We were out on our back deck, my youngest girl and I. At 15 years old she was texting her friends in and around our conversation over mason jars of water with lemon and strawberries. I picked up my stitching and put the needle into the fabric, pulling it through.
“Why do I love that sound so much?”
“The sound of a needle puncturing fabric and then the whoosh of it being drawn through?”
“I don’t know mom. I could look it up. It might be an obsession.”
After a bit of a chuckle, during which she just grinned at me, I thought well…perhaps it is so.
The thing is, I fall in love with stuff like this. With the sound of a paintbrush swishing around in water. The clickety-clack of knitting needles and the feel of yarn in my hands. It’s the process, always the process, that holds an enchantment quite apart from the finished work. This explains why I can be so pleased with what may be a bland end-product. It is the memory of each stroke, every stitch, how it felt, what was going on while it was being made…that ties my heart to it.
Obsession? Possibly. But I prefer to call it love.
Love in the stitched fabric of life…no matter the outcomes.