Fabric swatches, spider
webs of thread, scraps of paper. Slightly skewed pins poke my fingers as I sift
through my box of treasures. A purple and teal quilt square drips over the edge
like paint sliding down the outside of the can. It’s not paint, but fabric is
my paint of choice. I use bits and snippets to create colorful scenes to be
shared and loved by many.
The purple and teal are
remnants from the first foray I made into quilting. At my mother’s side she
showed me how to use the rotary cutter oh so carefully making neat even rows of
squares. She taught me to thread the sewing machine effortlessly, and how NOT
to sew my own finger. That first quilt still hangs in my childhood bedroom and
lord is it ugly. Yet every time I see it I return to sun filled afternoons in
the attic sewing room adjacent to my bedroom. I remember that in the middle of
the night when sleep eluded me, I would slip over to the “other” side taking
care not to fall down the stairs or hit my head on the slanted ceiling just to
sort and rearrange colorful blocks until it was just right, only to be
redesigned the next day.
Those afternoons sewing
were a highlight of my very busy youth. I spent endless hours rehearsing and
performing, soaking up the spotlight (literally) center stage. The fabric play
was just a background piece of me- something I didn’t talk about or identify as
making me who I was. Yet now, as an adult, it is the fabric that soothes me and
gives me moments of tranquility in my hectic, 2012 mommy life. Each day brings
with it new challenges and rewards, but very little time to actually sit and
just be. Those stolen moments I have in the dining room with my fabric is
magical- even when I’m cursing at the bobbin case that always catches or the
dull rotary blade, I am really soaking up the restorative powers of craft- of
moments in the sun with my mother sewing. No, the quilts are never perfect, but
each one is beautiful, redolent with happy memories.
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