What you do makes a difference, and you have to decide what kind of difference you want to make. —Jane Goodall

Greetings Dear Ones!

The wretched state of our national politics has me spending a lot of time considering old-fashioned notions of Character. What IS character anyway? Is it not required in politics? In Media? Are we currently a weaker, more deplorable cast of creatures than at any other point in our history? Does Character matter anymore? From a moral as well as literary perspective, my little window-seat next to the world has provided some fine views of Characters, as well as valuable opportunities for me to work on my own. Built of “crooked timber” myself, I have many, many of these valuable opportunities to look in the mirror—not just to realize I put my shirt on inside-out—but to enter the Fitting Room of Humility in the hopes of emerging… well, Mended. My challenge these days is not to see myself as a sinner, but rather a joyful warrior—a mirthful, even zestful combatant-in-training alongside my fellow humans in our local Virtue Gym. (Some of us are doing too much burping and not enough burpees. )

For a start, any writing 101 class or tailoring shop will reveal many types of characters: Some are static (all manner of lint, cat hair, and stray threads will stick to them), some are flat (these will require bust pads in their prom gowns), some are round (these will need the waist let out and the ankles tapers on their trousers), and some are stock (off the rack fits them just fine; they don’t even know why they came in here in the first place.) My favorites, of course, are the Dynamic ones. These are usually the Main Characters in their own storytelling—protagonists, if you will. (This does NOT mean they like tags. Most of them ask me to remove them, as they scratch the necks of sensitive people already embroiled in personal drama.) These people are going through a major change or journey, learning a Valuable Life Lesson (such as you should have ordered this gown two years ago, before you had even met your betrothed!) These people are energetic, powerful, active, progressive, productive, vibrant and kinetic—especially if they are leaving for college in a week and just realized their pants don’t fit. The word dynamic comes to us from the Greek dunamis, which means “power” and is pronounced like a person from New Jersey saying “do not miss” with a mouthful of pizza. “Does Not Miss” is a pretty good way of describing Power.

There are some simple ways to asses character: Is the person honest? Are they reliable? Are they competent? Kind? Compassionate? Are they capable of taking the blame and making amends when necessary? Are they able to persevere through challenges? Are they modest and humble, or boastfully grandiose? Are they pacific (i.e. from California or Oregon)? Seriously, can they modulate their personal anger to keep interactions civil, serene, or professional? (as well as be groovy and hang 10 in good surf?)

Here are just two of the Characters I met this week:

A flirtatious philosopher comes shuffling into the shop with a big smile on his face. “How old do you think I am?” he says, grinning.

“Sixty-two” is my pert reply. He laughs and gestures with his thumb for me to go “up.”

“Sixty-three?” His thumb: “higher.”

“Seventy-three?” His thumb: “higher.”

“Eighty-three?”

“Almost,” he says, “but I’ll take it.”

“Well, Sir,” I say, “you don’t look a day over sixty two.”

“Go ahead and kick me in the shin!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Go ahead. It won’t hurt me.”

He proceeds to lift up his pant leg and reveal a prosthetic limb.

“You can’t even tell, can you?!” he announces with glee, “And I can run like a son-of-a-bitch. I just made it up all those stairs.”

“How did you lose your leg?” I ask tentatively, uncertain if that is ok for me to do. His face flickers and then reassembles the smile.

“Lost it in a bet,” he says laughing and slapping his thigh. He pauses for effect and looks deep into my eyes. “Young lady, you gotta live every day. One day, it ain’t gonna happen anymore. I only retired ten years ago because my leg kept falling off when I had to kneel down to work. I was in [a trade] so now I have to find other ways to amuse myself.” He winks. “I keep busy!” We both laugh—me weakly, him uproariously. He launches into a series of pretty awful jokes.

Apparently he is here to have some pants hemmed and to do a full, stand-up, one-man comedy routine sharing his robust world view with an audience of one haggard seamstress with too much to do. I grit my teeth and play the laugh track in all the right places. Prudence is rapping my knuckles and hissing “Honor thy father! This man is an elder; he deserves Respect. Besides, he has only one leg! Show mercy! Show some strength of character! ” I try. I pull through, barely. He is alternately hilarious, boorish, and invasive. Mainly, he’s lonely and needs love. Who doesn’t? When he starts telling me he lost his hair because he did too many high speed u-turns under the sheets, I decide to get the shepherd’s crook and haul him off stage. It’s time for him to go.

“Well, Hon,” he says winking at me as he is leaving, “you got my number there. If you ever get in trouble, call me—if I can’t help you, I’d love to join you!”

The next young man, though appearing reserved, courteous, and cheerful, in is in a panic. He has driven an hour to get to the shop because I told him over the phone that I could get his wedding suit altered before his own wedding this Saturday. He’s a sweet guy in his very early thirties with intense brown eyes and a kind face. He ordered this suit six months ago but when it came in, it was not the right suit. The sales clerk took it back, ordered another one, and it has just come in today. Only, instead of it being a 42 Regular, they have sent him a 44 Long. The wedding is four days away. The pants have a 38 waist and need to come in 5 inches, which is an impossible feat, given that the back pockets will overlap if we do that. The coat I can alter but the pants are a deal breaker. On closer inspection, they are not even made correctly. One pocket is already only one inch from the center seam and the other is three inches. There is something seriously wrong with these pants. They cannot be done. He looks stricken.

“Deep breaths,” I say. “The good news is that you can get married in your underwear and the wedding will still be legitimate. You’re marrying the love of your life and that is what counts. This is just nonsense. We’ll sort it out. First things first, take a picture of my tape measure next to these pants and tell the store where you bought them that these are coming back.”

He calls the store. They refuse to acknowledge that anything is improper with the suit other than that it is unfortunately too long. Their sense of “customer service” is to deny any wrong-doing on their part and insist “a decent seamstress should be able to fix that for you.”

I laugh, not politely. This is the best joke I have heard all day.

“Our in-house person could have done it,” they maintain.

“Maybe their magic wand is more magical than mine,” I say dryly. “Unfortunately, my magic needs to obey the laws of physics. I should definitely go there and take some lessons!”

The Groom-to-be asks to speak to the manager. Eventually, he gets in touch with the owner of the store, who refuses to acknowledge that the photo of the pants with my tape measure is correct.

“I’ll have to see them in person before I can authorize a return,” he snipes. There is no apology and no compensation for the fact that they have messed up this man’s order not once, but twice. This young man bears it all patiently, stoically. His only concern is disappointing his bride, should he have to show up to the event in his pajamas. I ask him what he does for work. It’s grueling work—work that takes incredible study, skill, personal fortitude, and deals with the general public in a venue where mistakes are potentially fatal and simply not allowed.

I am humbled by his dogged imperturbability. He shrugs. He’s used to dealing with people, with disasters. He possesses an impressive inner cohesion. There is no “temper” in his temperament. He is not blown off course by storms. He sets off for a town thirty miles away to see if a Bridal shop there has a suit he can use by Saturday.

“Honestly, I don’t give [some poo] about wearing a suit. But I really want [my bride] to have the day of her dreams. I want all the photos for years to come to look good. I’m going to do what it takes to make that happen for her.”

I feel so lucky to come across these Characters in my daily work. I am blessed and buoyed by those who face both silly and serious challenges in their lives with such cheerful courage. Sometimes, we might not notice these people—especially those who are ordinarily reserved and dignified (and not inviting you to kick them in the shins). As I continue my own Mending, I begin to see that what hurts us gives us opportunities to forgive or learn compassion. What exercises power over us teaches us how to take our power back. What we fear comes to teach us courage. The things we cannot control give us opportunities to choose—do we Let Go? Or do we drive on, in blind faith that we can overcome any challenge? Until we do. (When this young man says “I do,” we know for damn sure… He DOES.)

That’s an awesome thing for a humble little seamstress—one who is flat, static, round, and dynamic to the point of scattershot—to witness on her Journey to the cutting table. I love these Characters who lead me to Love. The best Love of all is that which shows me how to be a better person without changing me into someone other than myself. I do believe we are all here to help each other Mend. As my new one-legged pal says “And You gotta laugh! Cause one day, you’re gonna wake up and it ain’t going to happen anymore.”

Happy Mending, Dear Ones! Thank you for your Good Work!

With sew much love,

Yours aye,

Nancy