Making counts

What happens when we expand our definition of making and let small moments be enough?

Lately I’ve been thinking about what actually counts as making, and realising that this has changed throughout different seasons of my life.

In my teenage years, when I had endless time and very few responsibilities (and a body that didn’t really require darts to make fabric fit it), making meant picking up whatever I felt like wearing that night and piecing it together in weird and wonderful ways, without worrying too much about seam finishes.

In my twenties, making became about education. I was doing my Bachelor of Fashion and Textiles and learning how to sew “properly” with industrial techniques and new machinery to match. Making became high stakes and stressful as time became more limited and the expectations grew higher.

In my late twenties I worked on finding my way back to playful making through starting a blog, going back to the basics of pattern making, and playing with colour and print.

In my thirties I lost touch with making for pleasure as my business demanded so much of me and left very little room for hobbies.

Then I had children and realised it was time to redefine what making is for what feels like the twentieth time. What I’m noticing as I think about making in this season is that I’m more accepting of it being different from what it once was.

For a long time, making meant choosing a project, picking a fabric, gathering supplies, carving out a chunk of uninterrupted time, making a toile (or two) and then, ideally, making the “real” thing. I have accepted that, in this season, making by that definition would be completely impossible. I’m currently breastfeeding my three-and-a-half-month-old while typing this draft on my phone, so the thought of even doing one of those things would take weeks.

When I think about this idea of making that has a clear start and end point, with the start being an idea and the end being something I can show for it, a top, a dress, a toile or an idea for a new pattern, I realise that what I actually miss is not the output. It’s not the need for a new jacket or dress, but the time at my sewing machine. The feeling of anticipation as I thread the machine, press my foot down on the pedal and turn on the iron, ready for beautiful crisp seams. None of that is dependent on me finishing anything.

And that’s where I’m at in this season. I’m realising that what I crave is not the finished garment or even the garment itself, but the process of being there in a state of flow, even if it’s just for a few minutes.

I recognised this shift in my thinking this week when my partner pointed to an unravelled seam on the crotch of his pants and asked me to fix it. A past version of me would have dreaded the thought of it. It would have felt like time taken away from a “real” project. But the person I am now sees that mending a pair of pants, literally sewing one small row of stitches, will be enough to leave me feeling connected to myself as a maker.

After all, it’s not just one row of stitches. It’s me walking into my studio, taking the cover off my machine, picking up my pins and my snips, threading the machine with black thread, stitching over the seam and pressing it. It won’t take long, but it will remind me of the feeling I get when I sit at my machine, the one I’ve had ever since I was a child.