Fabric is my paint. I use it to create quilts, and costumes, and little girls's clothes.
Fabric is nothing but threads, woven together in such a way that it can hold together. Be beautiful. Interact. Keep us warm. There are baskets brimming with spools of thread sorted by color next to me when I work, for attaching buttons
and refilling bobbins. Those threads are not yet incorporated into cloth, and are more easily broken with just a tug. It is not until they become part of the garment or log cabin that they are strong. What's more they must go in divergent directions if everything is to be stable.
The other day I sang in the preschool. I looked into the luminous faces of the children and remembered.
This one is the daughter of the woman who plays
violin for weddings.
That one is the granddaughter of the man who helps me with coughs and colds.
This boy's father is the policeman.
That little boy's grandparents are offering a workshop at the marriage conference in February.
This boy's little sister was in the Christmas pageant in the Cathedral.
I felt as if
we are all part of the same fabric, even with our contrasting colors and different directions. We strengthen each other, even if we only touch in passing.
Granted, I live in a small town where these connections overlap easily. But I believe that they exist everywhere. Even if you may not know who this person's daddy, or grandmother are, they still matter. They may not teach your child, but they show up for someone else's child. Their job impacts the people
around them in ways I cannot trace.
Which makes it all the more interesting.
