This week I finished another quilt. This is not in itself newsworthy, and yet because it was a novel pattern for me, I was plagued with doubt somewhere in the middle. In truth it was not pretty. Being larger than I tend to tackle, the sheer volume of fabric and batting made for a wrestling match. Trying to smooth out the back with no wrinkles took a lot of tape, and time, and breaks to breathe. The backing stretched the limits of fabric width and had to be pieced in several directions. When it came time for the actual quilting process, the challenge of jamming that much cloth through the machine was strenuous, and I allowed myself to slow it down. Fifteen minute chunks made the escapade stretch out over two weeks, and not all of the sentiments were idyllic. 

 

Binding the edges is a task that I relegate to meetings, but this project was so bulky I decided to keep her at home. Two episodes later, the hand sewing was finished, and I spread the entire quilt across the floor. Not that it fit in the space between the couch and stuffed chair.

 

She is marvelous. The pattern, which John helped me navigate, is not discernible at the close range afforded from my lap. But when I stand back, it is impossible not to smile. Since the time elapsed between begrudging perseverance and blissful satisfaction is brief, I can be shocked that she turned out so well. 

 

A friend was reflecting about the events that began a year ago, and dominated her life for the duration. Yet here she is twelve months later, having slogged through confusing and emotionally draining circumstances. She is stronger. Healthier. Grateful. 

 

Would we wish such detours away? If we even could, which I don't think we can. Is it possible that I love my quilt more because I was near giving up? Could it be that my friend is more joyful for having groveled?