Kanzashi

I collect hobbies like a little boy collects seashells.

Kanzashi is my latest obsession. The careful folding of cloth, fabric origami sewn together into vibrant creations, has captured my soul. Before me lay precise squares of bright cloth, destined, today, to become flowers. I have a plan, an image in my mind of the symmetrical, stunning beauty that I’ll soon hold. The cloth is ready. In one hand is my needle. The other holds the thread.

As a mother of three, life is hectic, and nothing ever goes according to plan. There is always more work to be done than can be achieved in a day, and it is all urgent.

Do the dishes, sweep the floor, fold the laundry. The simple fabric of my days.

Bathe the kids, brush their teeth, feed them meals. The basic, repeated shapes that texture the time.

Tend the wounds, teach the manners, encourage the wonder. These are the patterned squares of daily life.

But even the most brilliant design fatigues the eye with too oft repeated patterns. I scrutinize the cloth I’ve chosen. It is, perhaps, too much the same. I reach for a brighter color to accentuate the plan. After all, variety is the spice of life.

Or so I tell myself as a bottle clatters to the floor, and I pin the unthreaded needle to my shirt. The dark scent of cloves reaches me as I turn. My daughter has climbed the counter and dumped out the spice. Again.

I rise as she giggles, playing in her tiny pile of rich brown ‘sand.’ She is a spunky little thing. I remind myself not to squash her spirit when I reprimand her for breaking the rules. A gently folded piece, given just the right amount of heat to make it stick. Too much and it will crumble.

Together, we clean up the mess, and I let her smell the other spices until our noses are clogged with flavor. She asks me to read her a story, and I glance with longing to my project on the kitchen table. It will wait, but she cannot. I let her take my hand and lead me to her room. We settle into her blanket fort and she hands me a book. I glance at the time as I begin to read about monsters wearing underpants. Her giggles dance through the room like sparks of magic. Soon it will be time to take the kids to swimming lessons. And afterward is lunch. And then. And then. And then. Each square is folded—almost, but not quite—just the same as the last. Repeat. And repeat. And repeat.

I find myself standing alone in an unexpected moment of silence. The kids are all occupied, the pets are all fed, and nothing is on fire or flooding. It hardly seems possible, and I grin as I walk back to the table. My project is waiting, miraculously untouched by tiny hands. I pull out my chair, but my oldest walks into the room asking about dinner. I check my watch and realize the day has once again left me behind. I take a deep breath. I know I should start dinner, but my project is in the way. I gather it all and set it, snug, into its box. Sometimes the cloth just doesn’t fit into the pattern where you wanted it.

I cook, and wrangle the kids into setting the table. We eat together and I ask everyone about their day. The base of the flower is gathered, sewn, and pulled in tight, giving it support and keeping it from falling apart in the end.

Afterward—everyone has cleaned off their dishes and scattered—I’m left to put away the food. Tiny footsteps pull my attention. My son stands in the hall, his lovey behind his back. I ask him what he needs, and he holds out the stuffed animal. A thread sprouts at a crazy angle from the embroidered left eye, and he’s worried it hurts. He has come to me expecting miracles. I hug him. Of course I can perform the operation, but it’s a tricky thing, and I’ll need him to assist. I dig through my box for the scissors while he preps the patient. He reassures the stuffed animal that it won’t be bad; after all, he’s had eye surgery, too. An unexpected bead to compliment my pattern, and with a quick snip, I trim the excess thread.

The kids are in bed, and it is late. I am tired. My project box lies on the counter, waiting for me. My husband sits nearby, we haven’t had two minutes to talk today. We’ve barely said hello. But I can talk and stitch, strengthening separate parts. I again set out my project and ask my best friend about his day. I arrange different colors than I’d chosen before. What is needed now is a simpler, quiet square to complement the hectic pattern.

I fold and pin this latest square of cloth, planning how I’ll add it to the flower of my day. A flower that looks nothing like I’d planned. But I love it nonetheless. The kanzashi fabric awaits me and I deftly thread my needle.