My sewing room was once a place of rainbow stacks of fabric, baskets of ribbons and bins of colored threads. But a year of classes with children, who tend to yank and toss, combined with the generosity of people who hand me the surplus when they have tidied their own nooks had taken its toll. It was a shambles. Piles of fabric made it impossible to vacuum and finding that certain shade of pink floral was hopeless. Gradually I became less willing to cross the threshold. I had set up a cutting table in the living room, encroaching on family space, and the mounds of teal and burgundy were taking up residence beside the piano. But the irony was not hidden. I who love to sew could not stand my own sewing space. All of the projects that were peeking at me from the shelves looked like forgotten puppies in cages. I could not get to them. 

 

I scratched the intention on my to do list for months. "Clean the sewing room." I tried breaking it into manageable chunks. I offered myself rewards. But I never started. My daughter tried to give me it as a Christmas gift. But she did not know where things went. I had to do the work. 

 

Then one night as I was drifting off to sleep I had an idea. 

 

Get rid of the couch. 

 

This behemoth had followed us from California when our neighbors upgraded, so it was probably in its prime in the Reagen administration. It was for children to sit on while they hand stitched buttons, and occasionally they did. But it also harbored migrant pins and abandoned scissors, with colorful mountains of fabric looming on the edges. It was not a cozy spot. 

 

I cleared a path and waited until Zack and John had ten minutes simultaneously. They hauled it to the curb and I sent up an apology to the landfill. Californians will be horrified to know that Pennsylvania street pick up takes an almost unlimited amount of trash. 

 

I began to unpack the problem. I was willing to put fabric and lace away, but away was an elusive entity. Shelf space. I needed more. 

 

Zack wanted a ride somewhere so I hopped in the car and drove up Alden Road. There by a neighbor's driveway was a white shelf with twelve small drawers. On the way back I stopped. I got out. I looked. The drawers slid. No structural damage. With that half embarrassed half elated adrenaline that only trash pickers know I tried to shove it in my car. Without Zack, whom I had just dropped off, it was a strategic challenge. But the Cleaning Muses were with me. Another neighbor, working in her yard, sent her son to help. Together we wrestled it into the van.

 

For the next few hours I sorted elastic, floss, beads, zippers and quilt books. It was like a treasure hunt to rediscover the ridiculous amount of notions lost in oblivion. The twins jumped in, winding each ribbon around its own cardboard card, and putting labels on every drawer.

 

I am not quite done.  There is still a corner brimming with fabric and doll supplies. But my inertia to continue is stronger than the inertia to stop. 

 

The place where we work on our marriages can get messy. Emotions are stacked in teetering piles, complaints clutter the moments of joy. It can be unappealing to be inside our own relationships. Getting rid of trash worthy feelings is a good start. Expectations may seem like a comfy place to sit, but you end up getting jabbed. Books and mentors can help with sorting issues, and friends may show up to give encouragement.

 

I would be happy to elaborate but my sewing room is calling, and I really enjoy being there.

Photo by Jenny Stein

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