Hand sewing slows the heart it seems. Or it does mine.
Perhaps like writing longhand it cannot be done at speed. Begs not to be. One
stitch, one breath. The rhythmic dip and dive of the long nose, round eyed
needle lets the thoughts lift loose. And the heart feels unburdened. Sometimes
hand sewing is more a joy than a job.
A needle is a fine tool. Simple, portable,
industrious. But what to do if it breaks? If it is bent and no longer able to
sew true? Thank it. Lament it. Offer comfort. Japanese women do. For hundreds
of years Japanese women have honoured their needles and pins on Hari-Kuyo.
On February 8 women take their tired needles and worn out pins to Shinto or
Buddhist shrines and lay them to rest in the Festival of Broken Needles. Bent
pins and broken needles are made to lie down on a soft bed specially sewn or plunged
into cakes of bean curd. Softness comforts the needles and pins who before have
known only sharpness. Sutras are said to thank the needles for their hard work,
for a year of straight stitches, for repairs, for their sorrows inherited
direct from the seamstresses hand.
Last night I saw a fox step out of the darkness.
Kitsune - the Shinto messenger - a good omen, I thought, for burying needles. I
made my bent pins and one broken needle a bed stitched with sashiko, plumped
with fleece - a button and spare thread for company. I thanked them and then I
laid aside sewing for the day.
If the fox came for them he would be able to carry the
soft parcel in his mouth with ease - no booby trapped tofu to choke on.
"Oh my needle, how sad! You were
a special gift, beyond the ordinary, prominent among all ironware. Deft and
swift like some knight errant, straight and true like a loyal subject, your
sharp point seemed to talk, your round eye seemed to see."
from Lament for a Needle.
Anon Choson dynasty, Korea.
