I wish they would always trust me. Sometimes they do. But there are times when my sewing students question my advice.
Like the girl who wanted to make letter shaped pillows of fabric.
"Draw the letter three times as wide as you want it to turn out." I held my fingers three inches apart. She looked dubious. I handed her the marking pen and she drew it exactly as wide as she wanted it to be when it was finished. Which is to say skinny.
I leaped into a monologue about the fabric that gets swallowed up in the seams, as well as the difficulty of turning narrow tubes around curves. She tried again. Marginally bigger.
"May I draw it for you?" I offered. She tapped her finger to her mouth and nodded.
Reluctantly she began to cut on the lines. I tried to reassure her that it would be slender, like she hoped. It was lucky that I was generous in the size, especially because her snips occasionally jabbed toward the inside.
"Let's sew it now. Pretty sides together," I reminded. This always baffles kids. Why on earth would we hide the beautiful colors and let the subdued ones show?
After it was stitched I invited her to turn it inside out. This wasn't an effortless process, but at least it was not impossible as it would have been with her lines. I handed her a dowel to help poke.
When it was all stuffed she was pleased. Very pleased. Her shy smile was even more lovely than the pillow.
In the process of becoming who we are meant to be, rough edges disappear. The unspoken complaints get swallowed. The reluctance to be generous is jostled along by the kindness around us. Music playing, white tipped branches, glittering lights all coax us to be better than we are, or were ten minutes ago.
Good thing.
