I Hate Hemming (But That’s Not The Real Problem)

I call myself a sewist.

It sounds respectable.
Capable.
Like someone who makes actual clothing that people wear out in public.

You know –

from fitting the pattern to hemming the garment.

But the truth is…

I don’t make clothes anymore.

Because I hate fitting.

Hemming too –

Which is unfortunate,

because at 4’10”, I have never met a pair of pants that didn’t need hemming.

Not once.
Not even in theory.

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So instead, I quilt.

More specifically, I paper piece.

Give me a pile of crooked little scraps,
lines on a piece of paper,
and permission to sew things together in a way that makes absolutely no sense at first glance…

…and I am completely content.

There’s something about it.

The wonky angles.
The unexpected shapes.
The way it all looks slightly chaotic until suddenly — it doesn’t.

Those pieces feed my soul in a way the traditional blocks just don’t.

They’re pretty.
They’re orderly.

But they don’t feed me.

---

Right now, though, my sewing room is disappearing.

Or at least, it feels that way.

It’s being packed up piece by piece as we get ready to move,
and I have discovered something I probably should have expected:

I cannot pick up a single thing
without going down memory lane.

And at my age, memory lane is not a quick little walk.

It’s more like a slow, winding scenic route with frequent stops.

Very frequent stops.

---

So for now, there’s not much sewing happening.

But there will be.

I’ll be sharing the process as I reinvent my sewing space in this next chapter —
what stays, what goes, and what finally earns a place in the Third Act.

And in the meantime, I’ll start sharing some of the pieces I’ve made —
the ones with stories stitched into them.

Because every one of them has one.

And apparently…

I have time to tell them now.

---

Maybe that’s the point of the Third Act –

Finally having the time to take all the wonky pieces

And see how they fit together.

— Pattie

🐾 Sassy says: That room better come back with a proper dog are – including the rug Mama made for me.  I do not forget these things.