eaves kept the sunlight from coming in through the small cabin windows, so she lit a lamp and unfolded the fabric on the table. Following the pattern offered a kind of comfort, a quiet balance to working in the fields during the day. The farmwork was coarse, exhausting and largely a matter of faith – a farmer threw everything he had into the earth, but ultimately it wasn’t up to him whether it rained or not. Sewing was different. Mabel knew if she was patient and meticulous, if she carefully followed the lines, took each step as it came, and obeyed the rules, that in the end when it was turned right-side out, it would be just how it was meant to be. A small miracle in itself, and one that life so rarely offered.”
[Taken from The Snow Child: A Novel, by Eowyn Ivey.]
I’m guessing most sewers and knitters might also feel some truth, comfort and majesty in these words.
For me, sewing isn’t about the art or the finished product. It’s the control, the patience, the escape, the tiny neat even stitches and the “miracle” of it all working out (and the challenge for forcing that miracle when it isn’t gifted). It makes me smile.