Island Blog 200 Patch Perfect

patched heart

This morning I am patching Popz’s jeans.  On the inside…..?  Or the outside…..?

I opted for outside, to which himself agrees.  To be honest, I am sewing the patches, (courtesy of my daughter’s old maternity trews) onto smoke, which is about the sum of it, but these jeans are old friends and the rest of them are still reasonably substantial.

It got me thinking about patching.  I like patching which is why the family all bring their jeans and such to me for repairs (no flowers, ma, I’m an boat skipper).  I sit in the window and I repair.  I patch.  I do the same over cracks in walls and holes in my heart and dignity.  We all do it, some of us well and some of us poorly, not careful of the thread, the tension required to effectively cover up the damage, not following the grain or the weft.  Some of us don’t bother at all and just buy another one, find another lover, choose another location, but I have learned to be very good at patching, for in the process of working with the old, of giving it new life and colour (no flowers please, we’re British), I am mindful of the time this old thing, this faithful working part, has served me.

This life is this life.  The choices we make, I made, compile my story.  I did that.  Nobody made me do any of it, although the consequences of those choices often tried to break me, to defeat my wild woman spirit, so that I gave up and fiddled with my wedding ring and dreamed of escape.  I wasted time in victim thinking.  Poor little me.  Such a shame her life isn’t a doddle, or his or mine or yours.  Well, it just isn’t, not for nobody.  That person, or couple or family or car or lifestyle you envy is a figment of imagination.  It’s a Disney nonsense, believe me.

Well….. I Disneyed far too long and now I could sell wrinkles to most of China.  However, I am deeply fond of my wrinkles and my patched up internals because they tell me I am strong, not weak.  They tell me my wild woman is well and thriving, bloodied but not broken, never that.  She is open to change and joy and disaster.  She is present, absolutely present, as she continues marching like a wrinkly amazon through every single little minute of her life.  She and I are mates now and she helps me often, when another hole appears in something, to find the fun. She re-lights the sparkle in my eyes and she also tells me to stop whining and to DO something!

Patching his nib’s jeans thinks me of the design, the worker who fashioned them and the place he or she might live somewhere on Earth.  Is it a good job?  Are you happy?  What’s your story?  Oh, and thankyou for being such a faithful friend.  Although I ask the question about being happy, it always stops a person into a think.  Define happy.  Is it living your dream, flying high, free and definitely Disney or is it just deciding to be patch perfect?

I know which I believe in.