WELCOME TO OUR SPECIAL EDIT
change of an era
Hello,
Welcome to our latest edit!
Bluish turned 8 this year. Some of you may know, my daughter has been my muse over the last 8 years of building this business and creating the tutus that have made their way into your hands.
My daughter has officially outgrown all of her tutus. The last time she wore one just because, she walked through a meadow and stopped at the shore. It was a year ago. I took pictures of her as the sun set around us. It was her idea to wear it, and I said no at first. I’m so glad I changed my mind, because that turned out to be the last time.
The growing up of my daughter also marks a significant milestone for Bluish — and for me. This is the change of an era. And it’s about time, isn’t it? I’ll be announcing soon: a few changes to the shop, the studio, and how we do things around here.
Thank you for all of the kind messages you’ve sent my way. You’re truly special, because you’ve paid attention to this tiny, but very human brand.
In this edit, I share a glimpse of what I’ve been working on beyond tutus — you’ll find writing from my Substack. So far my work has been published in two literary journals and on Motherly. I don’t share them here, but feel free to reach out if you’re curious.
All of this may not interest you at all, you might be here just for the tutus, and I appreciate you all the same. Please skip the parts that you find boring.
Okay, now let’s move on to the edit!
Sarah
What brings you here?
I say often, that I don’t take your time and attention lightly. Because there are a lot of things around you that are competing for your attention. The fact that you chose to be here, means a lot to me.
What brings you here, today?
***
It is always my hope that our interaction gives you a sense of understanding, a pause, so that you can reflect.
On how we are incredibly human and imperfect, that we have questions without answers, thoughts without outcomes, and actions that are met with silence. And, we carry a lot of wisdom.
It is my wild dream that you think of us as a listener, that our words help you pause and reflect. And then, I hope you find the answers that you knew all along.
PART I
the new
Wildflowers at play
When the weather turns, we look around us and we’re in awe of the changes overnight and the vibrant lives that encircle them.
Here’s our way of illustrating that imagery.
We hope you like it.
Bien fait
Well made
There’s a study from Harvard that talks about the importance of using our hands. It sounds primitive, but the premise is this — when we use our hands, it gives the worrying part of our brain a chance to rest.
I read that study and then experimented with embroidery.
It started with a small flower, and then a short name. Excited by the newness of it all, energy rushed to my fingertips. I threaded cotton string through delicate tulle, poking and pulling with teetering uncertainty. By the time I’d finished, both the flower and the name had turned out well — better than expected.
It was beginner’s luck, but I didn’t know then. I thought it was easy, and later learned that I was wrong.
I could tell you that this was a story to learn from, a metaphor for forging ahead even in times of uncertainty. And perhaps later, by practice, I’d tell you that I got it right. Embroidery eventually became easy.
But I’m not sure those were the lessons. I’m not a messenger of obvious virtues.
After yards of tangled thread, poked finger tips, and piles of abandoned tulle knotted in string… I decided to name our embroidered styles Bien Fait, which means well made. Because the finished embroidery was well made, yes, but more importantly, because it was shaped by the lessons learned along the way.
Maybe using my hands did give the worrying part of my brain a chance to rest. Maybe there was more. Maybe there were deeper truths I’d learned along the way, but I couldn’t tell you even if I’d tried.
Because the lessons we learn are never told, they are always hard-earned.
Pocketful
A story
The little one pouted her stubborn lips and sprawled her tiny body across the kitchen floor. She wanted to eat a third chocolate brownie but her mom said no.
The little one laid there for what seemed like forever, until her mother came over and crouched down beside her. Smiling gently at the pouty face, loose hair, and bits of jam smeared on the little one’s left cheek, her mother pulled the little one to her lap.
Their faces were close. A warmth exchanged between their bodies. Their hair tickled each other’s noses. Her mother smelled like apples and the little one smelled like cinnamon.
You know, it will give you a tummy ache. Her mother whispered.
The little kept her head low. Not answering.
Her mother rubbed the little one’s tummy, tapped it gently, and then tip-toed her fingers to the jagged scar next to the belly button. Her mother traced her finger along the scar from one end to the other, and to the little one, this seemed to take forever.
The little one’s head dropped even lower. She was told that when she was born, something in her tummy had gone wrong. The doctors needed to fix her on the inside so they opened a little door. When the doctors were done, they closed the door and sealed it with a scar.
Mommy, do you have one too? The little one asked.
Her mother thought for a moment, and then pulled down the waist of her pants to expose a scar.
This here, was the door the doctors opened to get you. For a long time, I carried you inside me. It’s where your heart was formed. Her mother wanted more than anything to soothe her little one’s heart, to tell her that a scar could be a beautiful thing.
The little one was intrigued.
But not by the way the human body worked and how it grew and birthed a child — none of that made sense to her. And she certainly didn’t understand the metaphor her mother was trying to convey — that a healed scar could be beautiful, too.
As she traced her squishy finger along her mother’s scar, she understood that inside her mother, was a space for her.
The little one asked with a quirky smile, Mommy, is it like a pocket?
Her mother scooped her up, sending hair and legs flying. The little one squealed in excitement.
Yes, a pocketful of love.
PART II
the same
Staying the same
Every tutu we make is a symbol of encouragement. And each one carries a gentle reminder of the goodness that’s around us. That hasn’t changed.
What will yours say?
PART III
the change
A beginning
We’ve started sharing weekly reflections on Substack. Sometimes, you’ll find them on our Instagram too. Here are two reflections for you. I hope they give you a moment to pause today, so that you can reflect, and discover answers that you didn’t know you already knew.
To a new beginning of weekly thoughtful reflections and a practice of sharing!
How I met you
Our newborn was just a few days old when close friends came to visit. Among them was an old couple from church. They brought clothes for our baby girl and a pink blanket they’d crocheted by hand. The couple was kind, gentle, and selfless.
That day I was wearing an old green sweater. It didn’t belong to me and I didn’t care where it came from, because it was the only thing I’d found in my closet that was wider than my body. I received their gifts and let them hold me, but my heart was somewhere else.
The old couple asked how I was doing, if the baby blues had gotten to me. I blinked back a blank stare. The baby blues. Was that what this was? Feeling feeble and frail, exposed and contrite, I was wearing an ugly sweater and embarrassed that everyone could see it.
After they’d left, the words clung. I searched baby blues and read a news story about a young mother — she’d dropped off her baby at a daycare one morning and then drove off a bridge to end her life. In the weeks that followed, I thought about her often.
Had you asked me then how I was feeling, I would’ve told you that I was great. I would’ve held my breath, like I was underwater, and let the screams bubble away, quietly.
***
Months later, I started Bluish and told a story about a new mother and her baby blues. A story that I couldn’t bring myself to tell anyone, except the internet. I told it the only way I knew how, dabbling melancholy with a mix of good news. My tone was fickle. It was hard to say if I was telling a sad story or a happy one.
But the internet understood.
(And maybe that’s why you’re here, too.)
To the friend I met on Instagram
I checked in on her because I knew she’d just had a baby and gone back to work. I wanted to make sure she was okay. Was it for her comfort or my own? I couldn’t tell.
She told me she was overwhelmed. She was being honest. And to be honest, I wasn’t expecting that. I thought she’d tell me she was doing great, she was feeling fine, and life’s a daisy. Not because that’s what was expected of her, but because, otherwise, the conversation would need to carry on. I would surely ask further, and she would have to tell me more.
I was not a close friend, we met on Instagram. I tried to show empathy for the stage of life that she was going through. Motherhood, individualism, and ticking time - they all become too much sometimes. I wanted to offer hope and suggest that it will pass. But how do I convey that without belittling her reality?
I’m happy and at peace with it all… now, I said.
She generously asked, what’s your secret?
***
I’ve gone back to my journals, trying to piece back together the place I was at, and how far I’ve come.
I’d heard a rumour that a personality can form as early as 7 years old. When my daughter was about 6.5, I started therapy. I was hoping I’d get the sessions done and then undo any damage I’d passed on to her, all within 6 months.
It was a few years ago, I remember completing a self assessment before my sessions and there was a question about sleep. Did I have difficulty sleeping, it asked. And I answered a decisive no. I didn’t have difficulty sleeping. When the therapist saw my response, she was surprised.
Really? She said, because it’s one of the typical ways trauma manifests itself - lack of sleep or inability to fall asleep. I assured her, my sleep was fine.
After we completed our sessions, I could no longer sleep.
We probably uncovered a lot more during those few months than I would have otherwise surfaced in a lifetime. I was a wreck following every session. Sleep became an issue. Anger became an issue. Those things I’d been diligently storing away — they were all there, out in the open, all at once.
***
The 6 month plan didn’t work. And almost 3 years later, here we are.
I’m not sure if there is a secret answer. But to the friend I met on Instagram, I know that there is no easy answer.
More on reflecting
If you enjoyed reading, leave your email with us here and we’ll add you to our reading list. You’ll receive an email every week with a thoughtful reflection.
An ending
Thank you so much for your time and attention. I never take it lightly. Because of this, we try to make every edit special. I hope you enjoyed this one.
If you’re interested, HERE’s the link to our Substack.
