Stitch
A single stitch. Done without thought, arms and lips and fingers in a mindless ballet. Two strands must be separated from the smoothly aligned band of six, using arms and teeth to pull them away from each other. Sometimes they slip away easily, as if the ties between them no longer matter. Sometimes they twist around each other, fearful of letting go into the great unknown. Once in a while, they refuse to be separated. They cling together in a knot, and only the ruthless application of a sharp edge ends the matter.
To thread the two forlorn strands through the eye of the needle requires a discreet wetting of the tip between the lips. The middle aged eyes need the head to sway backwards until the eye of the needle comes into focus. Then they slide in easily, the uneven ends left hanging. Never knotted at the end. Knots are for the amateurs, the doubters, the diffident.
The left hand holds the frame. The needle approaches the first corner of the stitch from underneath. The fingers of the left hand anchor the last half inch while the right hand pulls the needle through to the front. Just enough tension, not too tight or the light will shine through, not too loose or the surface of the stitch will be uneven. Each stitch provides a framework for the surrounding stitches, a mosaic that goes on forever.
The first diagonal is fast and easy to complete. It is in full view, nothing hidden, nothing lost. The needle then searches blindly for the third corner. A second’s hesitation before it reappears. Thousands of stitches later, still that micro hesitation. A quick flash downwards and the cross is complete. Where there was blank canvas, now there is colour.
The stitch is beautiful to look at. Look underneath, though. All the loose ends, the crossed threads, the short cuts and lazy ways, in short, the ugly reality is hidden away. Something like life. Beautiful perfect lives hiding the ugly underneath. But it’s also true that without what lies hidden, unsaid, undone, the beauty would not exist at all.