Piercing the Fabric of My Soul — Sewing and Eclipses

3 min read

I’m sitting in silence in my tiny cozy home in Helsinki — my beloved cave for almost seven years now. The needle pierces the pitch-black cloth in my hand. I can hear and feel how it makes its way through the fabric. I love that sound, that sensation!

I’m on retreat from social media. No, that wasn’t correct. It wasn’t the social that I needed a break from. What called me into solitude was the overflow of thoughts from the outside but also from within me. The stream of insights about the mysteries of life never stands still. Yet, little of what is revealed in darkness is granted surfacing.

I’ve almost forgotten how much I enjoy hand stitching. I was a seamstress in my first profession. This was many moons ago. In fact, twenty years (with a short period of re-entering the field ten years ago). My family from both sides had to do with textiles and fashion. My mother was a seamstress, too. My grandparents were weavers. The textile industry was one of the biggest in the country I spent my first seven years, a country nonexistent anymore.

I remember once visiting the weaving factory my grandparents worked at. My grandfather held, at that time, an administrative office. My grandmother was one of the many weavers. I’ll never forget the ear-straining noise in that factory. I was very little and I could feel the noise of the weaving machines in my whole body.

I love machines. Maybe this is why I ended up getting training in the use of the automatic cutting machine in the third year of my apprenticeship. I enjoyed this work. It was an independent job with various steps. The bond between human and machine fascinates me. I’m not kidding! Everyone who has worked with the same machines for a long time knows that they, too, have their good and bad days. You can get very close to your co-workers, humans and machines alike. After two decades, I can still hear that cutting machine’s so familiar sound in my ear.

Precision is one of the things I admire. I adore craftsmanship of all kinds. The mixture of imagination, inspiration, and skill never stops delighting me. I love old clothes, furniture, cars, and buildings. Many of them were designed and built to last. Old objects carry memories. They testify about the knowledge, abilities, and hopes of previous generations.

Clockwork comes to my mind when I think of precision. The clock informs time. Time is cyclical. Our lives unfold in cycles. Existence is about birthing, being, and vanishing. The cycle of life, death, and rebirth repeats itself many times during one human life. Death is the link between life and rebirth.

I’m still sitting here with my black cloth. Hours pass as I slowly, in contemplation, guide the needle dozens of times more through the fabric. I enjoy what I do, this very moment right here, right now. I remember Saturn, the light far away. I know, father time has called me to this place.

My mind wanders. I think about the ever-changing rhythm of life. The ups, the downs, the in-betweens. Life is about giving and receiving. After growth comes decay. The process feeds itself. Endings, decomposition, is a fertilizer. New can be born only through death. Transformation is a constant.

The triangle-shaped cloth is about to be ready, its edges carefully sewn. It is getting dark. For a couple hours, I’ve been sitting here sewing a headscarf. So it looks on the outside. What really happened is the piercing of my soul by the pointer of that gigantic cosmic clock that informs our destiny.

It’s eclipse season. ♏🔴

We release, we weave, we sew — we are being shaped into something new.

Sindy 🕊️

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