When Mom died I buried myself emptying out closets, tearing up musty carpets decades old and sanding down the original pine floors in my house (many rooms at the same time I might add). When Dad died, a century of wallpaper was ferociously stripped and I re-papered (again, many rooms at the same time). Apparently, my therapy for loss is to throw myself, arms flailing, into something way beyond rational process and I appear to be in this place again.  I have renters now so tearing apart my house isn’t an option and I don’t feel like it anyway. (Actually, I have gotten darn near obsessively tidy).

I want to make quilts – detailed patchwork quilts. Which is bizarre as ‘detail’ generally has no place in my vocabulary. My quilts in the past have been big, fast blocks and like my cooking, I don’t measure…at all.

So I buy a cutter, quilting ruler, board, quilting book, and some material. (That is a first and due to the cost, a last). The woman suggested classes and advised me to take home little samples and take some time to think about it. So funny. “No thanks, I need it all now,” I respond. (She looked a little scared). So here I am measuring and cutting and sewing with a vengeance. Many of the 2 inch squares and triangles have gotten way smaller and it doesn’t look at all like it does in the book. I did finally get my reading glasses out as I was tired of aiming the thread in the general direction of the needle and  repeatedly managing to stab my finger checking to see if the thread made it through. sigh.

I will keep at it – patching together the pieces.  And I will try to slow down just enough.