A Patchwork Quilt

If we see the beauty in craftsmanship, I believe we can heal something within ourselves that is afraid of making mistakes.

❣

This occurred to me as I sprawled a quilting project over the dining table. The mistakes were obvious, but it didn’t seem to interrupt the project’s overall charm.

That’s the beauty of patchwork. There can be a method to the madness with alternating squares into a pattern. But my eyes are attracted to the mismatched fabrics beside each other, complimenting the neighboring square one way or another.

I couldn’t help but feel somewhat disappointed by my mistakes though. Even after carefully planning by laying each square in designated rows to ensure no two of the same matching fabrics touched, somehow the lines were crossed when I started sewing, and the mistakes happened anyway. With the stitch removal tool in hand, I contemplated tearing the stitches to fix it.

I’ve heard that Appalachian grannies were prone to making intentional mistakes in their needlework and quilting on the premise that their spirit would be captured inside the artwork if they didn’t. This just shows how much of ourselves is poured into our craft: blood, sweat, tears, and sometimes even baring our very soul over long labored hours.

Mishaps and flaws are part of our humanity, is it not? They are what mold us, just like the frayed edges of fabric is evidence of tangible fibers. The crooked stitch is proof that our mind wondered for a fleeting moment, trailing off into the distant realm, unlocking a gate of divine insight. How unrealistic it is to expect such perfection from something done with such devotion by our calloused hands and weary minds.

I think about how this transfers living in a digital world with a culture that is obsessed with correction. A standard is established and expected to be met, omitting tolerance for blunders. Social media only amplifies this even further, forever altering the way we engage with one another in a way that I worry has gone too far. Parasocial relationships edges on becoming a surveillance crowd.

This narrative that has been haunting me for years. It’s the same voice that growls after a decision has been made or a task has been done, requiring me to double - no, triple - no, sorry, maybe check one more time - until I can’t remember the original formed thought. It has altered my brain chemistry in a way that’s not sustainable, and I’m trying to grasp ahold of it.

The only way I’ve been able to quiet that voice lately is by taking it to the sewing machine at my altar (aka, the dining table). The humming quiets it for a moment, my focus entirely on my hands as they guide, arrange, and fasten.

Quilting doesn’t ask for much except to show up. It is not bothered by crooked stitch lines, incorrect measurements, or mismatched fabric squares. All of these things are what makes it a transfer of love over cold shoulders or a centerpiece in a room full of friends or a comfort on the cool ground for stargazing.

This craft has become a tether between me and the matriarchs of my family. When my mother had her quilting store in western North Carolina, I remember it becoming a space that I adored. She quickly put me to work, assisting with placing bolts of fabric in their designated spots, a formula she had created. The hardwood floor creaked and the ceilings were high. The upstairs served as a teaching sanctuary where I’d make my first project under my mother’s mentorship.

Though the store itself was filled with such magic, gathered by multiple working hands, the surrounding land was just as wonderous. A path behind extended into a wooded area that I felt weary of journeying. My brother, on the other hand, would walk the path over the hill until he vanished, and I’d be left within the boundaries established by mother. The tall grass and wildflowers waved in the wind, almost gesturing, but I retreated to touch fabrics and observe their unique designs instead.

Two years or so later, the doors of the Quilting Corner closed and didn’t open again. As a teenager I’d pass it on my way to school, a ghost in the background of the scenic daily route. Eventually it blurred, and I’d avoid looking in its direction.

That building is gone now. Demolished after it stood vacant for years.

Yet I find myself returning there under the moon shine, rocking back and forth gently while working a thread, tying knot after knot. The matriarchs send me there to address what the mind has forgotten but what the body has not. Sometimes I am sat on the stairwell that reaches to the top level where sewing machines hum and women chatter. Sometimes I am stood at the edge of the path, overlooking the grassy hills and beyond forest. Sometimes I’m stood on the front porch deciding whether to go inside or not.

All while holding the thread.
A knot, a prayer.
A knot, a desire.
A knot, a request.

Working threads are the umbilical cord between me and the mothers, all of whom made sacrifices and had their own dreams and made their mistakes. Not because they are flawed, but because they are filled with spirit. One that may have been challenged, but never broke. Resilient in creating and nurturing life, something that I can only be so lucky to learn.

For a moment I wanted to fix the mistakes, but instead I took a breath and remembered that these mistakes means I get to keep my spirit.

❣