All day as I work words float through my head. I think of sentences that I love. And then I forget them. Sometimes a fragment of a story teases me. I rearrange ideas and descriptions. Or I listen to podcasts of literature keeping my mind engaged without stopping the work of my hands and my eyes. Sometimes I wonder if I'd be happier knitting words together in loops of story poetry. It seems like a free and light pursuit. I would need silence. And a computer. And my mind that absorbs and ferments all that it encounters. Certainly when compared to the weightiness of the quilts, it seems so simple. For I am overwhelmed with the accoutrements of what I do, heavy on my chest like a heart attack. I have rooms of fabric, scraps that are endlessly disorganized, heavy sewing machines....one that takes up an entire room, and then more fabric. Tons of fabric. It's how I make quilts. The weight is important. It is the warmth. It is the charm. It is the beauty. But the fantasy of freedom and weightlessness surfaces often. Yet I think I'd float away, too much stillness, waiting for the words. Too much stillness. So I sew. Keeping the work a constant flow of materials and collections and treasures for my eyes to rest on, to sink my hands into, to build and cut and wrap up in.
And so I'll sleep as the moon smiles in on me, through the branches of my beautiful tree, through the open curtain and the open window.
Toys In My Nephew's Attic
1 day ago