There is something about cutting into repurposed material, any material, for that matter. The thing about repurposed fabric, though, is a sense that it can never be back to what it was. Once I cut into the fabric, the essence of what it once was is gone.
What it will be brings new life, and this is what makes the process beautiful. A new story is unfolding for this particular piece. And yet, I do not take the cutting into lightly.
There is a particular shirt I cut into recently. It came from a thrift store on the way to Trenton. When I brought it home, Clint tried it on. Sadly for him, but thankfully for me (and the little girl who might wear it), it was too big for him.
Evee also declared the apron-to-be as her own, which is a bit of a wonder since it isn't a "girly" pattern...and this girl usually prefers as much pink and frills as one can get.
And so, I cut into it. It is not from a brand I recognize. I find myself wondering about it's history. Who wore this shirt? How did it find its way to this particular thrift store? Who made it and did they hold the same care and affection for it that I feel now? Or was it simply mended together in a line of shirts?
As I sew it together on this quiet night I find peace in the rhythmic sound of the machine. The needle pushing into the heart of the fabric and up again.
The fabric will continue its story, but it will be quite a different chapter, I'm sure. And I wonder, for a moment, if this is the last of its changing shape. Will there be another cutter, sewer, repurposer somewhere down the line?