oceans of patchwork. my hands are always in it. my clothes covered in thread. the fabrics smile at me and we work together. step by step. methodically but with excitement. i recognize patterns and i'm drawn to certain colors.
i long to see the squares pucker and fade and soften. but that takes time. years. so i move on, sewing until it's thick and soft and will cover a bed. until it will smooth over a sleeping child. until it will form around a young girl's dreams. or wrap tightly around a couples love. or keep company with a single sleeper. rise and fall and grow warm. smell like warm sleepy breath. the colors blending and fading with the years. making friends and simply tolerating others. there is life in the quilts. there is a pulse. it's what keeps me at it day after day after day.

we spent the day in other people's houses today. houses being sold by the bank. or that had been left as part of an estate. houses empty and alone. in one we were afraid to walk up the stairs it was so structurally questionable. and in a couple the walls were bare lathe with the plaster torn away. there were parks and a river. schools. beautiful tree lined streets. rhubarb filled gardens. old wood soaked with life. paint that is chipped and worn. spaces i immediately make warm and happy in my mind. the anticipation and the possibilities swirl in an endless loop of aesthetic battles. i need to maintain the old, the charm, the integrity. and yet make it fresh and appealing in the honesty of it's bones. we haven't found the right house yet, or maybe we have.