Like A Quilt

I've been getting back to some quilt projects that I started long ago. So long ago I can't even remember. At least two sewing machines, three houses, over maybe ten years, perhaps more. Anyone's best guess. Those quilt blocks have waited patiently, and Lord knows I considered pitching them a time or two. Mostly when I was packing to move to one of those three houses. It's been so long that when I bought fabric to do borders, we had to look at reproduction fabrics to find colors that coordinated. Many things, including color palettes, change over the years. 

Now I look at the blocks and see where they will never lay smooth, where my pressing was not neat, where the points are off. Where my seam allowances were too generous. I am not the most precise quilter.

 

Life is like that, I've had some bumpy patches, areas that got knotted and frayed, pulled out of shape. There were parts that were broken and had to be reassembled. There were times all went effortlessly. Times I was, metaphorically, packed away in a box only to appear years later. 

I'm still not the most precise quilter, or person for that matter. I am a work in progress. Sometimes my tension is off, those who sew get what I mean. Things get messy then. Other times I come apart a bit at the seams. It may take a while for my colors to coordinate again, but all I need is a little help with that. 

In the end, this project will be a thing of beauty, soft and warm. It will hold stories in the layers of fabric. Much like we hold stories in our layers. Those layers need the light of day and gentle smoothing. They need acceptance for what they are not, and appreciation for what they are. So, I keep working on this, knowing it's far from perfect. Perhaps that adds to it, rather than takes away from it. Take the pieces life gives you and make something out of them. May they be soft to the touch, bring warmth and comfort. Much like a quilt.

Snow Memories

It's a snow day. That brings back memories. I love a good snowstorm. I don't love driving in it. I'll admit that makes me anxious. I do love baking during one, watching it snow, reading by the fire, cooking something yummy. Sipping some wine. Hot cocoa with marshmallows, or whipped cream. Maybe both. 

I miss the days when I'd race to Blockbuster to rent movies if I knew school would be cancelled and the kids would be home. I remember making cinnamon rolls for them, lining up all the mittens, snowpants and hats. I miss walking in the snow with my dad at night. There is just something about the quiet, the company and the beauty that is so special.

Then there is another memory, that was just an everyday event, until hindsight gave it new perspective. That moment when your special someone turned into the driveway coming home from work. That feeling of relief they made it safely. I see cars drive by at dusk and I miss one coming home to me. I'm pretty sure that feeling is part of the rest of my life. 

Funny how the rest of your life sneaks up on you. How you used to play in the snow, now you worry about slipping and falling in it. I'd like to go sledding again but admit it sounds scary. I still make snow angels whenever I can. But only when no one's looking, because the getting down and getting up part is not pretty. What are the things you love to do, but only do when no one's looking? Those things need pondering. Lift them up, hold them to the light, examine them. Cherish the memories and perhaps make some new ones. I think we should.

 

Yes It Is

I've been asked several times recently, what I'm doing for New Years? I take it literally, as in, what am I doing New Year's Eve. But it's also a question of what I am doing for the next 365 days. 

My initial response was I'm not doing anything. Which as I noodle it, is completely untrue. Let me back up the bus a little, I've never been a fan for New Year's Eve parties. There was always anxiety that a person shouldn't hope for good things, as they don't really happen. That if something good happened, then it had to be "paid" for in some way. I know this is a result of dysfunction in younger years. How sad to struggle with this in little and big ways from childhood on. Owning it is the first step. 

So, while I enjoy small gatherings for celebrations, after a time I long for the quiet of home. That's the introvert in me. I had a lovely invitation for a New Years gathering come my way. I was unable to work out the logistics, but my heart is warm from the invitation. It means everything to be remembered and invited. Everything.

I heard someone say that their resolution for the New Year is to say Yes more to things that scare them. I love that. Sometimes we aren't even aware of why we say no, it just feels safer. There are times it is safer, wiser. There are times it's just a habit that needs to shift. I think you have to say Yes mentally first, perhaps repeatedly. Literally say yes, I will say yes more often. Yes, I will. Yes, I will. This concept hits home for a person who is uncertain of trusting the future. Kinda of mind blowing, right? 

Back to the question of what am I doing New Years. I'd like to rephrase my answer. In fact, I won't say I'm not doing anything. I'm doing something even if it is different than what others are doing. I am going to enjoy a quiet evening. I have a good book to read, I'll be gentle with myself. I'll enjoy the company of my dogs. I'll build a cozy fire, and yes, I'll eat some comfort food. I'll say yes to me and what feels comfortable. I'll look for ways, big and small, in the days ahead that challenge me to say yes to opportunities, connection, and trust. 

As always, I'm being led exactly where I need to be and blessed in ways I couldn't begin to imagine. So, in the year ahead may we find the courage to say yes. Sometimes yes is out there, sometimes it's in our hearts.  It's okay to hope for good things, to look forward with faith. Yes, yes, it is. 

Giving...

It never fails, on birthdays, holidays, and especially at Christmas I wish I could do more for my kids. Give them more, lavishly, wholeheartedly. I know we don't need things, but still sometimes it's fun to give things. If I could, I'd give them the moon and stars. I'd pave their way, pay their way, shower them with what makes their heart happy. Except, I don't have that much control. Nor, if I know them well, would they want me to.

We each have to find our own joy, and it rarely comes wrapped in Christmas paper under a tree. Joy is more personal. Joy shifts and changes. Joy is lost and found again often in new ways we couldn't predict. It sometimes comes from the ruins of a dream we thought we had wrapped up. 

Even when I know all this from experience, there is the feeling like I should be doing more. Giving more. Like what I offer is not enough. In fact, I can't give more, I can only give what I am and have today. 

Mostly I have life experience, tempered with grief, seasoned with sarcasm & humor, covered in some dog fur and coated with faith. The list of what I thought I'd be, or have, is longer than Santa's list. 

What I have, what I offer is a flawed human, prone to making mistakes. Bundled in good intentions, and God given talents. There is not enough Christmas paper in the world to wrap all that up. I could tie bows until my fingers fall off, and still not tie up all that love. I can only offer it in tangible and intangible ways to those who grace my life. That starts with my kids and spreads from there. So, if I can't give everything I want, know I'm giving all I've got. 

Blankets

I was digging through a moving box recently. Yes, I realize it's been three years since I moved. Don't judge me. In it was a lovely, luxurious blanket. I don't remember packing it. But I did. I know I didn't buy it, because it is luscious, and I know I couldn't have afforded it. I assumed it was bedding for the air mattress, so never gave it much thought. Until this year.

I unfolded it and pondered. How long have I/we owned it, where did it come from and why am I connecting with it now. Life is like that, you know. We are oblivious to things until a light comes on and the timing is right. We're left wondering. Was it a need that was simply waiting to be met? Was I blind to it? Why didn't I connect the dots?

There are lots of blankets in my house. Ironically, or serendipitously, this one just happens to be king sized. Way too big for the air mattress. Most of my blankets have been nibbled on by a dog (or two) over the years. Of course, it would be nice if they hadn't. Surely, I would have corrected them if I'd had the opportunity. But, dogs, and blankets are stealthy like that. Blankets that have a hole in them are much like our hearts. A little tattered, slightly worn, but still soft and nurturing. They still have the capacity to offer love, warmth and comfort. 

I'm not fussy about the holes. I know some people would never tolerate something tattered. In a perfect world, which is some place I will never live, things get damaged and replaced. That's probably why it was purchased. Me? I make do. That's not necessary a bad thing. In fact, there is a lot of grace in that.

For some reason, this season, I have an ultra-soft, warm blanket to cover up with. I think it's a sign of some sort. I'm not sure exactly what though. Maybe I don't have to know. It's new, and yet it's old. It's soft and warm. It's a gift from another life. If it gets chewed on, so be it. We're all a little damaged, and we're all still beautiful. 

Counting Blessings

I think our sense of gratitude is like a muscle we must build and flex. It must be fed, comforted, searched for and defined. I used to be diligent about keeping a list of things I was grateful for, things that grace my life. I've kept this list for years. Lost the list completely once and began again. I've been slacking in keeping up with that recently.

Isn't that the perfect analogy for life. You start, you stop, you win, you lose, you begin again. You count your blessings.

Where are you in life? How are you flexing the muscles of faith and gratitude? Is your heart full of joy, angst, worry, anticipation?

I was just in the kitchen preparing for Thanksgiving. I was chopping onions, and celery. Measuring spices for stuffing. I've been doing these same tasks since I was old enough to work beside my mom in the kitchen. Now for years, I've been the mom in the kitchen. I've sliced and diced with parents, siblings, relatives, friends, and my children. Other times it's been a solitary labor of love while waiting for my favorite people to arrive. But it's tradition, it's what we do to break bread and give thanks for the life we have, the people we love.

I get that we can quickly, almost thoughtlessly come up with things we are thankful for. I understand sometimes we have to dig deep for even one thing to be grateful for. I know sometimes the worst of circumstances bring infinite blessings. I've experienced divine intervention and happy endings. 

So, I give thanks today for the feelings, the words, the love, the loss and the experiences that life so generously offers me. I'll pause to remember to write on my list and share it. It hangs in my kitchen, anyone who visits is welcome to add to it. One of my son's adds to the list whenever he's home. I treasure his words. I need to give thanks for that. I give thanks for you too. For the ways our paths crossed, and how our lives are woven together. 

Tears

There are days, golden days, when blessings abound that are still somehow tinged with sadness.  You wish it wasn't so. No number of wishes makes it different.

Sorrow enters our lives. Some experience it early, some experience it repeatedly, some go most of their lives only to be confronted with it late in life. I don't believe anyone escapes it. The sorrow shifts as I grow and change. It's hard, but honesty, great growth comes from it. 

Most days we can sweep it into a corner and look past it. Some days we can channel it into activity and not even acknowledge it. But it is there lurking. So somedays we simply must own it. Acknowledge its existence. Sit down and just feel it. In a perfect world, tears help wash it away. Tears cleanse and renew. Though of late, tears seem harder to find. The irony is I used to be a very weepy woman. Every sad movie, every poignant commercial and my kids would be watching for when the water works started. And they always did. 

Now, it doesn't happen so much. I know I'm not alone in this. Honestly, I could use a good cry, and a good laugh for that matter. Heck, I'd take tears and laughter one right after the other. Doesn't matter which order they come in. 

I've been pondering this, and truthfully need to talk to the big guy upstairs about it. Don't get me wrong I'm not wanting more sorrow. I would like to continue processing the share I've had. Sweeping it aside isn't working. Maybe you feel the same. If so, the good news is you are not alone. I'll pass the Kleenex if you need some and understand if the tears are stuck. I can relate to both.