It’s Over, I’m Done, and Moving On
I used to say that I would never say “way back when” or anything that reeked of being stuck in the past. Now that I have more past than future, I find myself saying it a bit more often than I would wish. Like now, for instance. You see, way back when, when I was young and scared, poor and trying to do things I did not know how to do — like love a husband, raise a child and run a home — I started sewing for the people I loved.
My younger siblings received colorful clothes with all of the buttons fully attached, as well as all of the trailing threads because cutting threads did not interest me. My mom never received a blouse with a hem because finishing the project was not nearly as much fun as starting it. My mother-in-law, a classy dresser, once received a jacket with a note about how awful I thought it was, and a release from mandatory wearings. She found the note in the pocket while giving a presentation to a church group. I assume that really boosted her confidence.
Still, I began to identify as a seamstress and earned a tidy sum for projects I was proud to sell. It was sewing that taught me math in the real world and color theory, that I actually could set a goal, accomplish it and have value in the world. Eventually, I had a sewing room filled with fabrics and loads of projects conceived, some finished and many abandoned. That room was not safe to enter with bare feet or time constraint. It was a haven for losing myself to the act of creation. Because sewing was my “thing,” I had the nicest sewing machine, the best scissors and equipment only found in the garment district.
Then I started working, training, traveling, and slowly cleaning out the detritus of projects that no longer interested me. It was over and I was moving on. Over the years, the top-of-the-line sewing machine came out of the closet for quick hems and a few Christmas projects. Then, as luck would have it, last year we headed to Yellowstone Hot Springs for an early spring getaway, just as the snow started falling. And falling. And falling. We stopped in Big Timber for lunch and to rethink our plans. Paul ordered lunch and I dove into the quilt shop for entertainment.
Quite entertained, I left the quilt shop with two quilt kits, three projects and new scissors. (And chocolate — if you have not seen their chocolate counter you have not lived.) We turned for home, forgoing hot tubs for hot chocolate and warm projects. I pulled out my trusty machine and found that it was no longer up to the challenge. It bucked and skipped, revved and wandered and by Sunday afternoon I was over it — the project abandoned.
I pulled that project out a few weeks ago, determined to complete what I meant as a gift for my daughter, Liz. As I machine quilted it, with skipped stitches, and colorful words, I decided it was my last quilt. And that the decision was a relief, as is often the case if you stop and listen to yourself. Moving on is in your best interest.
It can be hard to admit when you are over something that is supposed to be part of your identity. And yet, after a lifetime of moving to the next thing — and the one after that — asking, as I do in the book “What’s Next?” what goal am I moving toward, who I will be now, It is freeing to chase a “Next.”
We often do this in January. In the middle of the dark and cold, we wonder if this is all there is, or if we must keep doing the things that make us who we are. It is now, with an open calendar, that we wonder if we should move on. When the answer is yes, we often calculate the cost and decide to retreat to what we know, who we are, and change nothing.
But, if like me, you want to say “it’s over” or “moving on,” and not feel regret but instead lightness and joy, I think you should consider three things.
First. Are you making a permanent decision to a temporary problem? Are you frustrated with a co-worker, mad at your equipment or disappointed by your skills or lack thereof? Could you solve this with a conversation, a purchase, or a Google or YouTube session? If it is fleeting, you might want to abandon fleeing.
Second. Does moving on make you nauseous? For many of us that locked-gut, can-hardly-breathe and can’t-think-straight feeling is truth. Truth can come in as a whisper, but more often than not it gives you a jolt, tugs your ear and makes you pay attention. Listen to the pain, lean into it, but only long enough to find the path to your best decision. You are not meant to remain stuck, to do, over and over, what you can no longer tolerate doing. Grab a Tums, make the call and feel the power of overcoming fear to become a little more you.
Third. What are you making room for? Being done, over it, moving on, means you will have space for a new hobby, a new person, new ideas, a new you. It is easier to let go when you only let go long enough to grab onto your Next, the thing you desire, the dream, your tomorrow.
I ran away from home as a teen. It was my first deliberate act of moving on. But I ran with and to a person I knew would always, carefully, be there for me. It made that first act of moving on safe, and repeatable.
It also means he has had 45 years of practice watching me move from one Next to the next, and he has formed a few opinions — like his wife, the seamstress, will always be defined by her ability to create, be it a community, a book, a meal or a quilt.
He was with friends in Alaska when I declared I would never quilt again. He arrived home with the loving ability to get rid of the worn-out machine and replace it with a new one. I didn’t think I wanted it. I thought I was done. But sometimes, and I only write this here because he won’t see it, he is right. I’ve been back to Big Timber twice and the local shops have provided long receipts for fabrics and threads. My machine is a wonder, which automatically cuts those pesky trailing threads. And I am, once again, a seamstress because sometimes when you think you are done and over it, ready to move on, all you need is someone to say, “Are you really?” and then hand you a present.
