Through a Needle's Eye

I'm learning a thing or two about sewing.  I'm becoming familiar with the repetition of the machinery, the relationship between the pedal and the pressure of my uneasy foot.  I'm learning the pattern of threading the needle, always the same: counter clockwise, behind the groove, down around the dial, up through the hook, behind the clasp, and finally through the eye and under the foot.  I like the formula of it, the equation for supplying the main ingredient to binding fabric together--a small, seemingly insignificant--line of thread.

Thread isn't the only important thing.  There's the needle.

During my second weekend of sewing the Wright dress, I broke the two needles in my serger.  That mishap eventually led to me breaking a 2mm screwdriver off inside the hole that releases the needles from the machine.  I know, nice.  I'm just now able to talk about it. 

So, finally, I'm becoming familiar with panic--the quiet, still kind.  But this panic has enhanced the development of a new sort of patience, as I just have to sit back, take a deep breath, and remember where I'm going.  I picture the dress, that moment.  And I remember the process of all creative endeavors--slow, sometimes all wrong, at times far from your ultimate vision.

The artist becomes a master when he learns the medium. I suppose everyone can picture a beautiful landscape, a portrait with light falling all around features.  But the artist recreates, makes these scenes tangible.  Acrylics, oils, and watercolors all have a life and presence, each distinct and separate. Paint brushes and palette knives are unfamiliar tools, atleast until you've spent late nights alone with them in an upstairs studio.

So, I'm very much a novice, but I'm learning this sewing business.  The machine and I are learning our dance, and I'm promising to stop stepping on so many toes.

P.S. This is a great song that has kept me company. Enjoy Brandi Carlile's "Have You Ever".