The sewing machine has been sitting on her table for almost two months, slowly gathering dust, taunting her every day with its sturdy form. She had plugged it in once since her friend had dropped it off. A myriad of lights came on, little red LEDs twinkling at her. She had studied all the buttons for a while, traced the way of the thread from the spindle to the needle, removed the bobbin from its case and put it back in. Then with a heavy sigh, she turned the power back off and covered the machine with its dust cover. She would get to actual sewing another day.

For many years she had been searching for a creative outlet, for a craft that would speak to her. She had attempted different projects, from drawing to candle making to knitting and crocheting. And while some of them stuck and she really enjoys sitting down with them, most of them didn’t make the cut, making her feel just as empty as before. Then she had a vivid dream about a sewing machine and a future of supporting herself with a craft. She told her friend J. about it and as it so happened, J. had a sewing machine sitting around that had mainly just been in the way. Full of excitement she had placed it on her table, had gotten random pieces of fabric and thread from the thrift store, had written down ideas and drawn little diagrams. But then the fear got hold of her, that mean-spirited inner voice telling her once again that she wouldn’t be good enough to be a seamstress, that she wouldn’t make the cut. It told her that her search for a craft was futile and a waste of time.

So the machine is still sitting there, not a stitch had been sewn by her yet. The swatches of fabric neatly folded next to it, the colorful spindles of thread lined up in a row on the window sill. She will sit down and sew one of these days she keeps telling herself. Just not today…


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