Quilting : A Process

Quilting is a process, and one that for each quilt happens over days, weeks, and sometimes months or years.   I sneak in moments of quilt-making on sunny days, an hour or so on rainy days, and many hours of it late at night.  The daily moments and hours intertwine and mix together with the other events of my day and my life.

And then there are those kind of moments when something happens and you will always remember where you were, what you were doing, and if you're quilting, you know exactly where and what.

I was matching the seam in the last column between the 4th and 5th block when my phone rang.  I'd taken our beloved Georgia Black Dog to the vet that morning, and though we had some very real concerns, the tests they had done so far that day were hopeful.  But I knew that the timing of this call was not good, and indeed, what they had to tell me led to a hasty call to my husband and a necessary conclusion.  It was time to let him go.  After talking to the vet one last time, I called my sons in to share the sad news with them, then I cried and I cried and I cried and I cried.  Then I texted my best friend who would want to know right away, and then I called my dad.  Then I cried and cried some more.

Then I got up, cleaned up my face, and sat back down to sew that seam.  Then with a heavy heart I sewed the sashing on the next block, stitched it in it's place, then added the last block and the last bit of sashing.  I pressed the seams, feeling as if the weight of sadness was pressing down into my heart.  And then I sat there staring at the work I had done.  My late night quilting endeavors will never be the same. He will no longer be there to sleep curled up on the couch and occasionally open his eyes to check on me.  He will not be there to inspect this one as it's laid out on the wood floor, getting pinned.  He won't give me that sweet look and sweet wag of his tail as if to ask, "Is this soft thing for me to lay down on?"

This quilt is going somewhere where I will visit in the future, and I hate to say it, but I will always remember that seam.  And I will remember how absolutely beautiful this fabric is, and how staring at it, even through heavy tears, brought me comfort.  And how the process of lining things up in a neat, orderly way and rhythmically stitching, stitching, stitching made sense to me and busied my hands and busied my mind and busied my heart in a way that kept myself from being too busy trying to figure out why, or questioning if he knew enough how much he meant to me, or wondering if we could have or should have done something different - and all those other confusing thoughts and questions that have no answer and are not at all helpful.  Straight seams, keeping my mind straight, orderly, rhythmic, on track, not giving in to an unhealthy form of sadness.

A process, sometimes for processing life.