I love the way you can think you have all your projects planned and suddenly life surprises you. When I came across this green plaid fabric at Austin Creative Reuse, I almost didn’t buy it. That could actually be said for all of the fabrics I purchased that day. But you really have to take a moment when thrifting. If something gives you pause in the hodgy podgy sea of options, it’s a sign. Greatness is possible. It’s calling you. Plaids are one of the things that I search for when thrift shopping for fabric, so I went for it.

I knew this would be a blouse. I love taking masculine-looking fabrics and creating feminine pieces with them, so for this project the pattern I chose was New Look 6622:

I chose View A, a design that is light enough for the warmer months, yet will transition well into Fall, especially considering that the fabric is very Fall-like:

Since I was already planning to cut the back yoke on the bias, I decided to make the design more visually interesting by adding a bias-cut yoke to the front as well.

Then, after the blouse was finished, my Fella suggested that a tiny placket with buttons at the front neckline would look cute – great idea! I grabbed a scrap from the bin and added a faux placket to the front. I love it!

Aside from these hacks, no other alterations were made. I was able to make this top in my usual size and the fit was spot on straight out of the envelope.

Why haven’t I been using more New Look patterns? They are fairly simple, well-designed silhouettes, making them a hacker’s dream. Well, I am definitely using them from now on, and this pattern will definitely be re-used.

This is one of those items that will remain a favorite for years to come. I can already tell…

Things I Sew

 

Blue is the color of the throat chakra

The throat chakra is the center of expression, speaking, intuitive knowledge, and communication of all forms, including speech, writing, singing, chanting, and non-verbal expression such as creativity. It is the bridge between the intellectual/spiritual self and the feeling self, allowing us to share what we feel, think and dream. Listening, self-knowledge, and expression of all knowledge comes from this chakra, helping us to know our inner truth and convey it to the world. It challenges us to be courageous and responsible, willing us to stand up and say what we know to be true and to keep our truth alive and present as we change our minds and perspectives. The throat chakra also provides gifts such as clairaudience, channeling and telepathy by making us more in tune with our intuitive connection to the universe.

SOUL VOW:
Speak truth with integrity and authenticity

LIFE VALUE:
I am cunning and insightful and live life on my own terms

ANIMAL: Coyote

Coyote teaches us how to ease stress, calm the spirit and adapt to any condition, helping us to laugh even when clouds of grief hover over our spirits. The coyote is a trickster, a wild sage whose message does not always come directly, forcing us to be attentive and helping us to understand the balance between being playful and wise. Coyote challenges us to pay attention to the things we have pushed down or hidden from others, facing what we’ve kept buried. It chases away negativity and a gloomy outlook by reminding us that laughter is the best medicine. We can embrace uncertainty and release what we can’t control. Coyote helps us discern when to remove our masks, vs. when to put them on for protection, and may call us to be flexible and adjust to a situation we did not anticipate; it is all about expecting the unexpected with a spirit of resourcefulness and the ability to survive. Coyote is the keeper of magic, initiating us to the next level of spiritual growth. It is the voice crying out in the wilderness, the way-maker, calling out from the dark of night. They have a laser-like instinct and know how to live life on their own terms.

STONE: Blue Lapis

Lapis lazuli is the keeper of wisdom, truth and awareness. It supports spiritual enlightenment by allowing you to go deeper within, and awakens you to your true destiny and divine purpose. Lapis is like a light, illuminating the soul’s intuitive abilities and inner knowing. The deep blue color is associated with self-expression. It stimulates enlightenment, enhances dream work and psychic abilities, facilitating spiritual journeying and stimulating personal power. This stone releases stress and brings deep peace, protecting/blocking one from psychic attack and contacting spirit guardians. It teaches the power of spoken communication, and reverses issues caused by not speaking out in the past. It harmonizes imbalances between physical, emotional, mental and spiritual aspects of self, bringing harmony and deep inner self-knowledge. Lapis encourages taking charge, revealing inner truth, self-awareness, enables one to express themselves without compromising or holding back. It releases difficulties with communication, encourages honesty and compassion, stimulates mental faculties, and encourages creativity through attunement with source. Lapis helps you confront truth, harmonize conflict, and express opinions.

LESSONS:

One morning last month, I was down at the look-out on the nature trail near our home. As I finished my stretch routine and began the walk back up the trail, I heard it: the tiny little howl of a coyote pup down in the canyon below me. I stopped in my tracks, delighted and mesmerized. Then, one by one, little howling voices joined in, the entire litter harmonizing together as they learned to use their baby voices. This was one of those moments you tuck into your inner being and keep for the rest of your life. I knew that Sunday morning that I had just received a sermon; I just didn’t know yet what it meant.

The coyote is my throat chakra animal; one of my spirit animals. My angels often show up as animals. The coyote is unique in that it always shows up for me within a short time of owls in multiples, meaning that if I’ve encountered a coyote, two or more owls will show up in the near future and vice-versa. The first time this happened was in the Fall of 2007. I was sitting there at noon (exactly noon) staring out my window, when a coyote appeared out of nowhere in the driveway below me, carrying a dead skunk in its mouth. It stopped, sat, stared up at me for a minute, then turned and ran off. A few nights prior, I had had my first owl encounter. Huge snowy white owls sat on the Starbucks sign staring down at me late one night as I sat in the empty parking lot having just broken up with my boyfriend of one year. The pattern continues to this day.

Shortly after moving to Texas in 2009, I encountered a pair of owls on my evening walk. A few days later, a coyote appeared when I was on another walk. As always, these encounters coincided with a major period of transition, uncertainty and anxiety; moments in my life where I would be compelled to remain discerning, aware, cunning and insightful. In each of the moments where these unique encounters were happening, I would soon find myself in a position where I was the lone voice speaking up about something that others refused to see. I was being both emboldened and warned, reminded to trust my intuition and ability to see through the darkness, right into the heart of the truth and, most importantly, to say something.

In 2016, I was returning from a morning walk down a street near my home at the time. The street had only recently been created. It was added to the neighborhood to connect a group of new, modern townhouses to the rest of the neighborhood, townhouses that had been built over a wonderful, wild plot of land. It made me sad every time I walked past it. The neighborhood was very residential, a few blocks from a major highway, and my morning walks always culminated with the morning drop-off rush at the elementary school a block away. So, imagine my surprise when I saw a large animal running toward me from the direction of the busy street, right down the newly paved street past the townhouses. It looked like a large dog, like a husky, but grayish brown and feral. It was weaving back and forth, seeming bewildered, as though it had found itself somewhere it didn’t belong. As it got closer, I could see that it was a very large coyote, so I stepped into the adjacent yard, very close to the tree. It was running back and forth across the street into each yard, trying to find its way back to the green belt. I figured if it ran into this yard I would be fine if I was against the tree because it wasn’t going to run into a tree.

Directly across from me sat an empty lot. Whoever owned the property was unwilling to let anyone build there, so as the rest of the neighborhood filled up and gentrified, there was this one little patch of wildness in the middle of suburbia. I loved this. I am not a city person, I am a wilderness person, so I am forever seeking any little slice of nature I can find. I watched this large coyote run into this little lot, thinking it had found its way home, only to come up against the wooden fence. He turned back and sprinted into the street, directly toward me, then suddenly veered right and headed straight down the road toward the highway, into the heart of the city. I felt an ache in my chest for him; for the fact that he was headed into traffic, for the confusing and disconnected world in which he had found himself. I said a little prayer that the angels governing the critters would lead him safely home to his pack.

What really stopped me in my tracks was the fact that a mere 45 minutes before this encounter, I had been several blocks away in one of the hilly neighborhoods on the other side of the elementary school, when I heard it above me: “Hoo, hoo…” There he was, a magnificent barn owl on the roof of someone’s house, staring down at me. I stopped and held eye contact, feeling the joy I always feel when I run into one of my feathered guardians. As we beheld one another, I heard it behind me: “Hoo, hoo…” I turned, and high up in the tree beside the house directly across from Mr. Owl, there she was, watching me. A pair of owls. As I had been climbing the hill toward them, I was contemplating the sadness that had been weighing heavily inside of me; how my feral, wilderness-loving self felt trapped and bewildered in the ever-expanding city around me. It was a different type of wilderness, one that never felt quite like home. Then my feathered angels crossed my path to remind me that I was still a part of the natural world. No matter what humans build or pave over, we are always surrounded, always being observed, always actively participating in a world we largely ignore. Then, this beautiful alpha coyote appeared before me, powerful yet lost, cunning yet perplexed. I was not alone. I was not the only creature who was observing it all – present, yet distant; powerless to stop the march of human ‘progress’, yet carrying on in the middle of it all. As I walked the rest of the way home on the grassy parts, not the cement, feeling the unevenness of the earth under my feet, I reminded myself that just like the other wild things, there is an intangible yet powerful essence inside of me that has always been, always will be, and transcends this modern construct. It prevails and survives in spite of it all. Like my furry friend, I continued to seek my way out of the madness. I continued to seek my hope and healing out there where the wild things reside.

Last September, I headed out at dawn for my morning walk. We now live a couple miles from where we were, much closer to the green belt and water shed here in Austin, directly adjacent to a nature preserve. I hadn’t been out for a while. My health was flared up. My emotions were flared up. The prior month had been especially hard, as I navigated some major changes in my family, the undeniable reality that having a relationship with my family meant having my rapist continually in my life. I had allowed my family back into my life the prior year to try and find some healing, believing they had changed. They had, but the most important thing had not changed: the unwillingness to acknowledge the abuse I had endured not only at the hands of my perpetrator, but his enablers.

Two days before this morning walk, he had shown up unannounced on my doorstep, something he had never ever done, because he was upset about something major in his life and selected me to be his emotional support system. My rapist. Having him walk into my home was violating, and I was compelled to make a tough choice: keep the code of silence in order to play the part of nice sit-com family with quirky, awkward dad figure, pushing the incessant triggers down inside of me like silent screams trapped in the cells of my body? Or walk away one last time? Because every time I was around him, sitting at a family gathering, watching him shovel food into his mouth as half of it fell onto his protruding stomach, the smell of his unwashed body filling the room every time he moved in his chair, seeing him glare at me when no one else was watching, I felt like I was having to physically push my screams down into the pit of my stomach. I was a feral, wild thing, darting this way and that, searching for a way out of the madness; desperate for a pack where I truly belonged; wanting to run, run as fast as I could, as far from this suburban nightmare as possible, and find myself deep in the heart of the woods surrounded by my kind.

So…when he showed up on my doorstep unannounced – this is a man who never even programmed my number into his phone – needing someone to lean on at a pivotal and emotional moment in his life, something in me broke. This was the man who violently assaulted me over and over again. This was the man I lost my virginity to at three years-old. This was the man who played the part of victim so well that my entire family, relatives and church community black-balled me and stood behind him. This was the man who let me suffer through several bouts of homelessness and 20 years of chronic illness without ever once checking in on me. This was the man who sat back and resented me for not being who he needed me to be, yet violated me in the worst ways imaginable. This was the man whose behavior made me question my own sanity, so terrible was the reality that, yes, yes he did. Your own father actually did these things to you. It was easier to believe I was the broken one – maybe I could fix myself. It was easier for me to be the one in the wrong than to believe that I was really that helpless, that vulnerable, and no one did a thing about it. Hush…just be a good girl – my goodness was the issue, right?

He was the one everyone stood up for, no matter how much I spoke up and spoke out. He sat there, teary-eyed, in silence and received all the support, love and kindness. A nice, decent, god-fearing man whose daughter was severely disturbed. No. Just, no. No, no, no. He could not come near me ever again, and those who refused to acknowledge were complicit. Therefore, they could not have close relationships with me, either. My peace, my well-being, my very life hung in the balance. I had come too far over the years to just revert back. I could not sit there anymore, triggered, playing nicely with others when they had time and again betrayed me, tossed me aside, slandered me for the sake of their own reputations and peace of mind. No amount of forgiveness could fix the damage that years of destructive behavior had inflicted, and I didn’t have the strength to continue my healing journey while holding a beach ball under water. I didn’t have room in my psyche for more destructive patterns. I could only forgive, only heal, if I walked away and wiped the dust from my feet. My family are those who do the will of my Creator.

Two days after this impromptu visit, I got up at dawn and walked as fast as could toward the wildness of the green belt, back to my tribe. That morning, as I approached the entrance to the trail head, I heard it above me: “Hoo, hoo…” There he was, perched above me, just watching. My heart filled at the sight of his face. Then, I heard it around me in all directions: “Hoo, hoo, hoo!” I was surrounded! Owls were all around me. It felt like mail day at Hogwarts, as one, then two, then three owls flew right over my head in full wing span. I knew this was special. And I hadn’t even walked into the trees…

I entered the trail, said good morning to the does, their eyes glowing in the light of my head lamp. I greeted Ms. Bunny Rabbit as she hippity-hopped across my path, stopping to survey me as I passed. As I neared the bottom of the trail, approaching the final bend before the trail curved its way to the little look-out, something was circling the bench in front of me, darting back and forth. The creature stepped into the middle of the trail and stood looking at me. I had no idea what I was looking at. My first thought upon seeing this small, canine-looking, hairless creature was: “Dear gawd, there really is a chupacabra.” The animal watched me for a moment. Instead of darting off into the trees, it turned and trotted a few feet down the trail, then stopped and turned to look back at me. Okay…clearly I was supposed to follow. The animal continued down the length of the trail, stopping and looking back every few feet to make sure I was following. When we reached the bottom, it finally trotted off into the trees, then turned one last time to look back. I waved, wishing it well, then sat at the lookout to meditate on everything that had just happened in the last ten minutes of my life. My inner biologist knew that I had just encountered a sick coyote, probably with mange. That would explain the hairlessness (I really do have a degree in biology, I’m not just making up some B.S.) But the way it had led me down the trail, especially after the owls, was definitely a message, and a powerful one at that. Was this an omen of my impending doom? Should I be worried instead of overjoyed at the presence of all my woodland friends?

In truth, I was not well. I was feeling sick and wasted, physically and mentally. My Lyme disease had flared up worse than it had been for a very long time – big shocker. I had been overwhelmed with despair and confusion. When I headed out that morning, I was on the verge of collapse, the heavy weight of grief and pain sitting like an elephant on my chest. I was terrified of feeling all alone in the world, a position in which I found myself time and again. The past year with my family was a sort of curtain call time. I was slowly realizing that all of the acknowledgement in the world on their part wouldn’t matter, and all of the forgiveness on my part wouldn’t make them healthy people to have close to me in my life. Not just because of their health; because of mine. They really had come a long way, but the triggers were too much. Just being with them, especially hearing them talk about him so casually, triggered my trauma, my PTSD responses. My mental health was too important and, unfortunately, their way of being in the world and coping with the past was pulling me into a dark place. I had worked too hard for too long to fall off that cliff ever again. But, oh, the pain of this realization.

I had been that powerful, darting, howling creature many times over the years. The one who stopped people in their tracks. I had been the voice crying out from the wilderness, through the darkness, living life on my own terms. But for a while, I had been that sickly little creature, out in the woods at the crack of dawn, searching for a tiny morsel of anything that could make me into that powerful alpha creature again. When I encountered the owls that morning, they were covering me, their wingspan sheltering me. I am not alone. When I encountered my little chupacabra friend, we were two of a kind, naked, alone, wasting away, searching. He was showing me that we were on the same path, that our journeys were aligned and always had been. Yet, unlike him, I turned and walked back up that path, out of the woods, and into suburbia, where I determined at all costs to fight my way out of the state I was in. I had a choice. A few days later, I started a blog. I had no idea what I was going to say, but whatever it was I was going to say it wholeheartedly. Almost no one reads my writing, but I’m doing it anyway. I’m putting my truth out into the ether, a lone voice crying out from the wilderness.

Last month, on that fateful and wonderful morning, I awakened to the sound of an owl hooting in the trees outside my bedroom window. I jumped out of bed, threw on my Lululemons, and headed into the woods. On my way back up, that’s when I heard that tiny little baby voice howling up to me from the canyon, testing out the echo and leading the rest of the litter as they learned to use their baby voices. The hopefulness of Spring hovered all around me, everything in full bloom. I smiled as I walked back up the trail. The woman I was died on that trail last fall, carried away by chupacabra into the first light of day. The woman I am becoming is learning to use her voice all over again, full of hope, full of joy, joining the chorus of all the other tiny voices finding the strength to speak, learning to fill the entire canyon with the resounding echo of truth, resilience and joy. We are not alone. We are not the lone voice. We are voices in unison, crying out in harmony, a chorus of healing and hope. Wipe the dust from your feet. Today, we journey on.

I got well by talking.
Death could not get a word in edgewise,
grew discouraged, and traveled on.
–Louise Erdrich

Journey Through the Chakras
#whyididntreport

Well as per usual, nothing goes exactly according to plan. I made a grid for this next batch of projects, but I shifted some things around. Some new fabrics came along that I got excited about, and other items just simply inspired me more. That’s just the way it goes in the creative life. Here are the projects I did since the last grid:

This represents my May sewing and most of June, right up until last Thursday. Considering that it was Summer solstice, I guess you could say that this was the last of my Spring sewing projects.

The outfits:

It’s time for my Summer sewing to begin! I can’t wait to make another collage! #makenineandthensome

Things I Sew

Last year, I bought this wonderful white grid/plaid fabric from Threadbare Fabrics. It was one of those situations where you add something extra to the cart to get free shipping, and the more fabric the better:

I had no plan initially, so I added it to the stash. I thought I would use it for my Fella, but he wasn’t feeling it. None of the patterns I came across seemed quite right. Then I came across McCall’s 7889:

I bought the pattern to use View C with a thrifted striped sheet, but I couldn’t deny that View B would be perfect for my grid fabric:

The result:

It was a dark and stormy day here and the lighting was worse than usual, but I was so excited about this dress that I couldn’t wait to post about it. Just ignore the horrible picture quality, especially of my face.

I love it! The only alteration I had to make was to add my usual one inch to the torso to accommodate my height. Otherwise, the process was really straightforward. I spent a LONG time pattern matching and I’m thrilled with the result.

I hate the pictures, but love the dress. Dark apartment, Walmart track phone, bad weather…recipe for the perfect storm. Oh, well. Let’s hope tomorrow is a brighter day…

Things I Sew

I was born a fashionista. A love for cashmere was programmed into my DNA, such that the first time I ever touched something fluffy those genes were activated and expressed. This is scientific fact; it simply has to be, because as an infant I was already rolling around in my crib, swathed ecstatically in the luxury of fleece and cotton baby blankets, fully aware of the sensual experience of textiles on my skin. I called my baby blanket “Kiki” well into my childhood – alright, fine, my adulthood – and yes, I still own her, I mean, ‘it’. I have always had a passion for fluffy sweaters and anything that feels like “Kiki” against my skin.

A funny thing happens when a girl becomes old enough to stand on her own two feet. She finds herself smack dab in a chair at Buster Brown having a pair of sensible loafers shoved onto her feet, while an exasperated mother on the point of a nervous breakdown stands over her saying, “This wouldn’t be so difficult if you weren’t so picky.” But I was – at three years-old I already knew exactly how I wanted my footwear to feel on my feet, and I was already painfully aware that brown and white saddle oxfords were not the same as white patent leather Mary Janes. I had not yet developed an appreciation for practicality, preferring instead the delicious clickety-clack of my little plastic pretend high-heels on the driveway, proof-positive in my mind that I was destined for greatness. Of course, my idea of greatness being real, grown-up high heels and an endless supply of frilly, flouncy dresses. But I was also learning the important lesson that, more often than not, she who holds the purse strings rules the world.

At ten years-old, I found myself out shopping with my mother yet again, only this time we were standing in a large, two-story thrift store in the old downtown area of the Los Angeles suburb where we had moved three years before. Money was tight, as it always was on our working class budget, and we were on a quest for tap shoes. I had recently seen Gene Kelly in ‘Singing in the Rain’ while hanging out with my grandparents, and just like that I was begging for tap dance lessons. At this point in my young life, I had already been sewing my own clothes on a sewing machine for about three years. Barbie, on the other hand, had been receiving a handmade wardrobe courtesy of my mother’s sewing scraps, scotch tape, and a stapler for much longer. That day in the Torrance Thrift Store, not only did I find a pair of brand new tap shoes in my size, we also found a pair of corduroy O.P shorts (trendy and de rigeur for an early 80s kid in a beach city) and some designer jeans (all the rage and way beyond our budget). OMG. My first ever thrift store haul was epic, and my life was forever changed. I was able to be a fashionista on a budget, not only buying ready made items on the cheap, but upcycling items I found in other departments. Being poorer than the other kids held less stigma now – I could be cool and avant garde on my own terms. If you can’t join ’em, beat ’em – classic L.A. attitude.

As my sewing skills progressed, and my love of all things vintage began to define me, I found myself not only hunting through thrift stores, but digging through the boxes of vintage fabrics and clothing in our garage, stacked high courtesy of my grandma the hoarder. I didn’t have the money for all the cool 80s designer clothes, like Guess Jeans and Benetton Sweaters (oh, how I longed for them though…) but I could learn to hold my own. All I needed were some Payless boots, a little Aqua Net, and a retro me-made jacket. By the time I graduated high school, I was all set for a lifetime of creative bliss.

Needless to say, all these years later, I am still a fashionista; designing and creating fashion is an art form to me. But my approach to it has changed radically over the years, because my values and circumstances have shifted. I don’t even care about heels anymore, having become a barefooter/footwear minimalist a number of years back (with the exception of three pairs of Tony Lama cowboy boots that are absolutely core and central to channeling my inner John Wayne when I feel like kicking down metaphorical barriers in my life). I’m the one who holds my own purse strings now. And somehow, after all this time, there is still something so satisfying about a great thrift store haul. Even though finances have remained tight for a variety of reasons, I have never felt deprived, and now thrifting, upcycling and DIY is the fashion. I find myself sticking almost entirely to thrifted fabrics these days, and that is where I’m the happiest. Here are some reasons why:

I am honoring my budget and my Fella’s hard work to provide:

Ah, finances. When you take an ‘early retirement’ due to chronic health issues, you pinch your pennies more often than not. Between thrift store fabrics and $1.99 patterns at Joann’s sales, I can continue to do the thing I love the most without impacting the budget too negatively. My Fella works hard to provide for us, and supports my creativity wholeheartedly, so I want to be mindful of everything he does for me. I’m a math-in-my-head person (I don’t recommend it). When I make a purchase I ask myself how many hours had to be worked in order for me to have whatever it is. Is it worth it, especially if it came from the sacrifice of someone I love? People say, “Time is money.” I don’t know how I feel about that, but I do know that the reverse is definitely true – money represents time spent, mine or someone else’s. And time is our life. So, the more frugal I can keep my creative endeavors, the better. This matters to me, my Fella matters to me, so I do what I can while still making space to do what matters to me.

I am taking care of the planet by reducing my participation in the over-consumption of resources:

This is so important. The other day, I went into Joann’s to take advantage of the sale on McCall’s patterns. I usually ignore the fabric section, because when I’m not using thrifted fabrics, I have a list of Indie shops I like to shop with online. I know these shops are owned by women who are trying to make their way in the world. I like the carefully and lovingly chosen inventory and the ability to support a small business. However, my Fella likes to peruse the selection of Star Wars fabrics at Joann’s, so there I was. And wow, they’ve come a LONG way with their apparel fabrics over the last few years. I could easily have maxed out the credit cards on knits alone. I’m not a religious zealot about it, but I do have to ask myself where these fabrics came from and refrain from impulsivity. Fast fabric is just as much a part of fast fashion as any ready-made garment. I am not opposed to a little fast fashion; white tees from Walmart currently grace my wardrobe, for example. But I have to really dig deep sometimes to stick to my principles. If it stops me in my tracks in an a-ha moment, then fine. Throw it in the cart and take a number at the cutting table. I’ll get a lot of mileage out of it when I love it. But a sea of cuteness is part of living in America. There will always be cute things in random stores enticing me to say, “Oh, cute! I like that. I want it!” It’s the American way. But if it came from a sweat shop, traveled across the ocean, and so on and so forth, I have to be aware of this and make choices accordingly. We bought the Star Wars fabric. He lit up and I couldn’t resist. He works hard and he’s worth it.

It’s an adventure, and I love the challenge:

“If you are looking to make a sale, I can tell you I don’t have money. But what I do have are a very particular set of skills, skills I have acquired over a very long sewing career, skills that make me a nightmare for retailers like you.” Just kidding – a little Liam Neeson-ish moment for you. It’s a special form of x-ray vision, though, this thing called thrifting. There is something thrilling about taking something that no one else would give a second glance to and creating something entirely unexpected from it, even to myself. I end up with a wardrobe I love, that I never could have planned. I have several projects in progress at the moment that I’m completely thrilled about, yet a week ago right now I could never have imagined them. The fabrics were still sitting on the shelf at Austin Creative Reuse. And to think…a week from now something may be sitting in the sewing room that will absolutely thrill me to my core, yet sits out there somewhere waiting to be discovered…it shall be mine (insert intense, sinister glare). It’s a good thing that fabric is my jam. Otherwise, I would probably be dead in the New Mexico desert somewhere, having succumbed in my lifelong quest to find a jillion dollar treasure hidden by some eccentric millionaire back in 1937. Yikes. When you think about it, my quest is not that big of a deal. And I’d like to think it contributes to society in a positive way. No, I haven’t uncovered the holy grail, but in my life it feels that way.

Well, I’m not an all-or-nothing person. There will always be room in my life for any fabric that sparks my creativity. But more and more, I’m finding myself as a one-woman fabric rescue squad, providing a loving home and better life for the unwanted and rejected. Think of me as the Mother Theresa of sewing. Not really! Seriously…although if I play this right, maybe I could register as a non-profit, like the NFL. Again, kidding! All I know is that, much like that long ago day when I stood in Torrance Thrift Store surrounded by racks of possibility, I still love the feeling that I’m doing something good for myself, my budget and the planet. Word to the wise: never invite me to your home if you value your curtains. The next time you see me, I may be wearing a dress that looks oddly familiar… Okay, my stash isn’t going to sew itself. Until the next fabulous haul…

Thoughts From My Creative Journey

A few months ago, I made the Adrienne Blouse by Friday Pattern Company, a beautiful knit top with statement sleeves. I had pre-ordered the pattern last winter, knowing that I would use some pretty green knit that had been sitting in my stash for a few years.

There was so much of the fabric, I thought I would make the top as a dress. However, once I had everything laid out and started cutting, I just wasn’t feeling it – at least, not with that particular fabric. So I went ahead and made the top, which I genuinely love. Then, last month I was at the Saver’s Thrift Store in El Paso, where I found a cool piece of striped poly-blend fabric that screamed 1970s. There was no question in my mind. This fabric was going to become the Adrienne dress that I’d envisioned back in November when the pattern stopped me in my tracks. It’s one of those pieces that many people might bypass with disdain. But I’m not most people! I know a good treasure when I see it.

Here’s a closer look:

It took some working and re-working to get the length of the bodice just right. I took off two inches initially, but I didn’t take into account that the hemline is curved and would need to be straightened out to prevent the skirt from hanging shorter on the sides than the front and the back. I’ve made that mistake before; classic oops. Even so, I misjudged and the bodice was still too long. I went back and took two more inches off the sides and 2-1/2 off the front and back, then graded to make it straight. I reattached the skirt, but felt like it was still 1/2 inch too long, so… third time’s the charm! Sometimes it takes a little effort to get what you want, but it’s worth it. The nice thing is that the gathering stitches remained intact throughout the madness, so I didn’t have to re-sew them at any point. Going forward, I can make this dress again more easily because now I know what I need to do the first time around. Hence, the beauty of the wearable muslin…

The bodice is self-lined. I do this on all of my dresses. I basically attach the lining pieces to the outer pieces by basting them together along the top, then work the neckline and sleeves according to the instructions. I attach the skirt to the bodice, then sew the lining into place at the waistline with stitch-in-the-ditch, so the skirt is enclosed. FYI, the skirt is the full width of the 45″ wide fabric with the selvages sewn together and placed at the center back. Easy, shmeezy.

Well, there you have it:

Modern retro, feeling fab!

Things I Sew

Well, I finished another project from my recent thrifted fabric acquisitions. I almost walked past this pink fabric when I saw it at Savers. I mean, it is really pink. But I’m not one to pass up a good knit fabric, so I thought, why not? Summer is upon us and I actually like wearing pink. This fabric is undeniably summery:

Luckily, this fabric told me pretty quickly what it wanted to be, and with four yards at 60″ wide, the options were endless. I’ve been wanting to make a knit dress out of the Tilly and the Buttons Agnes Tee pattern, and this was the perfect match. The Agnes also has some very feminine details to it:

I cut out the View that you see on the left front of the pattern envelope above, but instead of cutting out one each of the front and back pieces, I cut two backs for a crew-necked version. Then I took the neckband piece and removed exactly 4 inches to make it fit the new neckline.

For the skirt, I used McCall’s 7834, View B. I intend to make the actual dress on this pattern, but since I wanted a tiered midi skirt for this project, it made sense to use this one as a guide. Why reinvent the wheel?

The bodice on the dress is self-lined, but there wasn’t enough fabric to do the same with the skirt. The fabric is very thin, so for the sake of modesty I’m wearing a vintage 60s slip underneath. Problem solved! The outcome was exactly what I wanted, though I will say that this fabric was hell to work with – one of those thin, slinky types of knit that rolls up and stretches out constantly. Doing all those gathers was time-consuming and frustrating, but the dress came out exactly as I’d envisioned, so why look back now?

Hello, Summer!

Things I Sew

Well, I made a trip to Austin Creative Reuse this weekend to drop off a donation box:

As long as I was there, it couldn’t hurt to look around a bit, right? My Fella found a jewelry-making tool he needed for a project for only $1.00! I found the following fabrics:

We spent a total of $21.38, and even though I didn’t really need more fabric, I’m thrilled with the deal I got and the projects I’ve added to the docket:

I’m not ready to assign projects to these ones yet, unless something sparks my inspiration. I have enough to do right now, but I can’t wait to see what they become! I love the experience of trying to make something from fabric I never would have chosen in any other situation. I truly have an unexpected and eclectic wardrobe that I love. Gotta get to work!

Things I Buy

Sometimes it’s hard to admit when things aren’t working, but giving up is not the same thing as letting go.

The island of misfit projects. You know the ones. They sit on your sewing table and haunt you. You’ve done everything in your power to make them work. You try to put them out of your mind, to avoid the inevitable. At some point, you should let them go, but the longer they’ve been in your life and the more effort you’ve poured in, the harder this becomes. So they sit and you silently brainstorm, hopeful that maybe, just maybe, this project can be salvaged into something you’ll love.

First they were pants – high-waisted, ankle length pants that I made at a time when no one was wearing such a thing and I was sick to death of low-rise (pube alert!), and it’s equally disappointing cousin ‘mid-rise,’ which on my long torso still looked way too Britney 2001. The fabric was a high quality Italian stretch gabardine from a local shop, the sewing equivalent of fine dining and a Broadway show on the first date. I was determined to make this relationship work. I used a pattern that had both curvy and regular options, making the necessary adjustments to lengthen the rise. However, the all-important question was: do I go up a size in the regular fit and tailor them or do the curvy fit in my size? I knew I was somewhere in the middle of these two fitting options, so I went with the former; regular fit with tailoring. Big mistake. They were clearly designed for the flat-butted amongst us, of which I am not.

They were very nice pants. I wore them a handful of times, but they were not flattering, in my opinion. Then my weight dropped and they needed alteration. I removed the waistband. This was the perfect opportunity to work with the center back seam, but it didn’t matter – they were going to crawl upwards no matter what I did, because this was the inherent shape of the pattern. I took them in, reapplied the waistband, and never wore them again. They eventually made their way to my sewing closet, where they sat with their fabric remnant for quite some time, in the hopes that someday the gods of sewing would impart their creative wisdom on me and I could finally transform these pants into an item I genuinely loved. I was devoted to making them work out in the end, unable to let them go, to admit that I had put so much money, effort and energy into something that may not be destined to be.

Last Fall, I pulled them out. I removed the waistband yet again, as well as the entire inseam stitching, then proceeded to transform them into a skirt. It. Didn’t. Work. So back to the sewing closet they went. And they sit there yet. I’m not ready to let go. I just want them to be pants, and I want them to be pants I like. I just want this relationship to work out, now that we’ve been together for these past 5 years. The fabric was special. The moment in my life was special. I just want it to work out long-term. I am devoted to making these pants a staple of my wardrobe.

It’s easy to mistake devotion for love sometimes. It’s easy to think that because you are working hard at something, putting so much energy into it, that it is necessary for love to be the outcome. It’s not. This is a painful lesson to realize in life – that the things which mean the most to us are the ones in which we invest the most time and energy, but there is no guarantee that they will work out. When they don’t it hurts like a Mutha. At the same time, as hard as it is to admit this to ourselves, they’ve already been hurting for a very long time, like an achy tooth that forces you to rearrange the food in your mouth. You get so used to the ache that you forget it’s even there. It just becomes part of your life. No one wants to go sit in the dental chair and experience what happens there. It’s traumatic in the moment. But that ache. It isn’t going away. At some point, you have to deal, and the longer you wait the more dramatic the intervention. Delayed response is a cheap form of hope. It seems like a quick fix, a great bargain, in the moment, but all the emotional duct tape in the world won’t hold the pipes together. We have to do what works, and not everything is going to work long-term. This is hard to accept.

Sometimes hope becomes like a life support machine, keeping something alive long past the point where it can really sustain life on its own, simply because we can’t let go. But we can. In fact, we must. We are wasting precious life energy that could be put toward things that will actually serve us in our happiness, fulfillment, and well-being. It’s okay to make room in the sewing closet for new projects – everything averages out in the long run. Why do we hold on? Because we don’t want to just give up. But letting go is not the same as giving up. Giving up is about quitting, but letting go is about making space. Giving up is getting frustrated with some aspect of the process and instead of growing, learning and elevating your skill set, you just quit. This is the formula for not progressing, for staying stuck right where you are. You miss out when you give up, never getting to learn what you’re really made of; what you are truly capable of if you just give yourself a chance. You reached a stuck point and got frustrated, never allowing perseverance to take you past the stuck point into growth. This type of frustration simply breeds stagnation.

Letting go, on the other hand, is quite the opposite. You have pushed yourself out to the very edge of your skill set, to what you’re capable of. You’ve gone past the stuck points, persevered through frustrations, done everything in your power to see what you envisioned come to fruition. But it doesn’t. Why? Because we don’t always control the forces outside of ourselves – a pattern that isn’t designed to fit our shape, a relationship with someone whose way of being in the world isn’t working for us, random mishaps that we can’t foresee. The list could go on. You haven’t quit. And because you’re not a quitter, you can let go with a clean conscience, knowing that even though it sucks, you did everything you could. You have what it takes now, because you have expanded your skill set and set yourself up for greater success down the road. This was a part of that journey, it just wasn’t the outcome you envisioned. That’s okay.

Although…for the sake of argument… The same day I bought my beloved gabardine, I also bought a very pretty pink and white striped Italian cotton shirting. I decided to make Simplicity 1692, a 1940s reproduction (my favorite era!) I made view C of the pattern, a very basic slip over top from the era with pretty button and button loop details on the shoulder.

I was thrilled with my workmanship on the top, proud of the French seams and details I put into it. However, even though I loved it, I hated it. No amount of ironing could truly get this fabric wrinkle-free, and by the time I slipped it over my head (how did women back then do it!?) all my ironing was in vain. Then, it just wasn’t quite long enough. So I grabbed the remnants and added a peplum. Much better! Yet, it still didn’t get much wear because the slip-over-wrinkling issue was still there. It hung in my closet, looking pretty but not getting much love. Not okay. Eventually, I decided to give up the ghost and let go. This project was one that really didn’t work out. I stuck it in the sewing closet and forgot about it, walking away from a relationship that didn’t seem to work for me.

Fast forward to a year ago. I was in a shirt-making phase. No, to be clear, I was in a put-pearlized-snaps-on-everything-and-make-everything-western-inspired phase. One day, I walked past the pink striped blouse, and a light shone down from on high. A trumpet sounded and a voice like the sound of rushing waters declared, “Fear not. It is I – the archangel of sewing. Arise and go to the sewing machine and add a placket to the front of this blouse and pearlized snaps. So shall it be.” I sliced the top open down the front, added one inch plackets from the remaining pieces of the fabric, and the rest is history. I love this blouse; it’s one-of-a-kind and it gives me so much joy when I wear it.

If I had given up too soon, I would never have ended up with this blouse, or even the one with the peplum before it. But by letting go, I had freed myself from preconceived hopes and expectations, allowing myself to be open to a possibility I hadn’t thought of before. I had to get to a place in my life where pearlized snaps were a thing. We may reach the limit of our skill set in the moment. But we move on to other projects and continue to grow in capability and creativity, encountering new and exciting forms of inspiration. There are projects that we have to say good-bye to on this journey. But once in a while one crosses our path again and we thank our sewing angels that we kept it out of the bin and held onto the scraps. We never quit, never gave up, but thankfully we let go and made the space for fresh possibilities. Maybe my pants will work out at some point; maybe they won’t. But for today, I have a pretty pink striped top. If you’ll excuse me, there’s a dress on the sewing table that needs my attention. Onward and forward…

Life Lessons Learned From Sewing
Thoughts From My Creative Journey

I am the queen of thrifted fabric right now, in my own humble opinion. And I am very humble – I’ll be the first to tell you. One of my latest finds was this blue and white knit:

There was about four yards, breaking down to about $0.75 per yard. Sold! If I was walking through a fabric store, I probably wouldn’t have picked it up, but that’s what I love about this process – I end up with a completely unexpected wardrobe. It’s the fashion version of the show “Chopped.” If those people can make a gourmet meal from ketchup, canned oranges and octopus legs, I can make a top from a piece of unwanted fabric.

I knew immediately that I wanted to make the Briar Top from Megan Nielsen Patterns:

I was already planning to make this top from another piece of thrifted knit and I knew it would be a perfect pairing. I made the cropped version, but added one inch to the length because I’m tall and long-waisted. This was the only modification. Megan Nielsen’s patterns tend to fit me right out of the envelope.

The top came out so cute! And, yet… it’s still shorter than I want it to be. That’s okay; there is plenty of yardage left, so I’m going to remake it. This one will layer perfectly over yoga clothes. With other bottoms, though, I prefer a slightly longer silhouette.

All in all, I can’t recommend this pattern enough – it’s really easy to work with and gives great results. For now, back to ye olde drawing board…

Things I Sew