While this blog is entitled Indie Novelist and Improv Quilter, the improvisational nature of my sewing has fallen off mightily in the last year. I realized this months ago, but there simply isn’t time for me to dive headlong into improv quilting at this juncture of my life. I’m just trying to maintain a semblance of my crafty self as a second generation of my descendants rules.
My husband and I spent this past weekend with The Burrito and his folks; I played firemen with my grandson, employing two outside chairs as our firetruck, then following him around the yard as we put out fires with his toy firehose. We trekked about a local pumpkin farm where he climbed hay bales, ran through a cornfield maze, admired goats and chickens, chose pumpkins, and provided this abuela a photo op on an old John Deere tractor. He’s two and a half, speaking in full sentences, potty trained, and rarely still, making me so happy to be his ‘Bama’.
But as grandmotherly joys increase, moments to mull over any sewing other than patchwork no longer exist. That’s fine, reminding me I really shouldn’t plan for more than this day. In light of the recent wildfires, perhaps it’s truly best to live each day as the blessing it is. I took the opportunity to make some little kennel quilts for an animal shelter in Oakland, using spare squares, then extending them another two inches. It took a couple of days, and while it’s a drop in the bucket, I enjoyed making these little comforters.
Right now a baby blanket awaits time under my machine, my youngest daughter has requested an insert for her sleeping bag, and Christmas fabric is stacked and waiting for space on the quilt walls to open up. After my father died, I made two patchwork baby quilts for Little Miss, then was ready to say adios to that manner of quilting. But that doesn’t seem to have been in the plan….
As the writing has waned, maybe improv quilting will again emerge when nietos are school-age. I have as many quilt notions as novel plots, but there are only so many hours in one day, and clinging to methods that require more time than I can muster is futile. I spent this morning reading over the last three chapters of The Hawk, and if I get around to adding more tomorrow, fantastic. If not…. Herein lies the crux of happiness that I’ve been embracing; what will be will most certainly be. And what doesn’t happen…. Either it will come back to me later, or was never mine in the first place. I waited until I was forty to start writing, never believing I would complete a single book. Hah! Soon I’ll expound upon that miracle, but today I’m content to honor patchwork. It’s not flashy, but full of love, and for now the best usage of my talents. It’s where I started this quilting journey, which hopefully has other avenues yet to explore.