Our Common Life

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Do you like my mule? Isn’t she grand? Annie drew her for me.

“I need a mule,” I told her in the church foyer, while the bells rang. “But just a simple one. It could even look like a donkey.” I like to say things like that to her, just to watch her face retain its serenity and composure.

Annie is something special. Besides being an artist, she’s also a mighty fine seamstress, specializing in authentic reproductions for reenactors, and she’s the proprietor of a rare and vintage bookshop. She speaks thoughtfully, walks quickly, loves patiently, reads avidly and if you need a knife, she’s got one. She’s also one of my very best friends.


I’d like to say welcome and thank you to the new readers, and the old ones, too. There are many other places you could be right now, in this land of a thousand doors, and I’m sure honored to have you here with me.

I’m sitting at my desk. There is a vase of wilted daffodils and too many books, mostly ones I’ve read and can’t stand to put away. There is a mountain of laundry downstairs and a greenhouse that needs watering outside. I haven’t made my bed because a cat is curled up in it. I went to sleep last night thinking I needed to love people better than I do, and woke up wondering if someone left enough coffee in the pot for me. Somehow I feel the need, even in the ordinariness of my subjects, to warn you against thinking I have something you don’t. Your life is worth words, dear reader, and I hope that’s what you get from mine.


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In the loft of my parent’s house, I work part-time as a seamstress for an ultra-lightweight hiking apparel company. I do this in the evenings when everyone is asleep and I listen to podcasts, often about infectious diseases or conspiracy theories, which serve as a substitute for coffee. It’s hard to fall asleep on the job when the little grey cells are busy with the incoming news that Bigfoots (the correct plural) prefer Poptarts to just about anything else, and if I miss out on the history of hantavirus in Finland while the machine is going, I really haven’t missed anything. This is noise. It’s fun, sure, if you like that sort of thing. But it hasn’t produced anything in me, useful or beautiful. 

     So I cut it off last night, to listen to the house I could live in blind on the dark hilltop, but it was freezing outside for the first time in many weeks, and all was quiet, even the spring peepers. I didn’t think of anything for awhile but the fabric and pattern, the razor blade and pins. None of the bearded men on Youtube need pins, but I do. I sat down to make the round stitch for the heel, then laid it on my lap to secure to the next piece for the final seam. After that, I could be done. That’s when I noticed all the seams on my overalls. 

     I’ve never told you about the sewing before. There’s no shame in it, but as Reb Tevye said in Fiddler on the Roof, it’s no great honor either. I’m thankful for the job, but it’s just a job, and one that doesn’t bring me into fellowship with people who have stories. Except for when, in the quiet of the loft, I see that it does. It is no great thing to be an invisible worker, just one of many thousands at a post in an assembly line or a girl winding a bobbin in a dark house, unless people are born naked. 

     Look down at your seams dear reader for a moment and remember that “our common life depends upon each other’s toil,” as the Book of Common Prayer says, and consider how the life of that seamstress has touched your own and answered your want, and how the work you do not love to do, might be the most needful.

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