When I was ten or so, my mom sewed a solstice dress for me to wear to winter solstice rituals. (I won’t elaborate on the yearly event, but think “simulated birth canal.”) I still have that magnificent gown, which is in a purple 1990s celestial print that could be mistaken for nothing but a relic of the particular cultural moment in which it was made. It still fits, kinda.
How many such garments does one womyn need, you might wonder? Arguably zero. The thrifting goddesses, however, clearly thought differently. Why else would they have strategically placed coordinating celestial sheets in my local thrift store, where I found them in the first days of 2025? They were an obvious must-buy, and I knew exactly what to do with them: sew a second, “adult” solstice gown. Never mind that I haven’t attended a solstice celebration in at least twenty-five years; never mind that solstice gowns aren’t really a thing.
There must be some equivalent to dog years when it comes to skills development for newly obsessed sewists with actual OCD. Indeed, the amount I’ve learned in six months is pretty astounding, if I do say so myself. (I do, apparently.) Whereas now I could choose from a decently large library of patterns I’m confident I could sew up with relative ease, back in January, I was kind of overwhelmed trying to figure out how to approach turning these precious mementos of solstice rituals yore into a flowing solstice robe worthy of the name. I knew I could manage most beginner-friendly projects. Still, significant stumbling blocks remained. One of these was bias-bound necklines, which I took great pains to avoid. I nonetheless opted for Matchy Matchy Sewing Club’s Skipper Dress, which required this skill but seemed just the ticket to highlight the sheet set and give justice to its sun/moon motif. Keeping my eyes on the prize, I decided that I owed it to the sheets.
Despite a few bumps and machine issues (this was in my pre-Bernette era), everything went disconcertingly well, and I was all too pleased with the masterpiece that was taking shape between my fingers. By the time I reached the bias binding—the very last step—my ego was swollen with as much confidence I ever feel. Of course, “as much confidence I ever feel” isn’t all that much by most people’s standards. I thus asked a fellow sewing enthusiast with much more experience and know-how than I possess for tips and then sewed a few practice necklines. It took work, but I eventually finangled them into being tidy(ish), so I sewed a few more, took a deep breath, and sat down with Solstice Skipper in one hand and the bias binding in the other.
I gave up after three hours, by which point I’d sewn and unpicked the bias tape at least thrice and was on the verge of stretching the neckline beyond salvage. Packing the unfinished dress in a bag and shoving it behind a teetering pile of fabric, I told myself that I’d take a few weeks before making a last, and final, attempt. I didn’t need the dress until summer solstice anyway, I thought. Plenty of time.
Fast forward six months to Wednesday, when I was doing a very-late-spring clean of my sewing cabinet (not to be mistaken with my sewing closet) and found the Ziploc containing the 95%-finished Skipper. Since January, I’ve sewn many garments requiring bias binding with no issue. I knew, rationally, that this should be a breeze. You got this, a solstice goddess whispered in one ear. Pretend this never happened! screamed an evil celestial spirit in the other. I ignored them both.
Fifteen minutes later, I was done, aaaand … it was pretty awful. Like, bad. I’ll admit that I expected better of myself. Mild disappointment quickly mushroomed to a (mild and short-lived) identity crisis. Once that was out of my system, I placed the solstice gown in its new home, my salvage-for-scraps basket, and reminded myself—and the now-smug evil solstice spirit—that the ugly neckline wasn’t proof that I’m a lost cause and should choose a new hobby.
Upon reflection, I know exactly what the problem was: not my ability to attach the binding but rather the binding itself, which January me didn’t cut properly. I prefer, however, to blame this on a solstice curse, mostly because it makes for a more interesting story. Might as well salvage what I can.
Whoever or whatever’s responsible for my mangled Skipper, today’s the summer solstice, and I’m not wearing my new solstice gown as I thought I might. I am, however, wearing another me-made garment with a bias-bound neckline. This one lies satisfyingly flat. And lest you think my husband will be the spared the secondhand embarrassment of knowing that I’m out and about in solstice-themed garb, let me assure you that at some point this afternoon, I’ll change into the purple number and make him listen to me sing a solstice carol—and perhaps participate in a sunset ritual to mark the end of the longest day of the year. I’ll also sew a few practice necklines, just to prove to myself that I can.
De Morbo Sacro: Life and/with Epilepsy 