It started with this blanket last week, a well-used gift from my sister some years ago. It was originally stitched with only white thread, but after years of use and washing, many ends had worked their way out. They were replaced with lots of colors, and I think I like it even more now.
Then came this guy...
A childhood buddy of a good friend.
Poor thing.
He got worse before he got better. First wool was stuffed into the vacant eye sockets. Referencing an old photo, new eyes, nose, tongue, and belly button happened. It was hard maneuvering. Especially the eyes. The fabric and foam stuffing are old and disintegrating. It felt like surgery.
Before handing him over, I warned that he would not stand up to being played with by a child. Her reply, "Only fity plus year old women want to hang out with his kind."
I wish I had a photo of her face when I pulled him out of the bag. She was so happy to see her old friend again.
Next came this old, stained baby quilt belonging to the same friend. I've had it for over a year. It was made from a kit in 1941 for her mom. Fear of hurting the quilt kept me from facing it, but I was on a mending roll...
Cutting away the stained cloth was the scariest part.
I tried just putting the patch over the stain, but it showed through.
She came out all right, I think. Silly thing.
And here's the thing I'm thinking about... I love stitching the story cloths that I usually make- the process, not knowing where the story might go, just following inspirations, playing, and what if's.
BUT, there is something about mending... I tell people that it sometimes feels like a superpower, bringing something back to life, back to usefulness. There is such satisfaction in it. It lifts my spirit and feeds my love of being (inner need to be) useful. Whichever, I love mending.
