Chaos to Cosmos

     Physicists talk about entropy: that all things trend towards disorder and, left unchecked, disorder increases over time. Anyone charged with keeping a house knows this. I’ve got eight grandchildren and love having them around. One of the things they love to do is take all the cushions off the couch and make forts. Like monkeys, they climb all over the furniture. Cushions get propped up by chairs and tables; blankets are draped on top to serve as roofs; stuffed animals enliven the make believe that goes on for hours. They range in age from 6 to 26, so this couch has seen some action over the years. Shabby fabric doesn’t bother me, so, when I start to wince at ragged holes, I know it’s getting bad. Not bad enough to do anything for a while; projects have to ripen, but still. This year when the stuffing started to poke out, I knew it was time.  I didn’t know exactly how I was going to go about it, but I had fabric from the armrests for patches. The other day I finally had the time and motivation to get to what was now a long overdue project.

I dusted off my sewing basket to grab some scissors. That, a needle, thread and a few straight pins would likely get the job done. When I lifted the lid of my sewing basket, however, I faced a tangle of fabric scraps, threads, measuring tapes, and all manner of junk. I pawed my way into the mess, but this was no ordinary muddle, and I wouldn’t blame anyone who’d decide that this was a mishmash that needed to be pitched. A task I thought would be straightforward, instead had me staring down the ubiquitous struggle against chaos. 

I had the house to myself, so I flagrantly dumped out the entire contents of the basket onto my dining room table. Teeth from a broken comb had bitten into my stash of boiled wool; a wealth of plastic needle cases competed with the odd scraps of wrinkled notes, receipts and a stray dollar bill. Tangled bits of thread, ribbon and yarn, all studded with loose needles and pins, scratched my hands like lethal weapons. There were random coins, paper clips. safety, bobby and all manner of pins. Dozens of straight ones would have to be manually separated from just as many needles. One might wonder about the reasons behind this level of disorder, but that’s another story. Warrior woman that I am, I was undaunted. Plus, I wasn’t exactly sure of how to go about mending the couch after all. 

 As I began to pick through the mess, shame and self-blame hissed like snakes within me. I chided myself for how long I’d  let things go; called myself out for my slovenly ways. I heaped blame on myself for being too indulgent with the children. Eventually, I downshifted and relaxed. Time blurred and I entered a kind of reverie. My sense of touch took over in service of an innate quest for order. Freed up, I watched as my fingers engaged in an impromptu, mantric dance. Slowly, I amassed little piles of  coins, buttons, clips, needles, cords, scissors, tapes, and lots of spools of thread. My father’s credo had always been a place for everything and everything in its place. He would have been pleased. An hour or so into the project my sewing basket was transformed. Each precious item nestled, newly secure, freshly organized into little boxes, baggies, or bundles. 

Unwittingly, I’d moved from chaos and created a whole new cosmos. Upon completion, the job felt like a rescue mission. I’d taken on an expendable pile of castoffs, and I was the one redeemed. Calm, centered, refreshed, my thoughts untangled, I was clear and confident about exactly how to mend the couch. 

And, I’m happy to report, I did!

Calmed. . . I knew how to mend the couch.