It is my experience that people who love to create do not also love to sell. This is not a complaint. Perhaps it is simply a reflection of the way God spreads out gifts to his children. I for one am enormously thankful to have a modest share of enthusiasm for hand work. As I look at the stacks of quilts in my living room, I remember the effort and struggle to get fabrics to play nicely with each other. A finished Star of Bethlehem brings me joy. 

 

I have been hauling quilts to craft fairs for quite some time. Selling a few is a reasonable part of the cycle that results in forty or fifty new quilts each year. The routine is the same.... arrive in time to arrange them in a pleasing display, while other craftsmen and women are at my elbows fussing with their lovely baskets and paintings. Many of us are friends, and understand that inner pull to release beauty and color into the world.  Still I would be so bold as to suggest that most of us do not enjoy selling. 

 

There have been times when I calibrated my personal worth on the number of quilts bought. More meant I was a good quilter. Fewer meant I had failed. John has been a stabilizing influence for me, recognizing that the process of creating them is the main event, and is what courses through my body regardless of whether I recover the cost of my hobby. 

 

Because of my unfortunate coupling of the number of quilts sold with my value as an artist, I have had a wide range of emotions over the years while breaking down my display at the close of a sale. Sadness. Jealousy. Embarrassment. 

 

But this week I made a personal victory. My hope was to have real connections with people walking by. The quilts became an afterthought. For three luxurious hours in the bright sunshine I spoke with a stream of colorful friends who were meandering through the booths with their children. It was delightful. We chatted about their families, and health struggles. I listened to them with full attention, and lost myself in the moment. 

 

In the end I had sold a few wool felted toys, but instead of being a measure of my success it was simply another way to offer cheer. Then, just because God has a sense of humor, as I was packing up the same number of quilts I had brought that day, a friend noticed the adorable gnomes on one and said she would like to own it. Yet instead of being about me, the exchange was about her. 

 

The result was the same as many other years. But this time my reaction was wildly different. It turns out that gratitude for what is happening feels much nicer than expectating it to be different.