When I mend a pair of worn out jeans, I begin with the obvious damage, but often the threadbare places go uncharted until I begin patching - and soon another previously unnoticed area erupts under the needle.
My soul sometimes feels like a pair of worn-out jeans. Everything seems fine, then suddenly wherever I turn I'm faced with another threadbare place worn out from a lifetime of habitual defenses. With age the path of habit wears thin, again and again. I'm sad to find myself in the midst of this mess, this fragility, this mending. I thought I fixed that in my 20's and again in my 30's. I wasn't expecting this.
Mending is slow work and the fix is impermanent. Once mended, the object is put back into the service of everyday use. Taking the time to mend often feels like a pause from the excitement of creating something completely new. It's meticulous work, and can be tedious.
What is the reward? I asked my boyfriend what he liked best about his mended jeans, "They are unique, nobody has a pair like them. I felt cared for, and my favorite pair of jeans was saved from oblivion."
Mending charts an unpredictable, scarred, and transformed geography, on the surface of a favorite pair of jeans, and within the heart.