The quilts are whispering, quietly for now
I’m writing this sitting on the couch in the evening, wrapped in a quilt with a hot water bottle and a cosy jumper, looking out at the grey sky over the mountains. A flock of cockatoos just swept through the valley. It is the first cold evening in months. Something in me anchors when the temperature drops. I feel more like myself. The quality of my observation sharpens. The world feels clearer and somehow more alive.
The days are noticeably shortening now. The mornings arrive slowly and the sun certainly isn’t up before us anymore. In the evenings, while Rodolfo and I are still out watering the garden, the light disappears quicker and earlier than expected and we rush around finishing up before it fades. Everything in me is ready for the descent into autumn cosiness, even though I know there will be plenty of scorchers still to come before the season properly turns.
Over the long weekend we went camping with a group of gorgeous friends. It was the first time we’ve camped with other families and it was so beautiful. Everything felt easier somehow. The kids played together effortlessly, disappearing into their own worlds of drawing and card games and tree climbing. Meals cooked on the fire were scrumptious. Everyone slipped easily onto the same page with rhythms and timing. It was one of those quietly cup-filling experiences that left us thinking, yes, we definitely want to do more of this.
Before we left, I had a clear vision that I wanted to spend a good part of the weekend knitting around the campfire. So Asha and I made the schlep down into the ’burbs to buy yarn for the Éclair Sweater by Karin Fernandes. Surprisingly, this is only the second proper garment I’ve ever knitted for myself. I am a very slow knitter and usually make things for the kids because they are so much smaller. Needless to say, I am very excited about this jumper. I find deep nervous system soothing in the rhythm of knitting. The steady movement of the hands. Click-clack, click-clack. The rocking of the needles somehow works its way up through my hands and settles into my bones, my brain.
As the weather reminds us that cooler days will be here again, I am noticing a gentle tug, a pulling back towards the quilts. Ideas and visuals for new quilts are starting to flicker in the periphery of my awareness. Not here yet, but teasing me with their outlines. This is always how ideas arrive for me, even with commissioned quilts. I cannot begin working on a quilt until those hazy glimmers linger just long enough for me to anchor to something.
Even my relationship with naming artworks follows this pattern. This week I started laying out pieces for the backing of a nine-patch quilt top I finished last year. I’ve always had a sense of the name of this quilt hovering somewhere just out of reach. As I lay out the backing, I can feel the name creep in closer. The edges of it whisper just beyond my earshot. I almost hear it. I begin to feel the shape of it forming. If I lurch out and try to grab it, it disappears again. Instead, I have learned to trust that as I quietly work, the shadowy whispers eventually reveal themselves.
Earlier this week I had an early morning that required driving an hour and a half to a medical appointment and then all the way back again. I came home feeling flat and heavy. My cycle has been a little longer this month and a kind of melancholy began creeping in. Instead of pushing against it, I let myself sink in. I cranked Ludovico Einaudi in the studio and let the yearning piano fill the room while I moved slowly through my handwork. No urgency. No expectations. The quiet rhythm of hand stitching punctuating the raw experience of feeling.
An unexpected joy this week was arriving home to find a box of abundant seasonal delights waiting on my doorstep. My friend Rhiannon facilitates a beautiful project of seasonal box swapping between women all around Australia. Usually these arrive via the post, so I momentarily wondered if the box might actually belong to a neighbour before realising that my giver this time was local and had hand delivered it.
Inside were the most thoughtful treasures. Craft supplies, a thrifted mug, tea, homemade cake, jam, verjuice, and a novel called Salt and Skin by Eliza Henry-Jones, which I cannot wait to start. It looks like the sort of book I tend to enjoy. I have also loved putting together the box for my own recipient. Homegrown and homemade things from the garden and a tiny hand-pieced quilt which felt especially fitting given the tendrils of quilt making quietly calling me back in.
The garden has surprised us in the most delightful way. Only three or four weeks ago I was convinced we might never obtain a truly decent yield this summer. The heat has been relentless. Pollination patchy at best. Everything slow and stalled. Yet somehow we returned home from camping to baskets overflowing with tomatoes, giant zucchinis, nashi pears, peaches, grapes, cucumbers and armfuls of dahlias. So many dahlias. Dahlias everywhere. I even found myself briefly wondering, how many dahlias is too many dahlias? A good reminder, perhaps, to be careful what you wish for.
And now here I am, sitting under a quilt with my knitting beside me, drawing me towards its lilting rhythm. Evening settling around the house. The mountains fading slowly into shadow.
