I wonder why images crowd into my head, over and over again … for years.  Maybe I should stop wondering and just fall into the wonder of it all.  To enjoy the moments that appear unbidden.

One of those pictures of my life is the patchwork quilt.  Ancient.  Hand-sewn.  Lovely.

A floral blouse fading from Christmas green to pastel green.  A pair of jeans wearing out at the knees.  A checked tablecloth that has seen better days.  All viewed with the eyes of an artist, seen anew.

So many squares, revealing chapters in a life, asking to be reborn into something warm and comforting.  So a human being can soon pull the softness and thickness to the chin, inviting slumber. 

Maybe each piece of fabric is alive, yearning for company, for contact, so that together they can contribute to the world.

There may be many weeks of stitching squares to their neighbours, the hand feeling the needle and thread fulfilling their mission – to create beauty.

Squares of course have their own distinct shape … but what colours!  What patterns!  What swirls and dots and butterflies and lines and moons!

And flowers