My favourite cardigan has been getting really pill-y, so last month I began searching for ways to refresh it, diving deep into the confusing world of sweater stones, fabric shavers and more. YouTube said the simplest, most economical option was using a razor blade to cut the pills, but I couldn’t bring myself to try. What if I cut my finger? Or worse, my cardigan?? A sweater stone might have been a safer choice, but it also seemed a little dubious and woo-woo—like something Gwyneth Paltrow would make the household staff use on all her cashmere throw pillows. The good folks at the New York Times’ Wirecutter recommended several battery-operated fabric shavers, but I generally try to avoid buying unnecessary gadgetry. Especially if the gadget only has a single use.
So I ended up going with a sweater comb—which is kind of funny because I don’t even own a brush for my hair, but now my sweaters have their own comb, lol. Totally bourgeois. At least it’s made from eco-friendly materials? Oh no. I am Gwyneth.
Anyway, I tried it out last night and it worked! I spent a half an hour carefully combing out all the pills on my cardigan and, while it doesn’t look brand new exactly, it is much improved. So much that I am now hesitant to wear it, because I know once it rubs against anything, it will probably start pilling again.
As a recovering perfectionist, this is a scary prospect for me, and I have to fight the urge to keep my cardigan safe from the dangers of being worn. Friction is a part of living. Some might even say it is most of life. Things rubbing up against each other. The wear and tear of daily existence. And the only way to keep my sweater pristine is to keep it in the closet, untouched.
Of course, I’m not only talking about clothes here. But you knew that.
As I mentioned last week, I’ve been going through a difficult time, and my heart feels really tender right now, like it’s been rubbed with sandpaper—or maybe, more accurately, scratched up by razor blades. This is what can happen when you put your heart out there and let it rub up against the hearts of all the other broken people in the world. Friction. And sometimes conflict.
You get roughed up. You get worn out. Sometimes you even get torn. And though I don’t believe there has to be meaning in suffering—sometimes things are horrible and that’s it, period—I am reminded that my hurt comes from living fully and deeply, from not keeping my heart too safe or untouched.
I don’t know what to make of all this yet, so I’ll leave you with a lovely poem that’s been on my mind:
Meditations in an Emergency
by Cameron Awkward-RichI wake up & it breaks my heart. I draw the blinds & the thrill of rain breaks my heart. I go outside. I ride the train, walk among the buildings, men in Monday suits. The flight of doves, the city of tents beneath the underpass, the huddled mass, old women hawking roses, & children all of them, break my heart. There’s a dream I have in which I love the world. I run from end to end like fingers through her hair. There are no borders, only wind. Like you, I was born. Like you, I was raised in the institution of dreaming. Hand on my heart. Hand on my stupid heart.
:) Teresa
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It makes my heart hurt that you're going through a difficult time right now. It's a difficult time right now in general, and then on top of that, what you're feeling and experiencing, that pain of being vulnerable and someone using that as a way to exercise whatever is keeping them from being vulnerable. The cardigan is a great metaphor for the particular predicament you are facing right now. I hope it will make sense to you to take it for a spin again soon.