Been thinking about writing this post for a while now, amid a visiting Burrito, basketball games, revisions, and a very tender right shoulder. Not sure if the pinched nerve was from too much cross-stitching while my grandson visited, excessive weeding while ground was soggy from recent rains, or simply age. Possibly a combination of all three, but what can an abuela do?
Ha ha, I can quilt! And for the last six to eight weeks, that was my occupation, geared for one bambina due in May. Her parents are college buddies of my eldest and son-in-law; weren’t all these young folks just cramming for finals and the like? Um, no, that was ages ago.
Ages of time wrapped up in my memories, sewn together with thread, held in a gift bag for my daughter and her hubby to deliver in a couple of weeks. I’m so glad my shoulder waited to act up after I’d finished the hand quilting on the baby blanket, the other three pieces quilted on my machine. All came out well, distinctive from one another, and I even made a spare rug mug for my daughter, tiny scraps I couldn’t bear to throw away.
Makes for more memories, or something for Little Miss to enjoy.
I’m in a break from work at the moment, no sewing or writing as a friend is visiting, Easter just around the corner. It’s a time of reflection upon life as a whole, life in parts, life in a modicum of pain. Pinched nerves don’t heal overnight, not when fifty beckons. After weeding on Tuesday afternoon, I actually fell asleep on the sofa, not something I frequently do. But this body is changing, and there isn’t much I can do for some of those alterations. That’s a sobering thought, but it’s also comforting, in accepting one’s parameters.
I do what I can, and move on to the next task assured of the strength waiting for me.
In April, I’ll return to The Hawk; my hope is to complete Part Ten before the end of June. I also hope my shoulder won’t hinder that plan, of that I can only wait and see. I’m working on a blanket for myself, large colourful improv blocks that currently brighten the quilt wall with no clear direction for their eventual use. I don’t mind, they aren’t going anywhere. For how busy March was/is, April might be calmer. And that’s good. A year ago my father was dying, and while we didn’t know the timetable, every day was a little lifetime of its own.
Yet, isn’t that how I should view this day? Quilts and plans and cups of tea with a good friend make for a fulfilling twenty-four hours, and this day, 24 March 2016, will never be lived again. At this time last year I had no idea what the next set of minutes would reveal for my father, myself, and the rest of our beloveds. I felt to know so little, and who’s to say I know all that much more now? I don’t know how the quilt on the wall is going to end up, not sure what I’m going to do with Walt and Callie in The Hawk. After reading through the last two parts, having introduced all those folks in Karnack, Texas, what will they signify for Eric, Lynne, Sam, Renee, and the rest. Questions and queries abound!
At least I know this; an improv baby quilt is done, whew! I thoroughly enjoyed the hand-quilting, which meandered all over the place. Sewing around little foxes and diamonds was somewhat tedious, but I like the overall quilted look, and it was a great way to unwind each night, often with the Golden State Warriors winning another game. What I find intriguing is how hand-quilting didn’t mess up my shoulder, but cross-stitching seems a beast. Some things in this life are inexplicable.
But that too is okay. I guess I do know a little more than at this time last year, yet I like mystery. I also find the notion of each day being a lifetime pretty interesting. Balancing the big and little, be it stories, quilts, or people, takes an appreciation of just why I am here, doing what I do. I don’t want to know too much, that would take the fun out of it, as well as the desire to keep writing, sewing, striving to love. Yes, sometimes love isn’t easy. But it is necessary, because without love we aren’t more than clanging gongs. And in this chaotic world, love is all that keeps us afloat. Occasionally it feels as unpleasant as my niggly shoulder, and just as uncertain; why does it hurt, how did I cause it, when will the pain disappear?
I don’t have an answer for those inquires, only the rock-solid sense of keep writing, sewing, even weeding. Keep moving and loving, and inhale the blessings of this life-day as they come.