Quilts are part of my life. The space that I sew in is right off of the living room, and has tables for three machines. The iron is always on, and the shelves of fabric are alluring.  One is christened the rainbow shelf, and fabric is arranged accordingly. Others hold velvets, prints with animals, prints with food, Christmas themes, and batiks. That last one is the only shelf not available to my sewing students. I just can't bear to see my Balis end up like Swiss cheese when a child starts cutting, then changes her mind. I buy batting by the bolt, and it rules supreme from the corner. Although you can not see it in a finished quilt, it knows, as do I, that batting is what makes the transformation possible. 

There are labeled drawers for elastic, zippers, velcro, beads, and embroidery floss. The button can is on the windowsill next to the scissors, and fifty books bursting with ideas are within reach. Baskets hold the spectrum of thread, and magnetic pin cushions are close by. They help me protect children's feet from getting poked in the summer.  

It is convenient to step across the threshold and piece for a few minutes. Or hours. The sunshine pours through the crystals in the windows, and there are stuffed animals perched and eager to be adopted, then clothed, by students. 

I crank out fifty quilts a year, which includes small wall hangings, and baby sized treasures. The urge to create runs strong, and fabric is my pigment. 

Often I will post photos of quilts in progress on social media, and it is fun to see the responses. One thing that surprises me, is that some quilts look better in the picture than in real life, while others look worse. One time I had a string of accolades for a quilt top that frankly I was disappointed with. The quilt in question lay on the floor in front of me, and I was underwhelmed. Yet comment after comment exuded praise for the blues and design. Really?

Another time I shared a picture of one I was especially pleased with. Yet the colors online came out muddy, and it ignited very few reactions.

What I see looking out is not always synonymous with what others see looking in. Does it render my view obsolete? Or theirs? I have grown more accepting of endeavors that other people were able to find beauty in, and conversely felt protective of those that observers found to be ho hum. 

Maybe there is another element, one invisible to the eyes, that transforms a relationship into something that can keep us warm.