Tuesday, November 3, 2015

After all these years

Many of us, including me, are scared to death of the wounded child living within. So many fears. We are afraid of remembering too much, both the good and the challenges. We are afraid of feeling overwhelmed again. We are mostly afraid of the rage we have suppressed. Mostly.

Every time I have finished one of the bird quilt tops, I find myself declaring that it is the most stunning. Well, it happened again with #7. The blues on it are stunning. 

When I remember my maternal Grandmother, who gave me all her patterns and taught me the very simple embroidery stitches, what I remember most about her is that she taught me to play. She made play possible and inspired imagination long after she passed.

Wonder, and trust, love...were all part of my life as a child. Play was a simple as counting my fingers and toes. She made learning play. All my experiences with her were playful and productive. And then, just when I was mature enough to start thinking about asking for more, she passed over the rainbow bridge and was gone.

She always returns when I quilt. Heck, she returns when I read or cook, or take a walk among fallen leaves. She collected and pressed leaves in books. Her daughters found them and thought she must have lost her reason. I knew. She found her joy.

So when my inner child peaks her head out, I do get scared that when I walk over that bridge some day, that none of my Grandchildren will know about my joy in life. When I think about Lizzy, I realize that she just waited for me to come back for a visit. No guilt. No shame. She just picked up the conversation where we left off as if time and space was inconsequential. Now that is a lesson.