Lately I’ve been altering the tunic blouses I no longer wear, cutting off the extra length to yield what feels like brand new shirts, in fabrics I love. It’s amazing, this power to remake an object no longer useful or relevant, to give it new life as something valued and enjoyed. I’m appreciating the magic of sewing, of making a straight length of fabric fit the curves of a human body. How have I not noticed the way a few inches in length affects the look and feel of a garment? How the shape that emerges from taking up a side seam or adding a slim dart changes the entire profile?

I’ve also wondered what to do with the bands of cloth cut from the bottom of those long shirts. The linen fabric itself is a pleasure with its smoothly woven natural fibers—a feat of textile manufacturing. I hate to throw it away.

In the satisfying way life sometimes has of bringing everything together, the seeds of an answer were sown long before that question arose. A few weeks ago I sent a friend home with a handful of fragrant lavender stalks, cut from the plants blooming along my front walk. Then this past Sunday afternoon she offered an update: she had created a sachet from an antique handkerchief, using the dried lavender flowers and leaves to fill it. I loved the simple elegance of her project, and the pleasure it brought her.

So now I have her inspiration as an idea for how to use the linen. I can sew it into little sky blue, pale pink, and white pillows. I can make good use of the lavender that continues to grow, watching for bumblebees as I cut more stalks and let them dry. It feels right to make good use of what is left—the scraps from sewing, the still-fragrant remains of the flowering.

I appreciate having the time and inclination to husband these remnants, the prospect of making them into something to share. Crafting something small and lovely from what life is offering at the moment is one way of honoring what is good and beautiful. A humble effort, a humble offering, and yet one that brings pleasure, with its power to scent daily life with the opening of a dresser drawer. Maybe a day can be better for experiencing the scent of lavender in the morning. Maybe I can make sachets enough for every grandchild, offering some small reminder of how they are loved. Maybe the fragrance of lavender in their old age can remind them of their grandmother’s love.

All this moves through my mind, even as the air outdoors this morning is too smoky for outside work, with the nitrogen dioxide imposing an air quality rating of “poor.” I felt it in my chest from just a couple of minutes sitting on the front porch. We are all breathing this air, even the lavender plants, subject to the fires burning in this world.

I didn’t grow up checking on air quality ratings. My world didn’t include water filters, or air purifiers humming in their white boxes nearby. I thought of each person as a separate being, not considering how together we create the world that holds all of us. In ways both beautiful and terrible we shape the world that others experience; we are all part of the air breathed by one another.

The word for bringing up minerals from the depths of the earth to sell and to use is “mine.” How do we find the will and vision, the depth of understanding, to see it all as “ours”?

Susan Christerson Brown