Tuesday, February 18, 2014
The pieces that make up my quilt do not form a pattern, but randomly interlock. The pieces and parts are experiences and memories bound together with a zigzagging thread. The thread is a line that runs through it all, like a spider's tracery. It is a brightly colored quilt, made of many patterns and kinds of fabrics. There are exotic silks, everyday cottons, and sturdy denims. There are fine linens, soft knits, and stiff canvases. Different and diverse, they should not work together, but somehow they form a bigger picture.
The quilt of my life is well-worn and much used. I have wrapped others with my quilt to warm, comfort and console. I have dabbed tears with the fabric, mopped up messes and wrung out bad days. Held by strong hands, the quilt can carry or conceal. This quilt is an imperfect thing. There are tears and rips, mended and re-mended. Like scar-tissue, I am tougher and stronger because of it. Little moths have chewed their holes. I've patched the patches and keep on sewing.
When I look at my life, I see a quilt spread out and added to. In its making, I've pricked my fingers, tasted blood, and remember.