Last night when I should have been falling asleep, my brain was racing. It was a combination of things– projects I am working on, issues with the Wee One (the subject of its own blog post), design projects for clients, not enough time to meaningfully connect with the Wee One and family in general, recipes I want to try… sketches, lists, and should-of’s were all whirling around in my head. Then it hit me– I didn’t sew. G had napped late in the day so he went to bed late, I had design work to do for a client, medicine to give the cat, etc. All this meant I didn’t have time to sew.
Usually in the evening when it is just us grown-ups left awake, my dearie and I put something on Netflix (lately it is the Inspector Lewis series; almost always it is something British), and I get out my embroidery or hand sewing. I listen to the lovely British accents, and I stitch. That stitching isn’t just of thread and fabric; it is also of my thoughts being stitched together into some semblance of order. Each stitch clears the muddle and settles me, calms me. I sew and I breather easier. Making something by hand is vital to my core being, my soul. Handmade isn’t just something I do for an end-product; the act of making is in and of itself important– maybe more so than the finished piece.