Full Circle Magic

It begins in small ways. We throw our food scraps lazily into the corner of the garden; carrot tops, watermelon rinds, steeped coffee grounds. Joined by seasons of leftover meals, the scraps take a nap for a year, preparing for their ultimate debut into garden society. When the time arrives, we pull the scraps from their resting spot and turn them into our beds. Now awake with the fresh aroma of microbes, they help our garden grow. This compost is one ingredient to my creative process.

Next, we sow the seeds. Indigo, marigold, coreopsis- anything that will promote a dye. I plant them gently, welcoming them out of their little paper packets. “Here, you will grow big and strong!” I whisper in a sing-song voice. The seeds appreciate music, especially sung in soft tones. Sometimes, we pray for rain, and other times, we use the hose to give them their first bath in their new soil.

This is when the waiting happens. While we wait for the seeds to bloom, much can be done. On my art table sits a stack of fabric, charcoal pencils, a pair of fabric scissors. The fabric is organic cotton, grown without the use of pesticides. Without pesticides, the top soil of the farmland stands a chance. Through organic practices, the soil can be regenerative, sucking carbon from the atmosphere and pushing it deep into rooted plants. All of this happens while we wait. Sometimes, waiting is our work.

And sometimes, sewing is the work. With a baby napping happily on my chest, I sew. After measuring out the fabric, I cut it into perfect squares. I sew the edges cleanly, but perhaps some of them appear a bit raw. I am still a beginner. Aren’t we all?

There are napkins to make, burp clothes to embroider, bandanas to tie. One day, I will design a dress. Until then, square edges are my friend. With a pile of organic cotton comes endless possibilities: a long shawl for my mother-in-law, a bib for my soon-to-be second cousin, a bathroom hand towel for myself. It’s good to give yourself gifts.

When the plants have grown into their full potential, I feel the joy of their becoming. Joy is a gift I am grateful for. I snip and pick their flowers and leaves, sorting them into little cups. One day, my daughter will help me sort, her fingers speckled red from picking black raspberries by the fence. Until then, my hands tend this work alone.

We’ve got two pots. One is half the size of the kitchen stove, one fits perfectly on the burner. Everything is balanced. I toss the plants into their respective pots and pour water over the top, just enough to cover them with care; there is no drowning in this process.

The heat is turned up, and the waiting happens again. The heat is turned down, and we wait some more. I strain the plants out and place them aside. We will return to their power later. Pulled from the clothesline, damp with soy milk mordant, in goes the fabric. I press it deep into the pots, swirling the dye around their many folds, leaving no piece of fabric exposed to the air. More than often, there are gaps in this process. We all need to come up for air sometimes.

We wait. Here arrives the notion of rest. Essential to the lifecycle of earth, required for our human nervous systems, rest is considered a luxury. By taking part in this creative process, we can attune to this rest. With our heads propped up against pillows and the breeze flowing through the windows, we dream. What colors will the fabric become? Perhaps a light orange creamsicle, ideal for a hot and muggy summer? Maybe a deep teal, as though the bottom of the ocean has come to earth and swallowed the fabric whole? The mystery keeps our resting alive.

It is almost time for the big reveal. I pull the fabric from their pots and squeeze out the dye. It rolls down the sink, and I watch with hopeful eyes that some of it will stay attached to the fibers. Immediately, they go into the washer. I want to see what will stick and what will be washed away. After their cold bath, they are shuffled to the dryer. I hear the beeping of the machine, and my heart skips a moment. It is time.

When I pull them out, I am not shocked, but rather filled with a calm joy. It is though I am floating in the ocean, fascinated by the ripples of the water. The colors are soft and fragile. They mimic the feeling of pressed flower petals and vintage baby blankets. This long process has boiled down to one moment. It is a moment to hold and rub the fabric, holding its soft texture, holding its sense of wonder. Although the product is an essential component, I have found happiness in the holding of the process.

And yet, we are not done. It is time to pay attention to the discarded scraps. The cut-up fabric edges go into the basket of “maybe-I’ll-use-these-someday” pieces. I find the wet plants on the countertop, the ones that were discarded from the dye vats. I toss their carcasses, now stripped of color, into the corner of the garden.

Creativity is full circle magic.