> CD #43: A mending mindset
In my continued effort to learn how to repair things instead of throwing them away, I’ve read several books on mending over the past few months. My favourite so far is Mending Life: A Handbook for Repairing Clothes and Hearts by Nina and Sonya Montenegro, which weaves together practical mending techniques with charming illustrations and artful words. Words like these:
When we sit down to mend, we cultivate a mindset that extends beyond clothing. Much like meditation, mending teaches us to embrace imperfection, and to practice patience and acceptance with ourselves. Through mending, we become accustomed to seeing our hand in the things we own. We become an active participant in their evolution.
The book inspired me to try mending some of the mysterious tiny holes I get in nearly all my t-shirts. The holes have been appearing for years—no bigger than a few millimetres each, always near my navel—and I have yet to figure out why. My husband insists they come from the shirts rubbing against the tops of jeans or a belt (neither of which I wear on the regular). My competing theory is they come from rubbing against the kitchen counter while washing dishes. But now my seven-year-old’s t-shirts have the same little holes in the same area, and he has never worn jeans nor washed a dish in his life. The strangest thing is it doesn’t happen to my other two kids’ shirts at all. Baffling!
Anyway, I’m pretty proud of my handiwork. And the Montenegro sisters were right about the satisfaction you get from stitching something back together with your own two hands. However insignificant this t-shirt is in the whole scheme of things, I now have a tiny bit more power than I did before to enact the kind of life I want to lead: one that is a little more mindful, with a bent towards conservation and restoration—and also a little less perfectionistic.
Of course, there is privilege tied up in all of this. I am currently in a socio-economic position where walking around in visibly mended clothing won’t reflect badly on me in any way, and I understand that many disadvantaged or marginalized people cannot risk wearing anything that looks worn out or unkempt.
Growing up in a working class immigrant household, I learned from my mother that dressing appropriately meant never showing flaws. She taught me how to hem our pants with invisible stitches, to check for loose threads, to make sure nothing we wore looked shabby. She’s the reason I’ve never been able to buy ripped jeans, or even ones that are fashionably faded. And I know she wouldn’t approve of my wearing a t-shirt with holes, even if they’re repaired.
Sometimes I wonder if I might be an immigrant myself, having travelled so far in a relatively short time from one cultural reality to another. It can be confusing, like I’m inhabiting two simultaneous worlds with competing values, and it always leaves me feeling a little torn.
:) Teresa
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