Yesterday might have been the last of the warm days. It probably was, but let’s hedge it in a more ambiguous manner. It might have been the last of the warm days.
Summer in much of California lasts nearly forever. Winter is a blip, autumn and spring slightly longer. I grew up without summer rain, so I assumed it never rained anywhere in June and July, August and September…. Living for a few years in Colorado was a pleasant surprise, for summer rain was abundant, as were summer hailstorms. Then there was England and…. And now I’m back to where it doesn’t rain but every once in a while it pours. Ironic that for eleven years I ached to see blue skies. Now I’m itching for precipitation.
For a few months I’ve been hand-quilting the Big Bright Quilt. But over the last two weeks, as cooler temperatures descended, I got busy with it, and last night, on an evening in no need of any sort of comforter, I sewed the final stitches of proper quilting. Much remains, like fashioning the binding, like even cutting the strips for said binding. I’m in the process of hand-sewing the perimeter, as the thought of running the edges in my machine makes me a tad dizzy. I’ll attach the binding that way, but this is a big quilt and the less I have to maneuver it through my Janome the better.
As I made those final stitches, then inspected the quilt, confirming that yes, I’ve done all the necessary quilting, memories of making this piece were rife. They intersect with the last sections of The Hawk, which is still a day-to-day process in itself, although not this day. Today I’m trying to complete the quilt top that isn’t a Christmas Quilt but a Christmas Gift. Too many irons in the fire perhaps, in a place where fires are everywhere and still we pray for rain.
But irony isn’t bad, it’s just a different perspective. Ironic that for three years while I have worked on The Hawk, the words have flown (ha ha) from my fingers with alarming speed, and now that I’m on the last part, it’s like pulling teeth. Ironic that having lived in a place where weather permeates not only the landscape but conscious thought now I’m back where there is scant alterations in seasons. Ironic that quilting has come into my life now that I’m a grandmother. No, wait, that’s typical, except that I’m not making the sorts of quilts typically associated with abuelas.
As a writer, I straddle the line between plot and characters that think out of the box alongside cliches; stereotypes are such simply because in this life, they happen to often be what we see. But it’s ironic that for how vibrant is the front of this quilt, the back is fairly staid. And accepting, embracing even, these varying parts of the spectrum is acknowledging that sometimes the familiar reigns. But sometimes it doesn’t.
Like rain; allegedly we’re supposed to receive some this weekend. If we do, maybe I’ll feel inclined to sit under a quilt, either finished or in progress. I’ll be very pleased for rain, but if none falls, that’s all right too. It’s like how words emerge (or they don’t), how rows fall into line, how every day holds promise and mystery. I don’t mind a bit of irony, reminding myself it takes all aspects to keep this planet on its axis. Although I’ll tell you, if damp weather finds its way to Silicon Valley, I’ll be wondering if Earth’s axis took a left turn at Albuquerque….