That’s me with my cousin, Ed. In front of me is my Grandma Bush’s sewing box. That’s what made me pause when I saw this photo while shuffling through a box. The sewing box. I have that box in my closet and it’s lived everywhere with me since it became mine in my late teens.
It holds no monetary value but it’s immeasurably valuable to me. It’s threaded many priceless stories of love — stitches of my life story sewn together with my grandma’s, and the threads of her life stories. Spools of storytelling for sewing timeless energetic tapestries.
The other day, when one of my son’s favorite shirts had a small hole in the neckline, he asked me to fix it instead of donating it. He wanted to get some more wear out of it. I took my grandma’s sewing box down from my closet shelf, sat on the floor of my bedroom, threaded a needle and sewed the hole for Landon. I carried his freshly sewn shirt into his room and put it on his chair.
He looked up from his game, smiled and said, “Thank you, Mom. Love you.”
I met his eyes, smiled back and said, “Love you.”
It may not be a sewing box on the shelf in your closet, but you most likely have something that helps remind you of how much you are aligned with the stories of your ancestors. All through time it is storytelling that’s connected us. Remember. Honor. Share.