Looking out my backdoor: I know where the keys are kept

Kathy said that she told Crin they should ask Josue to put locks on their closets because I am out of control with my sewing machine.

Once my creative juices begin flowing in a particular direction, they run like a river.

Innocent beginnings. I cleaned out my closet of the old and worn and stained and unloved garments, shoved them into a trash bag. The next day I retrieved two blouses and cut away parts and pieces to construct face masks.

Next, I took a hard critical look at what was left hanging in my bedroom. I seldom wore this one because I didn’t like the sleeves. Ha, that’s easily fixed. And if I pinch that one in along the sides, it will fit better. One alteration led to another to another. That kept me busy and satisfied for a short while.

Tucked away in a bin, I had pieces of batik that would make beautiful blouses. My sewing machine whirred. I tossed more of the old “rags” out of my closet to make way for the new, thus giving me a bigger bag of trash I might transform with artistry of my scissors and sewing machine, needle and thread. Or, maybe just a bigger bag of trash. We’ll see.

I woke one morning with the realization, born in the night, that a piece of this one combined with a scrap of that one would make a lovely whole, each creation more unique, more beautiful.

In my closet hung three patchwork skirts, love them, bought years ago in Tequila, seldom worn. What if, what if, I altered these three blouses, cut them off below the bustline, took the waists off these three skirts married skirts to blouses pronounce them dresses.

This morning I am wearing dress number two. I’ve reduced the clothing hanging in my closet to less than half the previous, sad, worn out inhabitants. I’ve a bag for trash and one for give-away.

Looking at fabrics piled by the sewing machine, including dress-to-be number three, plus, knowing what is still safely out of sight in the bodega, I figure I have several weeks of creative stitchery-witchery ahead of me.

I don’t sew every day, you know. I drag out my projects, interspersed with reading, gardening and plain living.

When I am being creative, and it doesn’t matter much in what direction, I am content. I learned this about myself when just a young girl and I set up my first artist workshop in the old pump house on the ranch.

When I moved to Mexico, I packed along oil paints, an easel and a minimum of supplies. Several weeks ago I set up my easel, arranged my tools and smeared paint on a canvas. My heart wasn’t in it. After a few hours I packed everything back to the inner reaches of the bodega. If I get motivated within a year or two, I shall paint. If not, I shall donate the whole mess to Stephany’s school.

My motivation in setting up the easel was that “I should.” I considered all the uninterrupted time ahead of me, during the early beginnings of the virus arriving in Mexico, all my neighbors hied off up north, I’d no place to go, perfect set up, right? But my inner artist spoke clearly, chin jutting, “Don’t wanna.”

In my other creative endeavor, I’m in my yard and garden. Every day I begin with a bucket tour, finding what is ready to harvest, what needs water, planning my meals around what is ready to eat.

Today, I breaded and fried a slab of sea bass and three squash blossoms. What I really wanted to accompany my meal was green beans, slowly coming along. The young vines, search as I might, yielded a mere four string beans, not enough for a serving. So I ate them raw while I made curried cauliflower simply because the head of cauliflower was sitting in the refrigerator, daring me.

Don’t tell my friends, but if I get desperate for one more thing to sew, I do know where the keys are kept.

——

Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at http://montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com/. Email [email protected].