Threaded love

Nestled between my fingers and my thumb, the snug blades deftly trace their way around paper shapes, recognisable only to the trained eye like pieces of an unfathomable puzzle. Held steady, slicing.

Nestled between my fingers and my thumb, the snug blades deftly trace their way around paper shapes, recognisable only to the trained eye like pieces of an unfathomable puzzle. Held steady, slicing.

Mounds of fabric pile around me until I - lost amongst them - come to the surface. Mathematical equations in cloth have my head spinning so I unwind my body and stand up, allowing scattered tatters of fabric to fall all around me. Fibres cling about my clothes and looking down I see a perfect circle stretching out about me where I am the flower head and my pattern pieces are lazy petals, reaching out across the room.

When people talk about sewing, they may be thinking of needles and thread, but I am thinking about fabric. Unfolding and holding it to my face to feel, to smell, to sense the weight and let my mind unfurl with woven wings to the destiny of what is in my hands. Like a perfect statue of David still held inside a solid block of marble, the eyes of the sewer hold the image of what the cloth is yet to become. Do we tell its future, or does it tell us?

Back in the workroom I stretch myself out, rolling and extending various pieces of my body back, forward and around until eased from the teetering grips of a familiar pain. Who would have thought that being so still could burn so deeply whilst you remain entirely unaware? How those hours can pass, deep in concentration, in thought, in flow.

My mind is back on the task and as my aches subside I bring my focus back to the rags and gossamer paper strewn before me. Laying and re-laying pieces neatly in order across the floor means at last some kind of order is obtained; order to me alone that is. The sorcery that takes a flat cut of weft and warp and turns it into a quilt, a dress, a child's toy or anything else that fits within the perfect intersection of skill and imagination is where the joy lies. This is the secret, personal pleasure. nleasure

When you create, happiness flows through your hands and into the work you hold. It is an intense pleasure; although creating is not always easy. It's an earned pleasure because it is fundamentally a skill honed through hours, if not months or more likely, years. Threaded through your industry is love, love that working with fabric brings together with time and endless hope.

Back on the floor, structures form and the pins hold fast. My machine whirrs into life and what were unreadable dimensions turn into the makings of a beautiful thing. Colours come together and your intention becomes known. Florals, stripes and textures create something new, something to admire, hold but more importantly to give.

When creating and giving are intertwined, happiness bursts out of hearts and pours forth to the receiver the way no other gift can. I make, I give and I love.

So I make this for you, my son. To wear and to be held by my love, and you will be wrapped in care, joy and happiness. We are cut from the same cloth, but will grow to be like scissors jointed in the middle, separate entities that hold together like Donne's twinned compass. My hands to your soul. I made you, then I made for you.

And so now to the next project! Already my mind is excited d by the overflow of possibilities that are brimming and bubbling over, whilst my fingers lightly brush over my stash of fabrics and I reach for the orange handles….

G