Stitching Connections

3 June 2020

I found a tear in one of the pajamas bottoms and decided to sew it shut with a bit of thread instead of discarding it.

My grandpa in dark pants with a friend at the temple he cared for all his life. Behind them are the painted door guardians of the temple.

And in that instance of stitching up the hole, I felt the knobby hands of my grandparents from across the years.

Vivid memories of my grandpa’s stitches on the edges of his pockets and sides of cloth carriers appeared in my mind.

My grandpa was always mending and repairing things. He was always short on money, but never short tempered. He had this gift of approaching chores with an almost meditative attitude which made me want to potter around him more.

Whether it was sweeping the temple compound, arranging grand offerings for the gods or preparing leftovers to feed stray cats, my grandpa did them all carefully & methodically. No work was above or beneath him.

Those wordless afternoons with him would later shape my learning with male teachers and male mentors when I entered school.

The temple door guardian was witness to many of my wordless afternoons with my grandpa. He is now my gateway to my grandpa and my childhood.

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