The heart finds its morning and is refreshed." Kahlil Gibran
I choose one of the thimbles we made in Seoul. The Rose of Sharon embroidered in discordant colors is flattened, not fresh as at first stitching. I’ve had it coddled in cloth-like mulberry paper, closeted away from dust and wear and the trespass of ordinariness.
They laughed--Mrs. Kim and Old Auntie—because I questioned the careless color combinations they chose. We sat on the floor and clipped blued-white muslin, stiffened it with kitchen-pot rice glue and it crackled under the searing iron.
Twirling stubborn strands of knotting floss between fingers and teeth, talk turned from choosing yellows and blues to tales of old country days and ways when women in the village gathered to tender a young bride’s bundle, her trousseau of thimbles, needle cases and coverlets.
I wonder…what would be my gift to a baby-bride, a child plucked from her place of nurture like a submissive rice shoot planted in the paddy? Could one so green find comfort on a cold crossing to a stranger’s bed...from a cache of needlework? Can the colors of a woman’s aching be sewn into cloth?
I am entrusting this one to a collaborator in repairing things, this thimble, this memory of a time of remembering a time and place my own living has no memory of, (but how I absorbed Old Auntie’s telling!)
This mending tool I made in a place where thinned and worn parts of my soul were patched and restored.
They laughed--Mrs. Kim and Old Auntie—because I questioned the careless color combinations they chose. We sat on the floor and clipped blued-white muslin, stiffened it with kitchen-pot rice glue and it crackled under the searing iron.
Twirling stubborn strands of knotting floss between fingers and teeth, talk turned from choosing yellows and blues to tales of old country days and ways when women in the village gathered to tender a young bride’s bundle, her trousseau of thimbles, needle cases and coverlets.
I wonder…what would be my gift to a baby-bride, a child plucked from her place of nurture like a submissive rice shoot planted in the paddy? Could one so green find comfort on a cold crossing to a stranger’s bed...from a cache of needlework? Can the colors of a woman’s aching be sewn into cloth?
I am entrusting this one to a collaborator in repairing things, this thimble, this memory of a time of remembering a time and place my own living has no memory of, (but how I absorbed Old Auntie’s telling!)
This mending tool I made in a place where thinned and worn parts of my soul were patched and restored.
2 comments:
What a cute story.I remember seeing these thimbles in your treasures,but I dont ever remember the history of them
Waaay better than the book I'm reading...
Post a Comment