Beauty is the miracle of things going together imperfectly.

Anne Lamott

“Remnants,” the fourth essay in Anne Lamott’s, Stitches: A Handbook On Meaning, Hope, and Repair looks at beauty in the remnants of life: the pieces that are left when the dog tears down your curtains, dear friends suffer and pass away, and those we love experience heart ache. All that are the remnants of life’s falling apart and coming back together.

This essay reminded me of my costuming class in college that was required of all undergraduate theatre majors. In addition to two days a week of lectures, we had to work in the costume shop 8 hours a week “building” and repairing costumes, and be on the costume crew of a main stage show. Prior to costuming, I had never threaded a bobbin or been taught how to hand stitch. (My grandmother did all of that. She was a whiz at hemming, mending, and making clothes using Simplicity patterns. I resisted her attempts to teach me.) I quickly learned of the artistry and skill to which Lamott refers in this essay when the costume pressure was on.

Looking back, nothing I ever built or fixed was “perfect.” Perhaps my definition of “perfect” grew to include “done” during that time. I learned the time and attention required to sew in that class. I had experienced that feeling — the necessity of time and attention — in rehearsal and performance, but this was different. There was more evidence of the effort. Whereas a performance is ephemeral, a costume can be touched and kept and cared for. There is beauty in both. Basic stitches can be mastered and used for specific purposes like right answers to questions. Mending is hopeful like forgiveness and second chances.

When a costume falls apart, expert sewers can stitch it back together. They see the whole and can create characters. The costume’s beauty is always there. Perhaps it is even more beautiful after it has been worn and ripped and broken. There is more story, there. Fixing is intentional. The durability has been tested. The hand moves more knowingly. The drape falls with more grace.

That is the beauty of remnants. In Old French, remanant meant rest, remainder, surplus. That makes sense to me. Remnants are the rest — the edges. They are the remainder — what is left when all else is stripped away. They are the surplus — the wholeness of life. They are what we stitch, piece by piece, to create a life.