I spent Sunday mending, listening to Game of Thrones on audiobook. Using thread to patch holes and tears in my favorite silk (mini) skirt and flowing hippie pants. Listening to a fictional world that seems eerily prescient to our time. (Except dragons.)
I had meant to darn swants the fourth, but the weather has been so nice I haven't worn them in some time, so I let them go to the end of the queue.
It was a good weekend. Restful. Productive. Salvaging favorite clothes, to keep them useful for longer.
It's anachronistic, it seems, in this world where we seem to think going shopping for new clothes is the norm. (It isn't, worldwide, but we seem to think it is.)
I don't mend clothes because I have to - I certainly could go shopping (on my iPad, even). I do it for the doing of it. The practice of mending itself, which I find calming and the product of it, which puts a stramp of me on what I'm wearing.
Not all clothes can be mended, I suppose, but the ones I can, I will.