Sunday, May 1, 2011
There is something about a quilt - handmade, planned, preserved, and well-used - that makes me wish I had a hundred of them.
And when they hang on the line, patiently - soaking up the sun - I want to stare at them all day and ponder: whose hands pieced those puzzles together, and for whom?
Yet they are silent, standing ready for any kind of duty whether an impromptu front yard picnic, or farmers market table covering, or a chilly spring night covering.
Especially connective for me was when, in my English Literature class we read "A Jury of Her Peers," by Susan Glaspell and then another touching and poignant story within "Everyday Use," by Alice Walker. Both of these works of literature played upon a quilt.
The pieces of fabric, however tattered, held together by threads -however steadily or crazily stitched, are so telling of the nature of our lives. And sometimes, our quilts, much like our lives, aren't quite pieced together like the picture we have in our minds.
But, indeed, this is the beauty of a mismatched and hither-thither quilt. And the beauty of a life that was once planned to be a solid color, or black-and-white, even, that is now the many pieces and colors of a life unscripted. Even the worn and tattered edges hold a certain beauty, no matter the light.