I don’t know if it’s apocryphal — that by the point they end portray the Golden Gate Bridge they’ve to start out portray it another time. However that’s how it’s with my denims. I’m by no means not within the strategy of mending them.
“Oh, shoot, I’ve to patch my denims,” I say, inspecting them recent from the wash, and my husband says, deadpan, “That’s shocking.” I’ve repaired them so many occasions that every one the patches are patched. They weigh 100 thousand kilos. They’re the one denims I put on, and I await them by the dryer the best way a baby waits for the one-eyed teddy bear you’ve lastly insisted on washing however solely after it received barfed on within the automobile.
I began mending them, innocently sufficient, just because they have been good denims. They have been snug. They’d the precise proper highness of waist: they stored my crack lined once I sat, however I used to be not zipping them as much as my boobs like a youngster or your grandpa. Plus, they made my ass look nice. Now, in fact, they make my ass seem like a quilt your great-aunt pieced collectively out of rags torn from Melancholy-era prairie clothes. Additionally, due to my lengthy dedication to this specific pair of pants, my ass itself has… I need to say modified. However I believe what I ought to say is gone away.
Mockingly, I’m not allowed to put on them to the hospice the place I volunteer. I perceive this — it’s reassuring to the residents and their households if we glance skilled and kempt, not like we skateboarded over from the weed dispensary. However the irony is that this: I’m dedicated to issues, even of their tatters and decrepitude. To individuals. I don’t give anyone up willingly, even when they’re slightly worn on the knees. I’ll paint your nails even if you’re likelier than most individuals to die later this afternoon. Generally when I’m bedside whereas somebody is actively dying — we name this “sitting vigil” — I mend my denims. It’s the proper quantity of exercise: I’m not simply sitting there, pressuring an individual with my gaze to provide a significant expertise for me. But in addition I’m not, like, watching TikToks of a porcupine consuming a Hubbard squash. I’m simply there with my stitching. Additionally, it’s a very good time for my denims to truly get mended, since I’m not carrying them.
You’ve in all probability heard of the Japanese follow of kintsugi — the artwork of mending damaged pottery with gold. Even studying the Wikipedia entry about it makes me need to cry: “As a philosophy, it treats breakage and restore as a part of the historical past of the item, moderately than one thing to disguise.” Amen. It’s associated to a different Japanese philosophy, wabi-sabi, which highlights the wonder inherent in imperfection. And it’s associated, in truth, to yet one more Japanese follow, which I in all probability ought to have began with right here given its exact relevance, which is sashiko — the artwork of preemptively reinforcing indigo cloth with white thread. Seen mending. Seen mendedness.
What if we noticed gold seams threaded by one another? What if our wounds and grief have been lovingly patched in denim and cotton florals? If in case you have touched a lover’s scar in devoted marvel, you realize what I imply. Let me body the broken elements of you in valuable metals! Let me cherish you, damaged and pieced collectively as you might be.
These denims of mine — they’re very stunning now. Folks come up on the road to inform me how cool they’re, which I like. Partly as a result of I like to be cool. However largely as a result of I crave connection, like everyone else. Or possibly I simply need to be seen: Holy and complete, holes and all.