I sit into my cushioned kitchen chair in the enclave of my room. The taste of toothpaste in my mouth, I exhale at the thought that I’ve nowhere to be. The sewing machine sits at the side of my desk, but first there is pinning to be done.
I extract the things I need from various drawers and shelves around me, then set to work. It is a sturdy bag I’m making, and the pins protest at the thickness of the fabric. Before long, I have several nicks on my fingertips and feel I’m settling into myself.
Every time I’m pinning I forget one thing; that pins should be pinned in the direction you intend to sew, or that they all need to be on the same side of the fabric (easier said than done when it’s a 3D object and you get puzzled wondering how it will come together).
When I slip up, pins must be taken out one by one, and put back into the cushion I made 3 years ago when I was a different person. But I don’t mind the mistake; it needed to be made to get to the heart of the puzzle. I feel closer now and go faster, surer this second time of my work; where pins need to go, where fingers need to be to encourage them in and make sure they don’t get bitten.
I’m finished finally and hold the hedgehog gingerly by its zipper. I twirl it in front of my nose, checking my solution a final time. A light breeze drifts across my hair from the movement.
I haul the sewing machine over the edge of the desk and pull off its plastic cover. I corral the foot pedal into the right position with slippered feet. I turn on its friendly yellow light. I’m ready to begin.
Fiona Shevlin is a soul-searcher and writer, who tries to catch the in-between moments. She also knits, gardens and takes photos in an old-style suburb of Dublin city. You can find her at her blog, on flickr or walking on her local beach.