Why I do the things I do

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I don't remember the designer, but how adorable is this holiday print?

A few months ago I bought some Halloween fabrics. I made two quilts and heaps of coasters last year and wanted to sew a couple more H'ween quilts this year, aware I would require a wee bit more fabric. Those prints were immediately tucked into a tote, and while not summarily forgotten, they were certainly out of sight, out of mind.

Earlier this week I retrieved that tote and said fabric, pleasantly thrilled for Past Me's choices, which included stashed away non-Halloween prints that matched in colour. The last few days I've been cutting all these cottons into simple squares, then yesterday I started plopping said squares onto the design wall. The first quilt isn't going to be small; my two grandsons need plenty of yardage to snuggle together. The second is for my sister who LOVES Halloween. If she could eat and breath skeletons etc, she would. Hers will be a large lap-sized blanket, enough space on the sides for her kitties. Whatever fabric is leftover will be used for the backs of these quilts, in that other than Christmas, I'm not a big collector of holiday prints and despite just ordering a gob of cotton, I'm trying to use my stash whenever possible.

While we live in a cool-ish climate, over the years I've constructed enough quilts that for my own household I'd never require additional blankets. That leaves sewing for others, whether it be a full-size comforter, lap quilts or anything in between. Then there are coasters, placemats, tablecloths, and cloth napkins. I've made reusable baby wipes, burp cloths, doll blankets, baby blankets, duvet covers.... While I'm leery of crafting apparel, if an item merely requires four relatively square corners, I'm all in! And if I can gift said creation, all the more reason to buy additional fabric and sew some more.

Writing is *kind of* like that, in that I don't write novels for my own reading pleasure. In gifting my stories, I garner the joy of sharing this or that plot idea/viewpoint with no designated recipient. It's a very ethereal manner of crafting, both in the writing and what happens afterwards. And of course in the overall creation of said novels, lol. I write as I sew, directed by an inward spirit propelling said pastimes.

Last night, while stitching a Mandolin block, I realized another purpose behind the writing, maybe the sewing as well. As a youngster I was told my life had little worth. It wasn't a subtle admonition, made by one whom I trusted as a source of love and comfort. This haunting untruth laid to waste my relationship with this party, not to mention my own self-esteem, which suffered greatly for a long time. Forty-plus years later I'm still affected, albeit it in minor matters, for which I am exceedingly grateful in the minor department, and I guess not surprised by the still affected arena. Scars remain scars, long past the healing.

What does that have to do with my hobbies? To me, books and quilts proffer love. They provide other kindnesses too, but love comes first: snuggly warm quilt love. Pretty placemat love. Cozy coaster love. One of a kind, handmade only for you love. And now it's turning into a let me show you how to sew and pass along the love kind of love, which is meaningful in a way I fully can't describe. Sharing a skill with my grandkids, just as I taught my children to crochet and cross-stitch, WOW! That's a reciprocal sort of love that goes a long ways in mending my at times weary heart. Writing is a different sort of therapy, in that hearts are broken constantly within the fiction, yet when stitched back together, I hope to relay how strong are these new muscles, how compassionate, how giving. That's the key to emotional healing; setbacks will happen, but if overall a person can harness renewal to love more, somehow the brokenness is but a faint shadow. It never truly fades, but is melded into one's soul, making the heart larger, more capable of embracing others.

I've known this a long time, within the writing and elsewhere in my life, but it was odd considering it last night in relation to how I release books; nearly all are free. Writing is a gift, and I'm also grateful that I don't need to turn a profit. Maybe some small part of me doesn't think my books are good enough, or perhaps it's more that since I permit writing as a blessing, to charge for my stories isn't right. Maybe I publish seeking affirmation. Possibly (or more likely probably) it's some combination. Whatever it is, here I am going on and on about it. And for whatever reason that is, again I'm thankful for the wherewithal to write, to sew, and to be cognizant. And mostly to love despite damage and cruelty. That is why I do these things I do.

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