Now At A Farm

The late Winter sun filtered through the blinds as the iron slowly heated up. On the table was a design for a sewing pattern I had created.

A few months ago, I decided I was finally going to move on a long-time dream: learn how to sew my own clothes. Sewing was something I knew how to do… functionally. I could thread a machine, I could sew in a straight line. But if anything went wrong, I would be filled with rage. Rage might be a strong word, but whatever word that exists that means “despair unending at not being able to fix a simple problem that increases so rapidly it results in you throwing up your hands in disgust and walking away from the project for a full year… or ten.” Is that rage?

I have weaving projects from college, now more than a decade behind me, that are still unfinished because they require a tiny bit of sewing. I truly didn’t like it. I didn’t like it because I don’t like being bad at something. It’s a hard vulnerable space to be in, and reminds me of the days in school where I would get so embarrassed about getting an answer wrong I would well up with tears. (don’t worry, I’m working on this with my therapist)

But I knew sewing was a skill that would unlock so much for me.

Clothes don’t fit me how I want them to fit. Shopping is hard because it’s actively choosing to invite gender dysphoria into my day. Shirts are too long and too tight at the waist, too baggy in the chest, too tight on my thighs, too long at my ankles, the seams don’t hit where they should, and what’s the point of buying something anyway when I can just where the same outfit over and over and over again? Not to mention the styles I wanted to wear where hard to find. Black and solid colors are great and all, but I wanted bright patterns and bright colors. And I didn’t want Hawaiian shirt knockoffs.

If I knew how to sew my own clothes, I could not only choose my own style, but adapt how it fits and have more control over where the fabric is sourced. After Birch, our sweet doggo, passed in the late summer of 2024, I signed up for a five-week sewing course in a fog of grief. Sewing would be my grief hobby.

I fell in love.

Who knew that something that used to send me into deep wells of unpredictable frustration could so easily become a source of joy? I loved all of the tiny steps, the fastidiousness, and the chaos. The doing something with my hands and not on a digital screen. The making of something immediately useful.

In my five-week course, I started by making a pillow case and eventually worked my way into a pair of pajama pants. After that, I figured I was a pro. Right? Right!? I was so confident that I decided that it was definitely not a giant leap to go from simple pajama pants to zippered fanny packs with a lining (or bum bags if you’re not in the US). For the holidays, my partner and I made nine fanny packs as gifts. Nine.

And now?

Zippers are no longer daunting. Oh, a bag with a liner? What about making my own bias tape? On it. Got it.

The best part is now I had the skills I needed to protect a new device I had bought. This is exactly why I wanted to learn how to sew. I wanted to be able to make what I needed, when I needed it.

For months, I had been researching the Freewrite Traveler, a digital typewriter designed specifically for writers. It is… not a cheap purchase. But I had been needing a new way to approach my creative writing. For years, I’ve been picking away at a fiction novel. ‘Picking away’ is definitely right descriptor, as I go through periods of intense focus and then months of drought. It’s hard for me tap into my creative writing side, as my work is words-based. I write for my job. Accessing writing for fun is like squeezing the last bit of toothpaste out. Not to mention, when I write on my laptop, I have an intense Pavlovian response to check my emails, check Slack, check work, check anything. Even with WiFi turned off, there is always the ghost of Christmas Present whispering, “… but you could turn it back on so easily,” into my ear.

I needed a new tool. Hand-writing wouldn’t cut it because my brain thinks faster than I can write, and then I’d have to do the arduous task of trying to read my hastily scribed words while I type it up. The same thing with our mechanical classical typewriter. I would still have to re-type everything to get a digital, easily-editable copy.

Enter the Freewrite Traveler.

It’s sole function is to help you create drafts. It has a small, E-ink screen reader, which means no blue-light, no blinking lights, and the opportunity to create a cozy lamp-lit writing experience in the evenings. Vibes are everything. It connects to WiFi, but only to automatically sync your drafts to the cloud to back them up. As it’s not a cheap tool, I took months to decide whether it would be worth the cost or not.

I finally bit the bullet when I wrote a blog post for Now At A Farm on my lap top. The act of propping my laptop on a pillow and accessing my creative energy was so distasteful. I bought a Freewrite the next day and I have loved it since minute one.

Now I needed to sew a case for it.

It had to be something that felt grounding, that softened the tech side of the device, made it feel rooted. It had to be tough to withstand lugging it around wherever I went. It had to be my grandpa’s old army shirts.

I don’t remember how I ended up with them, but I had four khaki canvas shirts from his time in the army that I didn’t know what I was going to do with. I wasn’t going to wear them (they didn’t fit anyway and I care -100% about the military) but I also didn’t want to get rid of them, because they are pieces of Grandpa’s life. They were the perfect material for the Freewrite case.

What I wasn’t expecting was the wave of emotion that hit me when I ironed them that late Winter afternoon. As the steam hit the shirts, the nostalgic smell of my grandparents’ home wafted up. The smell of floor-to-ceiling shelves of books. Of old wood. Of worn down furniture that fits you perfectly and doesn’t let you go. If time was a smell, and it was a good smell, it would be this smell. The tears gently filled as I ironed down my Grandpa’s old army shirt.

The front pocket of Grandpa’s shirt is the front of the bag, and every time I open it to get at my small notebook, I think of how he would have used it for just the same purpose back in the 1950’s.

This was the right material for this bag. It was rooted, not only in my family’s history, but deep into my soul. The device that would help me access my creativity belonged in this bag.

The bag came together perfectly (well, nearly, I am still a ‘confident beginner’). I measured and planned for seam allowance, tapping into my wall framing math skills. I harnessed my zipper and liner skills from the over-ambitious fanny pack project. Of all of the things I have sewed so far, it is the thing I am most proud of.

Sewing has been an empowering journey. And now it’s supporting my writing journey as well.

All things are connected.

All things are rooted if you know where to dig.