It's Like Riding a Bike

Today I put a thimble in my finger again. It's been more than 10 months since I last sewed, and I wondered, would I ever want to do it again?

I didn't pressure myself.

I enjoyed the sun, the beach, dinners with friends and late nights in courtyards where the bourbon flowed and friends were easy. But it got cold last week. Not fall cold but winter cold, at least winter for here.

I wanted to sew again, pull a thread through cloth no matter how unsexy that seems. I did it so much as a distraction to my unhappiness. I cried for that woman, the woman who sewed and sewed and sewed so she didn't have to think.

Of course she still did. Think, that is. And that's why I am here.

Here I am, on the other side of things, and the feel of my granny's thimble is still fresh on my finger. I like it. It's like going home again, though not til I was ready. And not frantic or by default or any other such label. Just sewing. Like I have in intermittent ways since I was 7. And I am covered in the quilt I am making, it not defining me or vice versa. Just being.