I have this skirt that I love but I don’t wear it very often. It’s not beautiful. It’s fuzzy. It sheds. But I love it anyway. Every time I wear it, I feel good despite its relative ugliness. (The picture does its ugliness NO justice.) And every time I wear it, my husband’s eyebrows go up and he says, “that skirt!” or something like, with a little grin on his face.
I made it myself.
A few years ago I came across a yarn that was made from the snipped-off ends of old saris, gathered by women, and woven into a multi-hued and irregular string of vibrant colors. It appealed to me deeply. The colors, the recycling, the financial advantage for 3rd world women, the allure of saris. I always wanted my own sari. My father probably would have liked that, but I always thought I’d look ridiculous in one, having not inherited a sufficient portion of his Indian features. People are usually surprised when I say I’m 1/2 Indian, though never surprised to hear I’m part Hispanic although that’s a mere quarter of my DNA.
I ordered the yarn, waited weeks for it to arrive to my LYS, then bought way more of it than I needed for the project I wanted to try. With three skeins left, I wondered what I could do with the remainder and knew that because it was irregular, occasionally had bits of hay in it, and was incredibly unpredictable, I couldn’t make anything I’d wear on my torso, or up near my neck, so a skirt was ideal. In my head it would look like multi-colored tweed when it was finished. It doesn’t.
It’s subdued in low light but really comes to life in the sun when the silk glistens and the saturated hues brighten.
I know it’s silly to love a ridiculous little piece of cloth.