To be clear, it is not perfect. If I were presumptuous enough to submit it to a quilt show it would not bring so much attention as an honorable mention. Of that I am quite sure. The masterpieces that are festooned with ribbons are incredible. 

Let me go over the flaws, because that is what quilters are prone to do. There are small snippets of black from the border of the original panels, which I did not realize at the time would jar me. I could have trimmed them early on if I had. The process of integrating the intact panel within the hundreds of triangles chopped from the other six panels was difficult. Rather than just cut, pin and sew, the flow was interrupted by having to fit a large rectangle which doesn't shrink from sewing with long strips of triangles which do. The two did not quite meet, forcing me to concoct a narrow band from leftover triangles. A dozen bias edges in twenty inches is never a good thing. The quilting itself went well, considering the fact that it was my first time using a wool batt. The loft and lightness are lovely, and I am excited to find out what kind of warmth it brings next January. There are orphaned hexagons, which feels wasteful and never happens with a straight up One Block Wonder. Still I celebrated by granting her a batik border and back. Hang the expense. 

But she is finished except for the binding. I will gaze at her for half a day before making that decision. I kind of wish I could show it to Monet, or at least thank him. But that is impossible. 

Still I predict that all or most of those imperfections will float by you, much like the wind on a grassy knoll. As an observer you were spared the grunting sessions, and the stints of ripping when fabric didn't behave. 

Enjoying her is rooted in the pleasure my Creator feels standing back and perusing the pieces of my life. The mistakes are there. The lack of foresight shows up like black spots. Wobbly character defects eventually calm down like tamed bias edges. Things like resentment and worry were a waste of time, but can be left on the sewing room floor. But if the hidden core of my being is anything like a lamb I will stay warm in a cold blast.

It would be sweet to be able to thank the One who made me. It turns out that I can.