I don't usually do holiday posts, but I found this poem at
The Real Muck, and thought you all might enjoy it too.
Reflection on Imperfection
‘Tis the season for unreason
when green spills from wallets
of those believing in traditional pleasing.
‘Tis the season when people pine for a fine Christmas tree—
white pine, balsam fir, white spruce, Fraser fir, Douglas fir, scotch pine,
whatever...
but it must be a wintergreen, evergreen, ever-perfect, perfectly-shaped
Barbie bush.
In the nippy air, hundreds of Barbies form green lines
with straight spines, very vertical trunks, ample branches
each with a single perfectly-pointed top
waiting for its traditional spot up the
angel’s ...tush.
Partly hidden ornaments adorn lush limbs,
shiny balls peer from green mazes
and candy canes lavish properly perky
branch tips.
But Barbie’s lavish bushy branches
leave little room for ornaments
lest adornments detract from her own
flawless beauty.
***
I wander far and wide, bucking the tide
wondering why I must settle for popular perception.
I search for Barbie’s ugly cousin,
a form, a shape that doesn’t fit the mold,
flat-chested for small house
spaces.
It’s the wind-blown hair, the hole in the sock, the scrape on the knee, the spaghetti stain on the shirt, the pimple on the nose that tell a story
of living.
I like a crooked smile, spaces between teeth, scraggly hair, spindly legs
and skinny arms that reach out
open to discovery.
I want a tree that doesn’t hide,
that opens wide to embrace pride
held in accessories’ histories, their stories and the
love they imply.
I seek a spindly tree, the ugly factor with character,
one willing to show open spaces,
places for treasured ornaments grown dear over the years...
those that have lost their shine, are ragged from playful cats, have missing parts, the hippo of bedtime stories, an apple from a student, a violin recalling cacophonous practice, clothes-pin soldiers formed by tiny hands, hummingbirds like ones covering a morning field years ago in the Grand Canyon, a plastic dog a reminder of a lost pet, baby’s first Christmas 25-years ago, grandmother’s crocheted hobbyhorse and mouse, eloquent velvet-covered and pearl-studded balls made by a nearly blind friend long gone.
And then I see it—the orphan cousin in a heap
apart from the collection,
far from customers’ inspection.
I reflect on its simple beauty.
Missing branches leave
room for us.
I like my new bare and slightly crooked tree,
I like the way you hang your hand-painted sand dollar next to my beaded bird.
It is in the spaces where
we hang our love.
Perfection isn’t about shape and complexion.
Perfection lies in connections...
how we create them,
how we fill in and connect those spaces
that life gives us.
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I don't know who wrote it if not the blog author, so I can't give a citation, but it struck a chord with me.
Back to sewing, I'm still working on my coat, and it's coming along. The sleeves finally went in nicely, and it's hemmed, so I'm about ready to finish cutting the lining and put that in, and then I believe that will be it! Sounds fast, but I don't seem to be moving very fast lately. I am enjoying doing it, though.
Hope you all are having a lovely holiday, and that you got all your Christmas sewing done on time.
Good eye Liana (as usual).
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Don't know that I agree about the collar points, could be a matter of garment sway from walking but I do see another problem with it, bubbling on one side near the dart (see these photos I've made notes on.)
The taupe style ...that has GOT to be a proto, a last minute addition to the line. I found three problems with it, rather glaring imo. The buttons don't line up,
the aforementioned neckline bubble (same block as the white one?)
and that placket thingy in addition to buckling, is crooked.
Again, see my photos.
RE: zipper. The end point pucker is the least of it really, you can see it's puckering well before that end point. Pretty lousy imo. Also, look at that seam on the sleeve; it's caving inwards.
With all that embellishment weight, that really needed some kind of infrastructure to reinforce the seam.