A Visiting Thread
I looked for her in the bottom of kitchen cupboards underneath stained cheesecloth, between the pages of cracked books, under the house in the layer of the fine dust that had formed over the pickling jars, in a cigar box of faded embroidery thread... I looked for her but I could not find her. What are these useless things?
I found her in the sleeping garden as the raven’s wing cut the wind overhead. She revealed herself in the tips of peonies already emerging in the January cold. I found her in the sighs and comfort of her friends, the wringing of hands, the pained embraces. As I moved through the space she once brought to life, I found her in the sadness of my father’s eyes, watching me.
I found her and I lost her and I found her again. Repeat.
|The flower lady holding court at the Pender Farmer's Market.|
|Pender Island Farmer's Market t-shirt block.|
Two more blocks and then sewing the this whole mess together and then the job of actually quilting. Almost forgot about that!
|Photo of Barb's quilts as notes for the next steps.|
|Quilt guru Barb with a bouquet from Mom.|
My trip to the West included a couple of too short days with my favorite quilting guru on Denman Island. In the comfort of the little round house, I tried to absorb as much as I could about the styles, will, and wherefores of the quilting process. Wool versus cotton batting, hand versus machine. The quilts were pulled down by ladder from the loft and flipped and examined and photographed and slept with as though, like learning a language, I could absorb some quilting know-how in my sleep.
I limp along, literally and figuratively, trying to catch up.