I came early to the big concrete room, and as I watched, something magical happened. Dozens of women filtered in, filling the space the way people do in a film dissolve. They came alone or in small groups, women of every age and background, most of them smiling, laughing, vibrating with anticipation. Also two men: one who looked equally engaged, the other a sweet-looking young guy who seemed to be a plus-one. Long tables were lined up for our use, with fabric swatches and sewing supplies set out at each place. This was a Visible Mending workshop led by Instagram fibre arts star Arounna Khounnoraj in the back forty of the Art Gallery of Ontario, and I was smiling myself.

I also had a double purpose in being there. I haven’t done much sewing for years, but I wanted to prime myself to get back at it, mending and altering old clothes this fall rather recycling them. Experts say too much of the clothing we think we’re recycling ends up in landfills—if not in North America, then in African countries where much of it gets sent, devastating their textile industries.

Yet I was also there to research the novel I’m writing. My main character, Clover, has a few problems. Poor main characters; they exist to have problems. On top of getting counselling and sleeping with far too many men, Clover tries to heal herself with meditative practices. I’d already decided that her meditation would include the sort of mending I’ve been planning to do myself, which can be deeply calming. The moment I heard about Arounna’s workshop, I signed up to learn the vocabulary of visible mending, the possibilities, the feel of fabric and needles and yarn in my hands. 

As it happened, I learned much more. That’s what I love about research: the way it leads you in surprising directions, enriching your understanding of something that seems simple, even mundane, but ends up resonating loudly.

Once the room was full, Arounna called the happy female chaos to order. “I don’t know how many of you have heard of me,” she said. Most peoples’ hands shot up, which seemed to honestly surprise her. For the others, Arounna explained that she was born in Laos and came to Canada when she was four years old. “We were poor,” she said, and her mother routinely mended family clothing—in this case invisibly, so other people wouldn’t see the repairs and judge them for their poverty. 

Yet after doing her master’s degree in fine arts, specializing in sculpture and ceramics, a series of residencies brought Arounna to fabric. She told us she grew interested in handmade projects, slow design, making repairs visibly and artistically. As she says on her website, this new focus was married to environmental concerns. Clearly trying to stay non-judgmental, she spoke about trying not to buy fast fashion—”although it can be an economic thing, when clothes can be so expensive?”—and how, at least, you can mend clothes meant to be throwaway to use for at least another season? 

Looking around, I saw people nodding in agreement, a consensus wish to try to do something about the perilous state of the environment, not to mention our bank balances. I imagine at least some of the women felt as helpless as I do in the face of the climate crisis, which now affects daily life even in prosperous and protected Toronto, where July has set a record for rainfall, flooding the roads and subway, and the ice was so poor on outdoor rinks last winter they could be unskate-able even in the depths of February. 

At least we could mend. At least we could save something, even if it was only socks worn through at the heels, even—as one of the women across from me said—the sweater that caught on your belt buckle, the metal tongue making holes like little moth bites.

Our silent rallying cry: No more landfill! Save the world, one stitch at a time!

At each place at the table was a pair of delightful mini-scissors that everyone exclaimed over, fabric, yarn, needles, a needle-threader and a squat darning mushroom, a piece of carved wood that looked like the world’s most uncomfortable dildo. At the front of the room were copies of Arounna’s book, Visible Mending, which you can buy here. Sitting beside them, she had us start with the same project, taking a square of stretch fabric with a hole cut in the centre and backing it with a darker piece of similar fabric that closed the hole. This we stretched over the top of the darning dildo, securing it in place so we could sew the two pieces of fabric together. 

The vocabulary began to flow as Arounna taught us sashiko stitching. Using yarn in a contrasting colour, we sewed the pieces of denim together with a series of small stiches visible on top, which the artistic woman beside me made into a lovely spiral pattern. Don’t use cotton floss, Arounna advised, but the Daruma brand from Japan. She spooled out other terms new to me: Pearl cotton. Couching. Soon we learned how to do the parachute stitch. 

At least, I tried to. 

I have clumsy hands, which pairs badly with my perfectionism. But I’ve learned that I can eventually get the feel for what I’m supposed to do, bypassing my over-busy brain to work a skill slowly and imperfectly into my muscles. Watching me trying to learn to paddle a kayak, an instructor once told me I’m a kinesthetic learner. I need to repeat actions over and over before I get them. (More vocabulary. I love vocabulary.) This requires patience on the part of an instructor—or help from fellow students, as I found that evening.

I mentioned how we were all of different ages and came from a variety of backgrounds. The artistic woman sitting to my left was my age and Black, while the smiling woman across from her, whose sweaters get torn by belt buckles, was a bit younger than us and spoke in a Japanese accent. Next to her was a young Canadian woman of Chinese background who sometimes called happily down the table at a group of Canadian friends her age from all sorts of ethnicities. A quiet middle-aged white woman sat between the young woman and her friends, while across from her, to my right, sat an elegant white woman in her 50s with a northern European accent who looked as if she’d stepped out of a Chanel ad. 

They were all kind to me. When I broke my delicate needle threader, the young woman across the table lent me hers. The artistic woman glanced at my sashika stitching and began politely, “One thing I’ve found helpful…” The zipper woman called out encouragement when I said I was slow. “You see! I’m slow, too!” Holding up her fabric, its stitches beautifully even. 

I felt soothed in a way that’s become painfully uncommon in our atomized world. It also got me thinking about a nonfiction book I’d just started reading, a 676-page takeout by novelist Philippa Gregory. Normal Women: Nine Hundred Years of Making History examines the lives of ordinary women in England from 1066 to the present day. What was clear even from the first hundred pages was that the book is an exploration of female collectivity. Women banded together throughout history to support one another, whether as midwives, herbalists or simply as neighbours, staging food riots when prices spiralled, taking up arms when men were away in order to defend their homes (and themselves, from rape)—even inventing the much-caricatured tactic of dumping vats of molten lead over castle walls to drive away pirates. It makes sense when you think about it, that a woman would be the one to brew up a pot of something lethal. Her name was Elizabeth Treffry.

We’re so splintered these days by social media, pandemic fallout and politicized distrust. I was reminded that evening  to weave another strand into my novel: the great comfort that can come from spending time with other women working toward a common goal. There we were, happily crowded into the AGO under the patient tutelage of Arounna Khounnoraj. Sashika stitching. Parachute stitches. Blanket stitches. We learned ways to keep clothing out of landfill, wanting to help repair the world with nothing more than a needle, a thread and a roomful of female good cheer.

Won’t it be lovely if it works?

In two weeks: a review of Normal Women by Philippa Gregory.

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