Every now and then, I am lucky to lose my mind. Time is suspended. I am not conscious of my surroundings and not judging what I am working on. It is a great feeling, some call it ​“flow.” It happened recently when I was ​“playing” with my granddaughter Remy, age eight. We were hand sewing, working on a joint project, a birthday gift for her 95-year-old great-grandmother, my mother-in-law. 

Not since eighth grade had I thread a needle. Back then, I and the other girls in my home economics class were required to hand sew our graduation dresses. The seams of my creation were never really straight and even as I pushed a needle and thread through the mangled fabric I was stitching together, but my finished garment held together, and I received a diploma. 

While I retired my needle and thread after eighth grade, Remy does sew and is happy to teach me, recommending that I use a basting stitch and demonstrating how. My mother-in-law is known to her great grandchildren as G.G. and loves butterflies. Remy and I landed on creating a butterfly pillow for her.

I cut out two large butterfly front and back shapes, and Remy, after finding her box of remnant fabric, decided the pillow should look like a quilt. She had no instructions, pattern to follow or measure against and absolutely no fear of failing. We cut squares and we sewed, putting one stitch in front of the other. We were in the ​“flow,” and every square was a happy surprise.