I had a college professor who began every class telling us,
“The only constant is change.” This was likely the most important takeaway for me from those four years. I think about it a lot. He was really on to something.
There are people who like change, the lucky ones, the ones who can pivot with an open heart. I’m not sure why change is so hard for me, but it is. These last few years have felt especially exhausting. It’s been like holding a failing lantern while stumbling down a dark and uncertain path, altering how I work, connect with others, and the ways in which I witness empathy or lack thereof. It has felt tentative yet nevertheless, my choice to embody change and reshape the way I live could be called growth, which is the seed of thriving.
I search for spaces of familiarity when change is forced. When it became clear that masks would be a means to be near to others at the start of the pandemic I began to sew. I made my masks out of the gentle and well-woven material pulled from my expansive and long-curated fabric stash. I love the masks I have made. They feel soft on my face and on cold days they offer protection from the wind and sleet. The comfort and peace of mind my fabric masks have given me these last two years can not be easily quantified, they’ve offered a small but much-needed measure of control in such a tumultuous time.
Making masks for others became a gesture of security and affection. I’m most honored they wore them. Rivers of requests flowed in creating little pools of purpose in a time that felt so helpless. I made masks as gifts for intimate family, preschool teachers, the ladies at the bank, our dentist and his staff, cousins, a few in-laws, and a bride and her wedding party. I made masks for our veterinarian and the staff (using cat and dog fabric of course), and for my daughter’s friend’s fourth-grade class. I made them for children I once taught, now older and taller, and for their families, some for my old high school and college pals, and more for cherished friends we once lived alongside in Pennsylvania and Kansas. Previous co-workers and their families wanted a few and I was all too happy to make and send them. It helped me to do this. My time and fabric worked in concert to nurture others and, in this way, fear looked more like care which made it feel manageable.
We are living in a time when one person’s liberty is another person’s prison, it’s all in the eye of the beholder. Anxiety sometimes looks like anger, it’s easier to be mad at people than to feel vulnerable in the face of death. Perspective shapes our emotions, then actions, and the shift in language from the’ I have to’, to ‘I get to’ offers a gentle approach. The unburdening of the mask gives way to freedom. It’s not really about the mask, it’s about the ask.
My masks feel like offerings to myself. I get to feel the softness of florals or patterns on my face as I move eagerly through the more crowded spaces, thrilled to be reuniting with the familiar, which I find irrevocably changed, all the while tethered to the idea of doing no harm to me or anyone else. Such an adjustment transforms a life.
In some cases, we’re not asked to wear a mask in public spaces right now but I still do. Clearly, I’ve befriended the masks, perhaps because I made them and it’s hard to begrudge something handmade. So I and my masks are just going to hang out together a little while longer. Until it is time to make a change, which I understand is constant.
Copyright (2022) Suzanne Bayer. All Rights Reserved