This morning, after doing the watering, I sat in the kitchen rocking chair to work on this quilt. It’s a gift and the giving of it has been delayed, mostly because of weather. Since the beginning of May (I began the quilt in late March) it has been so hot, too hot to sit with three layers of fabric, one of them warm batting, to stitch. I’d hoped to have it finished to take to daughter-in-law Manon in June. And now, with a family visit scheduled for August, I’m hoping to have it ready for her then. It will have a 2 inch border of deep blue around its edges, pieced together, and the seams highlighted with akoya shell buttons. It’s a simple quilt. I call it a French patchwork–I’ve made 4 of them for daughter (she has 2) and daughters-in-law (each has 1), using cottons from the south of France, or at least cottons inspired by those. The red in this one comes from Avignon, purchased for me via WhatsApp by Manon’s friend (“Do you like this one? What about this one?”), so it’s fitting that she should have a quilt featuring some of it. Two of the yellows are Souleiado. The other fabrics are French-wanna=bes. This morning I wanted to see what it would look like when it’s finished so I hung it on the line, in sunlight. I also saw how much work still needs to be done so I quickly brought it inside again and sat to sew. I have a big hoop which stretches out almost 4 squares at a time for the quilting and I’m stitching a simple lattice-work grid.
Last week my ophthalmologist found more tears in my retinas, close to the edges, and he was very concerned. He has referred me to a specialist in Vancouver who will perform a procedure on Tuesday to seal my retinas for once and for all. (I hope.) Apparently I have thin retinas, threadbare ones, and the danger is that they will tear beyond repair and I’ll lose my vision. I believe I have something called Lattice Degeneration (this came up in discussion but I don’t think my ophthalmologist confirmed that was my situation). Most people who have it (and 10% of us do) have no symptoms and don’t need treatment. But I’m not one of them, unfortunately.
As I sewed this morning, I thought about my eyes. I thought about what I take for granted in my life. That I can choose cottons, cut them out, arrange them in a pleasing way, sew them together, layer them with backing and batting, fit a quilting hoop over a section, thread needles (I can still thread needles, though it takes a little longer!), and enter the meditative space that allows me to stitch and think at the same time, my thoughts following the passage of the needle through the layers, the trail of neat stitches behind it. I have done this work for 35 years and it never grows old. Each quilt is a new territory, a map taking me into its geography–rivers, hills, the tracery of glaciers moving across the landscape and retreating, the lattice of tree branches against the sky. It never grows old. But as I age, I am at the mercy of my genes and habits. On Tuesday, I am hoping it won’t be too late to give my eyes more time. It takes time to thread a needle but once done, I can follow its trail without even moving.
When I take up the quilt, I hear the silk rustling. It is almost alive under its top of patches and panels. Rustling like bird wings, something I could hear with my eyes closed. If I close my eyes, I hear the silk, the sound of rain on the roof, the restless movement of the cat investigating the boxes behind my desk. I push my thread through the holes in the shell buttons, two eyes side by side, tender stabs with a sharp needle. For a moment a tiny button hangs on the thread as I fiddle with a tangled bit, trying to ease it out. By a thread. We hang by a thread in this world of wonders and terror. On a path of indigo cotton, black silk streaked with gold, squares of grey flannel, linen the colour of midnight, these silvery buttons will make a small light for anyone walking in uncertainty, in hope, scarred or whole, the whole dark length.
–from “Anatomy of a Button”, in Blue Portugal & Other Essays.
...Theresa Kishkan 