Existentialism, Chocolate, and Quilting

Sam's out of town, training and stuff in St. Charles. I'm home. It's quiet. I cleaned up a little. Cheri and Sydney are visiting tomorrow. I've been watching the old black-and-white The Diary of Anne Frank movie that I haven't seen since seventh grade. It's quiet.

I'm feeling today that I am a very fortunate person. Blessed in many ways, if you're the type who considers your good fortune from a source other than yourself. I am lucky. I think I've had my fair share of curses, difficulties, brain defects, family issues, whatever. Yeah. Whatever.

I think the development of my analytical mind came to a halt junior year of high school with F. Scott Fitgerald and Hemingway and Tim O'Brien, and I may forever be an existentialist. Because every other day it seems I'm asking myself what it's all for, what it's all about, and if what I'm doing in this time in my life is worthwhile in the grand scheme. Am I leaving a mark on the world? If terminal illness came my way, would I be happy with what I have accomplished? Yes. Yes, I would. In some ways, I feel I have seen and done so much in my life that I can't ask for more, I can't expect more triumph and adventure, I can't keep taking and taking and taking for myself. I'm not sure what I can permit myself to expect of my future.

And yet, I feel this persistence, like I need to accomplish something great, I need to learn something worthwhile--more more, give me more--I need to experience something I may never have the opportunity to experience again, like a job at McDonald's with the Mexicans or how to be an expert quilter (or even just a beginner) from the women at Hollyhill, where I work now. So I've traveled the world. I've met famous people. I've accomplished remarkable things. I have a college education. What does it matter? Is that what life is all about? I'm not sure.

I used to suspect that because throughout my life I lean towards the color blue, I have sought to fill my life with red--with passion, and adventure, and meaningfull/meaningless accomplishments.

I've cut all the squares for my first quilt and laid them out. Can I change the world through blankets? Warmth? By cutting fabric?

The women who come into Hollyhill are overcome. It is like a chocolaterie with shelves of dipped coconut bars, dark powdered truffles, sugared almonds and red velvet cake drizzled with cocoa and flakes of nutmeg. I didn't even know that quilting fabrics are cut and packaged like baked goods--depending on the cut, size, and packaging, the fabric is wrapped and sold in honeybuns, jelly rolls, sweet rolls, and turnovers. The lint particles are crumbs. Only when the women partake, they don't feel so guilty--you can't get fat from fabric. In fact, the obsession of cutting and sewing and stitching for hours draws you away from your other gluttonous habits--it is an exercise of the mind. It can be mathematical, or it can be art. It can be both.

When I cut fabric for them I ask them what they are making. I feel like by asking what they are making, they will verbalize what they envision their project to be and they will feel more obligated to complete this project. So many projects go undone. So many art supplies and craft supplies and fabrics with such potential are bought and never used or assembled into a finished product.

Some of them tell me they're buying the last few yards for a project near completion. Very admirable. Some tell me they're buying the fabric because the fabric is beautiful, but admit that what they purchase will likely become another unfinished project--more cotton scraps in a bin--but the shop is too tempting. The building blocks are too enticing.

What I mean to say is that building blocks are meant for building. The unfinished project is something I don't want in my life, whether it is a marriage or family incomplete by lack of communication or love, or a quilt on the dining area floor.

In some ways, it's all the same.