I want to tell a story about this finished quilt top. Or maybe, several stories within a story. A story about the last week & the last century.

I come from a long line of women quilters. In my home I have quilts made for me by my mother, my sister, my grandmother, and my great-grandmother. Quilting is in my blood.

Quilting is a hardy skill. One that my forebears used to make old and tired things new and useful again. An art form serving the human desire to create and be surrounded by beauty, even when resource-poor.

Tuesday, I called @Kullervo_1979 in the middle of the day. I was feeling overwhelmed by events of the week that had triggerered some of my faith-related wounds. I felt heartbroken and tired and I sobbed.

I told him about how much I wish sometimes that I could put my Mormonism in a box and tuck it away in a closet. That I could sometimes just take it off and set it down.

As we spoke, I noticed a box of 5x5 fabric squares in the corner of the room. A box I inherited from a friend years ago and have never really touched.

I told him that I was going to get up and see what was in the box and what I could do with it.

I set some rules for myself: (1) there would be no fabric-cutting and no use of outside fabrics beyond the contents of the box, and (2) my finished product did not need to be pretty. This was strictly a mindfulness exercise. Self-care.

A couple hours later, I wound up here:

There is an obvious irony in quilt-making as a release from pain related to Mormonism. Quilting is a deeply Mormon thing to do.

It’s made me acutely aware of how deeply steeped I am in Mormon tradition. I descend from British handcart converts and temple-builders; friends and associates of Joseph Smith himself. Polygamists. Mormonism does not only define my history; my ancestors defined Mormonism.

In hindsight, I wonder now how many women before me dulled their pain in quilt-making, too. Put their heads down, lost their hands in stitching and piecing, and focusd on the mundane and sacred places over which they had any real autonomy (homes, bedrooms, cribs).

There is something both empowering and painful about sensing my place in this intergenerational chain.

My quilt will go to the quilter this week. When it’s done, I will wrap it around @Kullervo_1979. He loves quilts. I think he will feel safe and warm in it. I think he will feel that sense of being home. That’s what quilts do, because that’s why they’re made.

I will look at it and remember the way he tenderly loved me while I cried on the phone. I will feel good and proud that I am able to create beautiful things. I will feel deeply connected to my matriarchs.

Quilting is a hardy skill. One that my forebears used to make old and tired things new and useful again. An art form serving the human desire to create and be surrounded by beauty, even when resource-poor.

/fin