Can This Sewing Room Be Saved?

    One of the greatest gifts my Daddy gave me was the idea that I should never base my self-worth on the opinions  of others. Perhaps that is why my cinematic heroine is Shirley MacLaine's Weezer in Steel Magnolias.  This comfort-in-my-own-skin philosophy has served me well in a number of areas, but none so much as the ability to eschew the teasing I have long endured regarding my total lack of organization skills.  As a child, I had two responsibilities at home, make all As on my report card and practice the piano.  That was it.  My mother handled everything else.  She was the consummate homemaker.  A favorite Southern compliment is "You could eat off her floors!"  Well, you could perform surgery on my mother's floors--they were antiseptic.  She made most of her own clothing as well as mine.  She was a marvelous cook and entertained with grace and poise.  She played a mean hand of bridge and was a pillar of the First Baptist Church.  All I did was make As and practice the piano.  The As paid off in spades, but despite all the practice, I am a lousy pianist.  How I gave birth to Sara, a talented musician and orchestra teacher is beyond me. Needless to say, my basic homemaking and organizational skills were stunted from an early age.
     Everything I touch becomes cluttered in a matter of minutes.  Worse, I hoard.  One needlework teacher with whom I roomed at numerous conferences was fond of saying that within five minutes of my arrival, there were no visible surfaces on my side of the hotel room. When I returned from these conferences, my girls were often angry with me because they could not find some item of underwear or another while I was away, necessitating a trip with their father to Wal-Mart to purchase replacements.  They said he lacked discretion and often shouted across the underwear department, "Hey ya'll, look at these over here.  They look like they'll fit." They admitted they acted as if they did not know him on such occasions.  My house is clean, but stacks and piles abound.  A psychiatrist friend once told me it is my filing system, that I have to see everything in order to efficiently use it.  He was right; it may be chaotic, but I know exactly to which pile to go to find anything.  This same friend urged me to seek the diagnosis and treatment of my adult ADHD, which was a tremendous help.  When I taught school, it was a running joke that everyone should take a look at my desk the first day of class, since it would not be seen thereafter.  When I was Teacher of the Year, my adorable student who introduced me at the banquet said that it looked as if a grenade had been detonated on my desk.
     My sewing has not escaped the disorder either.  "Oh...my...gosh, how do you sew in all this?" is the most frequent comment people make when first visiting my sewing room.  It is a common assumption that people who love and do beautiful work do that work in equally beautiful spaces.  You know the type of spaces, the ones you see on Pinterest on boards with names such as "Sewing Paradise" or "My Dream Creative Space" or "Amazing Sewing Rooms."  These descriptions do not remotely apply to my own sewing room, which brings me to the question of the day.  Can I actually create an orderly and comfortable space in which to do what I love most?  Do I really want to?  There is comfort in familiarity, and I am familiar with every inch of my disarray.  I have to admit, however, that since my retirement last year, I have been surprised by my growing dissatisfaction with the state of my space.  I never thought that possible.  Better late than never, or not at all?  I suppose the defining moment in all this occurred about three weeks ago, when I missed two phone calls as I searched for the cell phone I laid down in the sewing room five minutes earlier. Further impetus was finding three of my granddaughter's plush toys in Charlie's hiding place within the clutter--along with two bones, three skeins of stolen thread, a bandana, and a toothbrush!  Decision made.
     If I am going to save this sewing room, I suppose I must face the enormity of my task, face my challenge head on.  Oh, I know what you are thinking.  "It couldn't be that bad...could it?"  Yes, it could, and it is.  When I shared my new adventure with my friend, Lezette, via pictures, she immediately said that the project would make a Bloggie winning series of posts.  Her only advice was to take better pictures to post, because the ones that I sent her were blurry.  Here they are.



View from entrance.

My stitching chair.

The cutting table...is under there somewhere.

Now I ask you, would you have even a remote desire to see more?  I did not think so.  As I struggled to visualize exactly what I wanted to accomplish in my space, I had unexpected motivation.  I received an email from my friend and mentor, Jenny Adin-Christie.  She was my first teacher at the Royal School of Needlework.  We have enjoyed a number of adventures through the years, and she must have sensed another was brewing. She updated me on her recent work--the wedding dress of Kate Middleton, a teaching trek to Australia--and included a picture and description of her new studio.  As ever, she inspired me.  Although my space is much smaller and architecturally quite different, her studio pictures planted the seed that eventually grew to be my own design.  It had the feel I wanted.  Here is a picture of Jenny's studio to help you revive from the trauma of seeing mine.

                                           Jenny's new studio.  See the sidebar to view her website.
Be warned, I am about to chronicle another of my famous adventures.  I hope you will join me soon to see my progress.  Until then, be kind and take joy.