I almost gave up on this Aster blouse three times: first when I botched the back pleat; secondly when I decided that double bias tape would work just as well as single (it doesn't); and finally when I sewed several crooked buttonholes on to my too-narrow placket. But last Friday, it suddenly seemed very important to keep trying.

So I started sewing again... with a vengeance.

Although the details are too personal to share here, let's just say I've been wrestling with a lot of emotions over the past two weeks. My upbeat Instagram posts belie some very real, adult-level sadness, and I've had more than a few cry sessions on my morning commute. It's life, I am ok, and I have friends, family, and an awesome husband to get me through. But when you're hurting in the midst of much bigger tragedies (Paris, the refugee crisis, escalating racial tensions here in United States), it's easy to disappear into your sad cave for a while.

Yesterday I felt the need for some kind of ritual. I'm not particularly religious, but I do crave tradition and still hold on to a smattering of Catholic-liberal-Christian beliefs. In times like these they help a lot; I need to believe in something bigger than myself and my own sorrow. So I walked down to the market and bought a bouquet of fresh flowers. I made a marigold chain, burned some sage and lit a few candles.

And I commemorated the silly, mistake-ridden blouse I that I approached with so much love and tenacity. A project I finished just to finish something. To find joy in creation. To prove that life goes on.