The quilt I just finished is spread out beside me. It has been laying there for most of a week, because it brings me joy to look at it. Eight hundred and forty pieces cooperate to depict a forest of trees growing in four directions. There is something about the symmetry, the simplicity of two colors, and the historical richness of the pattern that resonates for me. Having wrestled with the fabric for a month the completion seems like a victory. 

There are many components of life and marriage that escape such clear triumphs. Some may point to the fancy dinner out, or the number of years since they said "I do". Those are worthy of celebration, but they impress me less now than they once did. 

The substantive moments in John's and my relationship are not photogenic. The absence of sharp words does not appear on camera, digital or otherwise. We volley the needs of our special needs son not as a competition, but to keep the ball in the air as long as possible. But there are no visible signs of that marathon. The daily smoothie that John blends for me would not play well on Instagram, being a military green. The pile of clean underwear I put on his dresser is not folded in a presentable fashion. 

Which all suggests to me that finding delight in the overall beauty of a Tree of Life quilt makes sense. Two distinct colors playing nicely together, whose energy points outward. Plus it will keep us warm in February.