Jon and I moved a couple of tables into my new studio this morning. I had everything I needed to make some potholders. I put my table in front of the windows and even though I didn’t have my work chair, and was sitting on 3 cushions so I could reach my machine, I felt comfortable. Everything about my School House Studio is warm, the wood walls, the lighting and the sun coming in the windows and the electric baseboard heat.
I started to sew. The other day, the last day I spent in my old studio, I did make a couple of potholders, but my machine kept jamming, I messed with the tension, changed the bobbin, the needle and the thread, but sill couldn’t get it to work right. So today I decided to start with a scrap piece of fabric and see what happened. I was so eager to work, I was more than just missing working, It felt more like a necessity, like my well being depended on it. So I was really frustrated when my machine jammed again. And again and again. I realized I hadn’t done any free motion sewing since I got my machine back from being cleaned. My mind started going down a dark path. It must be the sewing machine shop’s fault. I wasn’t doing anything different, they must have done something while cleaning it. (It was my mother’s voice in my head “Every time you bring the car to get fixed it comes back with something else wrong”)
So I called Heirloom Sewing. I told the woman what was happening. She asked a bunch of questions and assured me it wasn’t the tension if I was using the same thread and needle and fabric. At one point she suggested that maybe I was moving the fabric too quickly. I made an appointment to bring the machine in to have it looked at.
Then I tried again. Something she said about going moving to fast rang true. Or maybe it was just that I didn’t like the voice in my head that wanted to blame the sewing machine shop, like I was just looking for someone to blame, because I was frustrated. So even though I didn’t think I was moving the fabric to quickly, I paid closer attention to what I was doing and I slowed down. And when I did, the machine didn’t jam. I kept practicing to be sure. Then I made a potholder. Slow Down. It was a natural.
So there I was telling myself what I needed to do, by jamming up my machine, I just didn’t get it. And it took my mother’s voice in my head and the woman from the sewing machine shop to finally make me hear it. Slow Down slow down…