In the sewing hell
When I went last Friday in the zendo for sitting, I took the two new support cushions with me, which I’d bought specially. In the Zendo it has only three of these and two of them need my friend. A Zafu is not enough – what I found out only after 2 3/4 years, believe it or not! Somehow I did not realize, that this is possibly one reason for my back pain while sitting. Finally my friend, who is leader of the Friday sitting respectively Zen priest, has analysed together with me my posture while sitting more closely. Since then I sit, regarding the physical side, much easier if I push one or two of these pillows under the zafu, although the back may still answer after 10-20 minutes. Anyway, the legs go numb regularly.
When I asked after the sitting, where I could stow them (- so that they are not lost trough putting them to the big pile of other pillows), my friend looked at the large plastic bag, in which I had taken them with me and said, I should sew a name tag on them and get a fabric bag, where I could store later the kimono too.
I have at least 1 hour, if not two, combed the web for a suitable fabric bag. There are none. So I have, altough reluctantly, decided, to sew one by myself. That can’t be so hard, I thought. Although I know: I have absolutely no talent to sew. It also gives me no joy, it makes my blood not aboiling – at least not of lust, at most of trouble.
What can I say: I’d better took the plastic bag. I know: totally lacking in style. Almost as bad as if you would put the Okesa in a plastic bag. The bag, that I have sewn, has become an bodge, if at all useful. Botch, botch, botch. Not just ugly. I’ve also had no patience, what else could so become it. And in my megalomania I had even in mind a lining and internal dividers. Haha. The money for the fabric, it wasn’t worth.
As I began to sew the rakusu, that was a great feeling, like coming home! But the completion of it: the sheer horror! Yet for someone, who has sometimes compulsive neurotic tendencys. No one can imagine to sew several hours on something and in the end not being further a single stitch. Not one !!! I had “threaded like crazy”. Improvisation from my friend while sewing in the white fabric on the back side, who gave me sewing instructions, was also required, because I had botched it and the whole throw waves as on the high sea. I was allowed to look at some Raksusus from a close distance and none, not one, was nearly so crooked, bumpy and messed up as mine, somehow. All so wonderfully flat, straight, precisely, “perfect”.
At the handwork in school I remember with mixed feelings. The first teacher of this subject, I liked very much. The other: less. They probably don’t liked me too. The accidental “drop of the stich” during this shitty knitting “gloves with thumb” brought up a bollocking. Not that I’m assessed really clumsy, on the contrary, but I was never and I am not a seamstress. Never. My heart beats for painting and writing. And not for the eye of the needle. If there is a hell, then it’s the sewing hell, and therein govern handwork teachers and seamstresses, roasting the damned on the sewing machine rust.
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