Mending that Which Can Be Mended
My white jeans were the only ones that were urgent. You can see them there, the third from the bottom. They’re one of two pairs of workable pants I own at the moment. Their hole could not afford to be ignored.
I intended only to stitch in a quick patch and get on with my day. But, as I sat down to it, the world was feeling particularly broken to me. I had ignored my own rule of not inviting the world in until after I’d had a few bracing hours with my own heart and head. I was deeply aware of the clamoring and the chaos. I was drowning in it.
In that state of brokenness the act of fixing was addictive. One thing led to another as one mend led to the next. I stood up from my machine some time later with a tidy little stack of clothing. Mended. Ready to head back to various closets and drawers. Ready again to preform the simple act of clothing us.
It felt good, this gluttony of correction. There is something to be said for surrendering to that particular kind of comfort that is found in mending that which can be mended.