The world is on fire, and the internet won’t stop talking about whether art even matters right now.
Why make beauty when everything feels like it’s burning? Shouldn’t we be in the streets 24/7, shouting down injustice instead of threading needles?
You bet I’ve been asking myself these questions.
For many years, I’ve spent a ridiculous amount of time making fiber art. These days, I’m a full‑on stitching fool. I hunt down old quilt pieces and “funky stitch” all over them. This “old school” craft confronts my brain in the best way, training me to think more boldly, sending me sideways, bringing me more alive in every part of my life. It reminds me to appreciate imperfection and calls me forward when my confidence wanes.
All my creative output becomes fuel. It burns down stuck thinking and lights up new paths. When I make things with my hands, my courage grows.
When I feed my creative urges every day, I’m more able to
- Think creatively about how to resist.
- Dream up fresh ways to build real community.
- Discover new paths in my paid work helping others find theirs.
- Invent new ways to show my fierce love.
- Remind people what a more beautiful world can look and feel like.
Every bit of beauty I make is one more defiant flare in the dark. The world is short on flares in the dark.
Every stitch, every scribble, every song—it all counts.
We all have a part to play. The work is to figure out what’s your part—and then actually DO IT, in your own way, with your own flavor.
You might be the one on the front lines, marching, organizing, chaining yourself to a threatened tree.
You might be the one dreaming up new systems so this world becomes more just, more humane, more deeply caring.
You might be the one who shifts consciousness, nudging people to imagine and walk new paths of possibility.
You do not have to do it all.
You just need to discover what is yours to do—and grab it with both hands.
Lately, what’s mine to do looks like stitching.Some pieces are straight-up inspirational. Some are snarky and irreverent. Some are raw little scream‑rags where I spill my feelings, trusting that somebody out there is feeling the same way.
I call it Stitching for Tattered Times.
If your heart is threadbare, your rage is buzzing under your skin, or your hope needs a quiet place to land, you’re invited. Pull up a chair, grab a scrap, and stitch with me. Maybe we’ll discover how to mend the world.
