don't do it

We had an inexpressibly wonderful time away. It was a mixture of having each other’s company all day long, and no responsibilities. It was blue and white mountains and clear lakes, and doing whatever we liked.  It was the fact that after the first week it wasn’t nearly over. It was a body which functioned more normally, and accepted alcohol, and slept soundly, and groaned less.

When we spoke to people, they didn’t ask what we did for a job. They asked where we were from, and there was a simple, easy answer to that. We talked about New Zealand, and Australia, and snow fall, and beautiful places. I was free from telling strangers about personal things, and free from my house of tired memories. I cried when I came home.

Very soon after our return, I found myself sitting in a doctors reception for the first time in 2014. Butterflies, and frequent bathroom trips reminded me of the past six years endless of doctor trips. The GPs were running late, and the room was filled with the elderly, all except Ben and I.

There was one particularly vivacious old lady sitting near us.

 “Everything in your body just stops working when you get old. It’s dreadful! But I shouldn’t scare you,” she said winking at us. Everyone turned to us with wrinkled smiles of warning.

“You’re young and life is still exciting for you, and don’t worry, you have many many years before you will get here. And we had fun when we were young too. A lot of fun.”

“Oh yes, we did! “ Chorused the ladies and men around her. When their bodies worked, they had fun.

 “You do have to get used to these very long waits before appointments, you spend a lot of time here when you get old like us,” she said with another patronising wink at us.

Her superior ‘you couldn’t possibly understand’ tone and her ‘your life is a breeze’ winks grated against my decrepit body. I had a slight urge to break to the whole waiting room how mistaken she was in supposing that my young face was attached to a functional body unaccustomed to waiting rooms, discomfort, unemployment and the pension.

Speaking of the places she had spent her life she observed that “You want to move around when you’re young, but I just want to stay put now. It’s such an effort to move.”

Oh no, not everyone wants to move around when they’re young.

And then she said, “What brings you all the way out here?” for we were seeing a doctor thirty minutes from home. It must not have dawned on her that I was obviously here because I am unwell, and obviously here because there was a doctor I particularly wanted to see.

My new doctor eventually called my name, so I stood up and the old people waved a warm goodbye to my young husband and I as we went to discuss my old problem.

The old phrase, 'Don't judge a book by it's cover' echoed through my mind. 

Just don't. Ever. 

dress making - wiksten tova

On the weekend I will pack for our trip to New Zealand and I'm taking a number of clothes I've worked on, not out of duty, but because they are genuinely my favourites. I never thought that would happen.

The warm, casual, simplicity of this red Wiksten Tova is wonderful. I find this country look so alluring.

I found green/navy/brown plaid flannel for half price, and made my version in a couple of days. It is the first thing that fits me perfectly with no adjustments, so it was a joy to work on.

Pattern: Wiksten Tova, with dress or top option
Difficulty: Intermediate {although quite fast and straightforward}
Fabric: Flannel Plaid, 100% cotton


After I made my McCall's Rompers, I wanted to alter the very wide bodice, so I made a dress version. Fit is the hardest thing about this whole sewing business. I took 3 centimetres out of the front of the bodice and 4 out of the back and the fit is just right now.

This is a beautiful soft cotton floral which my bro and sister in law found in an op shop for me. My mum found me a dark green zip for the back in the op shop - these shops are a frugal sewers paradise.

tell your story

                   

                                        Margaret Bourke-White - Hats in the Garment District, New York, 1930 

I was in Queenscliff on a piercingly cold wet day to celebrate my sister’s birthday. Mum and I spied a decrepit old man across the street. He was hobbling and hopping down the footpath, crippled with pain. He couldn’t traverse much ground before needing to break, and he was alone as the rain drove into him. He’s probably on the pension, I thought, without the money for a scooter, and perhaps his pain is incurable, and perhaps he lives alone. I struggle to cope, and I am supported from all sides. How on earth does he endure? How bleak is his existence? And then I felt the sudden urge to cry rise up inside me, which is extreme for a stranger across the street. You’re really not meant to cry when you just look at someone. I didn’t give in to the sensation, but his pain sat heavily on my heart for a long time.

In the op shop I heard a lady in her 60s telling the cashier that she was looking for a very thick warm jumper for her mother in law who was in a nursing home. Apparently she just couldn’t keep warm this winter no matter what she wore. What should have been an endearing exchange to overhear produced the same effect on me: I wanted to cry. Because this woman was always cold, and obviously frail, in a place not her home. Actually, I didn’t want to cry. I just wanted to carry on looking for fabric, but this emotion bubbled up from I-don’t-know-where.

My response is absurd. Over the top. And it’s not pregnancy hormones. Can you imagine what I will be like if I become pregnant? Ben can’t.

It seems to be the kind of heightened response common after trauma.

Last year, Wolfgang was pinned and attacked by a dog, and with wobbly knees we carried home our bleeding dog. His wound healed, but he is now violently distrustful of all dogs and men. He is so utterly changed from that incident – and I think I’m like Wolfie, affected by it all.

I am feeling normal empathy to an extreme degree because of the pain I know. I will definitely take this over depression and anxiety, it’s not a huge issue. It just reminds me that we are phenomenally shaped by the events in our lives. Sometimes I look at someone and think, “I do not understand you! Why do you do that?” And later, I learn about their life, their strongest memories, and it makes sense. I find a whole new level of acceptance and love after I hear their tale. Our stories allow us to make some sense of our own complex ways, and the complex ways of our loved ones. So we must tell them! And then we can get on with the very important business of ending judgement and supporting each other.  

Rompers! McCalls 6923

Pattern: McCalls 6923

Level: Easy/Intermediate

Fabric: $5 p/m cotton and lining

My floral rompers would like to be worn to Torquay beach, and on summer picnics. I have an impatient disposition not yet thwarted by chronic illness, so I am wondering about wearing them with tights and a cardi for this season, or making a darker winter version. See how they match my mauve knees?

The pattern called for a bodice lining, and a centre back zip. I was apprehensive about these steps, but as usual they were much easier than I expected.

The main problem was that the pattern's smallest size was an 8, and it wasn't an 8-going-on-6 kind of 8. The rompers sort of doubled my waist at first try. I ended up putting darts in the back, which are quite inconspicuous with all the gathering. It's still on the loose side, but that doesn't put me off wearing it, because the design is cute, and it's supposed to be a cool cotton playsuit. I have plans to alter the pattern next time.

Right now, I am excited to be making things, stretching myself, having a few days off my virus, and gazing at beautiful hope-provoking fabric. Learning something new has to be one of the greatest pleasures in the world!

be sad

unknown

“Be in love with your life. Every detail of it.” – Jack Kerouac

I resent the notion that we should always be happy. I have quotes like the one above pop into my Pinterest feed, and I scoff at them. Forcing happiness and optimism at all times is the surest way I know to be internally sad.

When I sit on the couch, wasted and teary from frustration, I think morbid things. I wish I’d lost a leg or an eye over my strength. I wonder how I am supposed to wake up tomorrow and go on.  

I will always remember the talks we got at my music and dance school.

“If you lose a limb or a finger, what will you do as plan B?”

Trawling the vocation guides, I listlessly decided on psychology or french teaching. As if I would lose a finger. Besides, music was already my plan B after ballet, and I had no intention of letting it slip from my grasp. I really had no interest whatsoever in plan C.

And now I would beg on my knees for plan C because I wound up with plan Z - except I won’t call it a plan, because I never conceived of it. To call ‘Z’ unpleasant is an understatement, because strength is the essential ingredient to almost everything. Even to sleep. The caged torment of being mentally sound but physically unable sometimes overwhelms me.

The reverse is even more challenging.

I wonder how to come to terms with Z?

The only way I know to deal with Z, is to acknowledge it and grieve. I let my cheeks get slippery wet without accusing myself of being sorry for myself. I cry because it’s the only way I can expel pain. Once I’ve wrung it out, I am released from exasperation. It is my favourite anti-depressant to date; side effect of puffy eyes is hardly worth mentioning.

Afterwards, I can pan out and see Z as a part of my life. It can only suffocate all that I think and do, if I allow it to. I zoom out and I see that right beside Z is my hilarious dog, my handsome husband, my urge to create left untouched, the discontent of man in every single situation, and the privilege it is to walk on earth for however many days I’m given. There’s something free about being empty and helpless, so openly so that I have to admit it. More moments seem beautiful because I’m less fixated on plan A, all consuming plan A.

The only way I can enjoy being alive, is to feel loss and sadness. I am most real and at peace when I depart from ‘got it together and loves life’ stoicism.

 My love of this Ecclesiastes quote grows with time,

“For everything there is a season and a time for ever matter under heaven.

...a time to weep, and a time to laugh;

a time to mourn, and a time to dance.”

Chapter 4:3

three new garments

I am nearly half way through my sew-my-own-clothes year, and I don’t want to arrive in summer still a pre-beginner. That’s why I have been tackling some slightly more challenging clothes.

The first was a Moss Skirt, which has a fly. My first attempt did not go well, no. In the end I had a full scale sewing tantrum. Every single step went wrong, honestly. I really wanted to roll my sewing machine down a steep hill into a lake at the bottom. As a compromise, I decided to leave my skirt unfinished. It still lies exactly where I terminated my work on it. 

Two days later I decided that because I was now so well prepared, I would begin on my favourite fabric. Mercifully, I made a far better version which has a fully functioning zip fly. It is not perfect but I am content.

The second item was the free Colette Sobretto Top, without a pleat and with a self drafted Peter Pan Collar. I meticulously followed a tutorial for the collar. Soon I suffered the shock of finding that it was too short for my neckline. After a couple of days, my disbelief and deflated spirits were subsiding, and I attempted a second collar. This time, I had a success. I think I am a second-time-lucky girl, except in marriage.

I can’t debut this top yet because of my acute sense of the temperature, but I predict that I will wear it a lot. It’s my ideal cute-but-smart with jeans/shorts/skirt kind of top.

And last, I took to the overlocker/serger that I have the joy of borrowing. I decided that a knit sweatshirt was exactly what was needed to face winter, and door knockers, and the gym. It’s essentially pajamas for public and I found plenty of Asos inspiration. I had previously thought that I wouldn’t buy an overlocker, but I was innocent to their wonders. Using one brought to my attention how much I hate trimming and zig zagging every seam. Whizz it through, and there is a beautiful garment with lovely innards. I could wear my jumper inside out!

I used the Ensis Tee by Papercut Patterns again, and bought cotton fleece in cream and black. My other Ensis tops were XXS, so I went up to XS to make a jumper version, and added wider neck ribbing, bottom ribbing, and altered colour blocking. 

Asos

Wolfie thought it was a dog bed. Ouch.