Love Song in Pieces

Clackety-clack,  clackety-clack...a song really with a steady hum and a strong beat.  A song that would occasionally awaken me as a child.  A song that made me smile.  A song of love.

Clackety-clack, clackety-clack...a song that called to me.  I would toss aside my bedcovers and pad softly down the hallway to the source of the sound.  It would draw me to my mother's sewing machine which was tucked away in a small nook in our house.  It sat amidst a sea of fabric with bobbins of thread adding color to the machine's black surface.

Clackety-clack, clackety-clack...my mother's form is silhouetted by the light streaming in from a window next to the sewing machine.  She sits leaning into the machine with a look of concentration on her face.  As the threaded needle dances up and down her hands carefully guide the fabric so that the stitches are placed in the perfect spot.  She is creating a dress for me.  It is a labor of love.

Clackety-clack, clackety-clack....my mother sits at another sewing machine.  This time she is one of many women sitting in a factory carefully guiding a piece of cloth.  Without the window, without the sunlight streaming through, this is a darker place.  Her skills are implemented for what was called piecework.  Her efforts never showed a completed dress here.  Rather she sewed only a piece of it, a collar, waistband, or sleeve.  She was paid according to how many pieces she sewed.  Sew it, get it done, move on to the next.  Sew it, get it done, move on to the next.  Hour after hour she labored at the machine.  Sometimes all went smoothly, and there was a rhythm and flow to her work.  Other times, though, the machine might jam, threads might snap, or needles might break.  Time to stop, rip out those stitches, and begin again.

Clackety-clack, clackety-clack...a realization that came to me far too late in my life.  My mother was an artist.  Her medium was fabric.  The nook that housed her sewing machine was her studio.  Her art could be seen in the dresses my sister and I wore with pride.  Those dresses, her art, were made and given with love.  Each stitch was sewn with her hope of creating a better world for her loved ones.  Whenever I wore those dresses she made I also wore her love.

Clackety-clack, clackety-clack...the lessons I learned from my mother's example.  Use your gifts.   Show your love.  Sometimes things will come together with an ease and a flow, but there will be other times when you will need to rip out some stitches and begin anew.  There will be times when you are able to see the whole picture, but others when all you can do is focus on the piece that is in front of you.  My life held PIECEwork completed with love.  My life now holds PIECES of Light seen through love.