Every Stitch a Blessing, Every Stitch a Prayer

This is not the post I'd hoped to begin the new year with. My dad’s health has been declining since Christmas, and sadly, he passed away last week. He suffered from Lewy Body Dementia, a debilitating neurological disease with symptoms similar to both Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s.

Dad died peacefully in his sleep while in the care of hospice. He was a devoted husband, great dad and grandfather, and all-around good guy who will be remembered for his cheerful, fun-loving spirit.

People manage grief in different ways. For me, it's natural to turn to needle and thread for solace. My needle got quite a workout in the mid-1990s when we lost several family members and friends within a few short years: a beloved aunt and uncle, my dear brother and his partner, a favorite grade school teacher, and the owner of the quilt shop where I worked. 

It was tempting to wallow in self-pity during those years, but I had to keep things together for my health and family’s sake. In true “fake it till you make it” fashion, quilting helped me cope with grief and loss.

I began by pulling fabrics from my scrap basket. I'd give them a casual trim with scissors and sort them into piles of light and dark strips. When there were enough pieces to run through the machine, I'd stitch them into "liberated" log cabin blocks. The beauty of working intuitively like this is how relaxing it is.

What started as mindless sewing, soon became a form of prayerful meditation. Snip, sort, sew. Snip, sort, sew. Gradually, the quiet focus and rhythmic hum of my machine began to mend my broken heart. 

I don't know how I'll feel about this quilt in the future. I like to think there's more healing in it than grief. Maybe I won't try to finish it -- just keep it for the next time I need some therapeutic sewing.

Trick or Treat

In spite of great weather for Halloween, we were well into the witching hour last night, before anyone rang the bell. Very few trick-or-treaters showed up, so we have loads of candy left. It's fine with me; that’s why we buy our favorites. I’ve paired my morning cup of coffee with a couple Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and think an Almond Joy might go well with cup number two.

Here’s your Halloween treat, a “liberated” log cabin quilt, one of the first things I made after reading Gwen Marston's book, Liberated Quiltmaking. 

It loosely follows the traditional log cabin format of light and dark strips, surrounding a center square, but the trick to "liberating" it is...

-the “squares” are irregular in shape,

-the surrounding strips vary in width, and aren't necessarily cut straight. 

-the strips don’t follow the traditional sequence of lights on one side and darks on the other.

The hand quilted cable design in the sashing, brings a little order to the chaotic blocks.

Oh, and the sashing is that color!

Liberated Log Cabin

20" x 27"

machine pieced, hand quilted

 Diane Burdin,1996

This is my brain!

Do you remember that 1987 anti-drug campaign with the fried egg? You know the one: "This is your brain. This is drugs. This is your brain on drugs." I wondered if I could find a similar metaphor to illustrate how MS affects the body. I did; this little quilt represents me ~ me with MS.

Let’s say those dizzying squares of psychedelic fabric are nerve cells in my brain or spinal cord. Some of them have been damaged by my body’s own immune system. The resulting scars or lesions impede the messages my brain sends to other parts of my body. Sometimes these messages (the black sashing strips) get garbled; sometimes they don’t get through at all. In other words, my brain might want to quilt, or walk, or eat soup with a spoon, but if the message can’t reach the appropriate muscles to perform the task, it ain’t gonna happen!

See those wonky quilt blocks? They represent symptoms I deal with every day: numbness and tingling, poor balance, weakness in the limbs, muscle spasms, fatigue, sensitivity to heat, loss of bladder control. Just as each of these quilt blocks varies a bit from the others, my symptoms vary from day to day. Not only are they unpredictable, they also differ from those of someone else with MS.

Let’s see, how can I tie in that big purple border? I know. Those strips symbolize everyone who supports me: family, friends, doctors, therapists -- all vigilant caregivers who manage my daily needs. Their love surrounds me and frames each challenging day of my life. If you’d like to become a member of my support team, please consider making a donation to the National MS Society HERE.