I am making another hexagon quilt. It took an hour to chop the fabric covered with birds and flowers, which truncated their heads and severed their wings. Then I matched up six identical triangles into a circular dance of stripes or petals. After sewing the triangles into sets, I made piles of similar color themes. The green ones over here, the
cream ones over there. When I assembled the top they were sorted into groups. The current project has more white and less birdness than I was predicting. I am trying not to be disappointed. But the fabric does not lie. It can only give me back the collective images I started with.
My mind naturally wanders as I piece and I was reflecting about the process of a life review. I guess when we die we chop up the days and sort them into piles. Kindness over here, self
serving over there. I wonder if there will be more blank space than I am hoping for. How much time did I actually spend curbing my temper, or expressing appreciation? When I gather the words of encouragement will they be diluted by a wash of criticism?
There are no security cameras running in my house, and my memory plays tricks on me. One time when I felt like the conflict between two particular kids was running amok I decided to keep tabs. It was news to
me to learn that it was about fifteen minutes a week.
There is a stack of books that suggest a practice of writing down what we are grateful for. The times i have done this they collect like a circle of beauty, and bring brightness to the rest of my plain waking hours.
But when I chop it all up and sew my life back together into the blanket that is me it can only give me back the collective images I started with. My prayer is that I
will not be disappointed.
