When sewing serves a greater purpose as a respite from writing fatigue
Last week, I was contemplating about the energy and time I put into writing, the unnerving pangs in my stomach that hunger for satisfaction. How quickly my mind is preoccupied with ideas that can only be put to rest in writing.
It becomes unsettling, doesn’t it, when we write and fight it like a battle that doesn’t cease its fire. Why do we suffer this way as writers, why is it so exhausting mentally? Why do we impose information fatigue onto our daily lives?
I’ve drowned out this fatigue, this vexation with something other than writing: quilting.
I’ve found that nothing else quite brings me the joy that I find when I sit and put my hand on the hand wheel. It’s so serene to me, this energy I put into selecting patterns—calicos or stripes, chevrons or saturated colors. Like a puzzle, I sort through the order of pieces, combining those that match, joining semblances into a collected harmony.
I’m working on a few in time for Mother’s Day, and other than writing, I am deeply fond of being able to gift something like this to someone else.
I heard a writer once say that her work, once it’s published, ceases to belong to her. It becomes a relinquished entity when we hand over something we’ve made to someone else—when someone other than ourselves is gratified and blessed by the labor of our own hands.