a background as dark as night

At the heart of my life right now, there is a puzzle. A conundrum. I am trying to work out a way to solve it, though it might be beyond me. I’ve put dark blue cotton on the table and am making arrangements with squares (some of them lopsided) of Japanese cottons, blues, greys, reds. First I thought nine-patch blocks, one of the oldest block patterns in traditional quilting, a method that was often given to young girls to teach them piecing. In my novella Winter Wren, Grace challenges herself to paint the view at dusk, seen through a nine-paned window. Because the puzzle at the heart of my life right now has me thinking back, back, back, to the years when I was young and alone, I thought I might learn something by making a quilt of nine-patch blocks. If I could piece them carefully, maybe it would strengthen the future that I didn’t know was ahead for me when I was 21 and wondering about how my life would unfold. How it would unfold, in patches of cotton, linen, even a few scraps of silk, velvet from a dress that never fit.

The table is covered in possible blocks, none of them stitched together yet. I’d thought to try to make the colours resemble weaving, one under, one over. I am still undecided about the piecing: will I sew the squares together with my sewing machine, hiding the seams, the connections, or will I use my sharp sashiko needles and a heavier thread to bring the squares together, the stitches plain and functional and evident, maybe backed with old sheets or the remains of a nightdress. I didn’t know how my life would unfold and what it might take to mend it.

I pass the table many times a day and I look at the current arrangement. It’s not right, not yet. I have a puzzle to solve. It involves my heart, plain stitching, scraps of cotton, a background as dark as night.