Two weeks ago, my long-loved flannel robe split right down the back. That robe predates my marriage, it kept me warm and sheltered on nights when I felt like the loneliest woman in the world. As soon as it happened, I realized– and was sad, because I knew it couldn’t be repaired and reworn. My robe had simply come to the point where it was so old, so well-worn, that its ability to serve its purpose was all used up. The Better Half was sympathetic, but then pointed out that I could wash the robe and cut it into dust rags and dish rags and swiffer pads. It made me feel better, realizing that my good robe could continue to be put to some use, now that it could not longer do its original job.
A pair of pajama pants gave out on me today, and I mourned again. I thought– it’s not just my clothes that are falling apart. I’m feeling faded, thin, likely to break under the slightest pressure. Part of it’s this sickness, and having no reserves. Part of it’s the Effexor withdrawal. But most of it is the feeling that I’ve lost my ability to serve my original purpose– and I’ve no fixed plan for what to do next. I have some ideas, of course, and have been working toward them. But I sure could use the help of an inner-life quilter, to help me turn the remaining fabric into usable pieces. to figure out how to best put them together, and to guide my trembling hand as I take the hardest, first cut through the old fabric, and try to turn it into something new.