My sewing room has been neglected. I am not one of those A types who tidies up after every project. Rather I work until the last minute before I have to jump in the car for the next obligation. At least, that used to be what I did before I broke my wrist. For the last five weeks I have barely stepped across the threshold, and the disarray shows. Which makes me less likely to want to see if I can maneuver a needle again. 

 

I could not solve the dilemma on my own, so I paid someone to clean it. Which is embarrassing. But that is a small sacrifice to make, when someone is actually willing to dig me out of piles of fabric, spilled baskets of thread, and batting. 

 

It was astonishing, how much she got done in a short time. Truly, the room was liberated from chaos. I hugged her. Then I sat down to sew. 

 

There can be a subtle message that a responsible person can handle things alone. I know I wanted to. And yet, each week I show up to help people whose lives have slowed down through age. It feels like a privilege to be with them, listening to their stories about the world before I was in it. They give me a longer view even as we chat over tea and mashed potatoes. 

 

Maybe this is how it is meant to be.