By the time we were finished, it was the first time in four months that he stepped forward to hug me.
He went out and bought the correct type of heavy-duty sewing machine needle.
(I would have just used the regular ol' one.)
He scoured the fabric store shelves for the perfect ultra-strong thread.
(I would have just used the cotton kind.)
He carefully selected his heavy canvas and a warm fleece for the lining.
(I would have just gotten what was on sale.)
I showed him how to pin the fabric.
(I never do it that way.)
He painstakingly pinned with perfect accuracy.
(I wouldn't have taken the time.)
I sewed the fabric together.
(He watched over my shoulder.)
We never seem to do things in the same way. Even when it comes to cleaning the kitchen. He is always paying attention to every last detail, either doing an overboard job, or nothing at all. I usually just do a "nice enough" job so that guests won't notice the jelly stuck to the toaster, or the petrified cheese in the microwave. Yet, somehow our methods collide, clash, and ultimately gel into something that resembles "success."
I'm learning to let the clashing happen. I'm resisting the urge to do everything "my way," even if it takes four times as long.
We were recently taught to read the letters that we write to one another two times before we are allowed to speak a peep. Once is for the head and once is for the heart. I'm always rushing, rushing, everything. I've been cursed with the gift of speed-reading. I've been skimming over the paragraphs of my life for a while now. My heart always three pages behind my head.
But now I'm willing myself to look at all aspects of life once for the head and once for the heart.
Slow down, you.
Coincidentally, M. Ward singing this song live has been my all-time-nothing-even-comes-remotely-close top moment in the music history of my life. He drew this song out foreverrrrrrrr- melting each lyric into the next, putting the entire audience under his spell.