Sylvia P., The Grinch, and Me

Any mention of scissors makes me think of Sylvia Plath; they show up in a poem of hers. Can she and I both write about scissors? The better question is probably whether I dare put myself through the torment of living up to her standard? After heavy consideration, yes, I do dare. Do I have any right to even put myself in a sentence with her? No. But really, this scissor thing is hardly even comparable (I tell myself consolingly): her scissors were kitchen, mine are sewing. Hers were lost in the yard with the daffodils; mine get lost in the yards of fabric on my too-small table.

When I sit down to sew, armed with a laughably vague idea, remarkably little skill, and a precariously placed cup of coffee, my first vision is always of the Grinch sewing his furry green fingertips into his Santa suit. I’m not afraid of doing the same, per se, but the logistics of unsewing my not-furry fingers is quite haunting. My scissors are sharp, but not cut-through-the-bone sharp. Additionally, I don’t have a great track record when it comes to emergency situations. It’s okay, but not great. Really, it’s probably best if I don’t think about the Grinch Who Sewed His Fingers too hard...

It’s now that my husband chooses to share a story about his childhood best friend’s mom nearly losing her hand to an industrial sewing machine. My sewing machine is not industrial. It’s actually not even mine...it’s my sister’s, we have joint custody. But should I even be allowed near it? I try to fathom Ted Hughes answering Sylvia Plath asking a similar question; I am doubtful that he and my husband would respond the same. Maybe if the Grinch had bothered to ask Max’s opinion, he could have avoided some pain, both specifically related to making his Santa suit, and generally related to his whole state of being.

Based on my “stream of consciousness” rambling, it would seem that on the creativity scale, I place myself somewhere between Sylvia Plath and the Grinch. I most love Plath’s lesser known work, and the Grinch is my favorite Christmas character of all time UNTIL he sells out at the end and his heart grows. Their link (which is likely only to be found in my head) is a pair of orange scissors, not unlike my mother’s, or her mother’s, or maybe even her mother’s before...well, and by my imagination struggling to come alive with both words and textiles. It’s not even struggling to come alive - the ideas are alive and well - it’s the realization of the idea. My skill does NOT match my vision.

Yet.

Like Sylvia Plath journaling, journaling, journaling for her entire life, or the Grinch building that wicked sleigh out of literal garbage, I can, with some perseverance and ingenuity, get my act together. I flounder as a novice, but take pride and draw confidence from those creative traditions that I am so bold as to number myself as one. I WILL make those sweatpants out of an old sweatshirt and figure out why the sewing machine refuses to help me sew the crotch! I WILL get more than thirteen people to read my blog! I WILL continue to threaten my husband within an inch of his life if he tries to use my scissors that are clearly marked “fabric” on anything but fabric!

I will also move my coffee away from all future blush-colored bridesmaid’s dresses I may hem, and try not to lose the thoughts that eventually become words on the page. May I also not lose my scissors as well.