One of my sewing students made a bunch of pajama pants this month. Each one was unique, with carefully chosen fabrics, and a drawstring waist. We made a good team, sewing machines side by side, chatting while we pressed the pedal. By the fourth pair, I was less inclined to mark seam lines, and only pinned them and handed them over. He was on a roll.

But then I noticed that he was spending time doing something that left shreds of skinny fabric on the floor. Hmm. I peeked over his shoulder and realized that he was trimming the seams within an eighth of an inch of their life. 

"Actually, we want there to be seams, about as wide as your finger. That way they won't ravel away the first time they get washed."

I discreetly checked other seams. They too had been given a crew cut. Nonchalantly I sewed them again, increasing the margin to a safer width. 

There are people who like to live on the edge: rock climbing, slack lining above a gorge, skiing down a black diamond mountain. But even then many athletes have a margin for safety. A harness around their waist, or skiis that quick release in a crash can save your neck. 

Marriage needs a margin to keep it from unravelling. Maybe it is a boundary like not spending time alone with an opposite sex coworker. Perhaps it involves regular double dates with a mentor couple. Other couples have self imposed rules about name calling to keep their interactions from falling apart.  

Ravel and unravel are a pair of those quirky words that look like they should be opposites, but are actually synonyms. Like flammable and inflammable. They are cohorts with those contranyms that disagree all by themselves. 

Table, as in bring it to the table, or table it. 

Seed it, as in plant them in the garden or remove them from a tomato.

Left, as in what remains or what went away. 

Or the one that was part of my marriage ceremony and maybe yours. 

Cleave.