Fabric is my paint. I use it to create quilts, and costumes, and little girls's clothes. The latter has gone out of vogue since the twins wear school uniforms and have become more stylish than me, but there is a granddaughter in my life.
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 teacher who inspired my own teenagers about history.
That one is the daughter of the man who cut down the dead tree leaning perilously over my roof.
This boy's great grandfather was the policeman.
That little girl's daddy hosts an online show that has become part of my spiritual growth.
This girl's mother made the candles I gave for Christmas that were shaped like 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.
