I had a dream last night about ventilators. In my dream, the
machines were fueled by squares of brightly colored quilting cotton. These
days, I am making masks — dozens and dozens of masks. I love to sew.
The smell of quilting cotton under a hot iron is one of my favorites — right
up there with incense and chrism. Unlike some of my quilting friends who are
quietly hating the task while sewing hundreds of masks, I’m actually enjoying
the process. I like to pair fabrics to make the mask pretty. I like the skills
involved in pleating and topstitching. All in all, it’s not a bad way to suffer
through a global pandemic.
Sewing masks offers one plenty of time to think and pray. When I
finish, I have a mask or even a pile of masks. Masks are not the most satisfying
products. They aren’t heirloom quilts or birthday dresses for little girls or
curtains to hang in my living room. They are utilitarian devices that remind us
of a deadly virus. They will be worn and washed repeatedly until they no longer
serve their purpose. Then they will be discarded without a backward glance. Any
joy in sewing masks comes from relaxing into the process and in knowing that
they serve a purpose.
Truth be told, it’s when I get up from the machine that the
trouble starts. It’s then that the thoughts rush hard and fast and I have a
desperate urge to do something — anything
— to control. I keep asking my
children who they want to be when this is over. I’m trying to encourage them to
use this time well. I want to make things better. I want to make my kids
better. I want to make myself better.
But maybe now is the time for just being. Maybe now is for being
humble enough to acknowledge that we can’t make it better. We can only live it
well in this present moment.
As one day moves into the next and all the lines drawn between
them grow fuzzy, as pajama pants become 24/7 wear, it’s easy to lose sight of
the process. It’s easy to forget that these days are our life. They aren’t just
days we pass on the way to some other time, or even days spent improving
ourselves to prepare for some time in the future. These are days with value
unto themselves.
I walk a trail in my neighborhood that runs around the perimeter
of dozens of backyards. There are so many projects happening right now. People
are planting and building and painting. They are using this time to get stuff
done. It’s admirable. And then again, it’s exhausting. It’s an indictment of
our inability to be still, even when the world all but grinds to a halt. We are
compelled to produce. Some of us cannot sit still; we have to contribute, to be
useful, to perform. It’s especially disconcerting to lose the bearings of
typical ways to measure usefulness. We cannot settle into just being. We cannot
stop moving long enough to ponder the reality of this present moment.
Who do I want to be, right now?
How do I want to live today? Can I be content to sew 9-by-8
rectangles of fabric, focused on the contemplative rhythm of creating something
simple and useful? Can I build a deck in my backyard because I like the way the
sun feels on my face and the hammer feels in my hand? Can my true preparation
for the new normal be living today more authentically?
There is so much we don’t know, so much we can’t assume. These
days call for humility and patience. They call for genuine spiritual
transformation that cannot be measured in terms of creative productivity. We
have been called to slow our movements, to limit our reach, to focus almost
exclusively on what is close and near. In that slowness, our senses sharpen.
What matters most can come into focus.
I sew the masks because the smell of cotton is intoxicating,
because I love the rhythm of a needle pulling thread, because the simple act of
a simple sewing project is all that is required of this present moment. This
small task is the best use of today. This small offering may turn out to be
lifesaving, or it might just keep someone from getting a dirty look at the UPS
store. It matters not as I sit at my sewing machine. What matters is that, in
this moment, I gave this humble act the very best of me.
Foss, whose website is takeupandread.org, writes
from Northern Virginia.