The iron in my sewing room is always on. At least whenever the machines are running. Everything in the entire work space goes off with one switch. The children who come to make doll dresses and quilts and puppets all know how to use it and thankfully no one has been burned.  Most projects improve with pressing, and even twenty year old, crumpled cloth looks fresh when ironed well. 

A woman has been coming for private sewing lessons, and together we are making quilts from her Aussie grandparents's clothes. Each garment has a story, and she has spent oodles of time carefully snipping out squares from the sleeves, and backs, and pockets. As providence would have it, a friend from Australia had sent me a pack of fabric squares with koalas, and kangaroos and emus on them. They fit perfectly in the center of each block.

While we were working I suggested that she iron a few finished ones.

"Is it on?" she asked. 

"Yes," I answered. "You need to wiggle it to wake it up." 

She walked over and gave it one jiggle, and it was still cold. She went back to piecing. I am used to my iron, and it took a second to realize I needed to explain its idiosynchrasies. 

"Go ahead and start using it as if it is warm, and soon it will be."

It reminded me of the interchange John and I had had earlier this week. I was not feeling particularly friendly, yet I acted as if I did. After a few minutes of looking at his brown eyes, and hearing about his sermon idea about superpowers, I warmed up. Like an iron. 

No one blames the dawn for being chilly. Experience shows that after a bit the sun will pour over the crest of the hills and feel toasty on your skin. But if you go out before breakfast, bring a sweater.