You take what you're given, you make choices, you add your own flair.
You make do.
And then you get ambitious, and you get excited, and you try.
And you try.
And you try, even though it's not working out the way you planned.
So you adapt, and you try again.
And you do everything you know to do, you call the one who was supposed to fix it, you blame, you wonder, you give up.
You sit down and cry.
And then you try again.
It's puckered, and the seams are skewed, and the points are blunted, and the blues don't match, either. But it's beautiful.
I made a quilt with 15 flyfoot blocks my grandmother (mamaw) made, and I made a 16th to match. The unbleached muslin back is coffee-stained, and the batting is nondescript.
Free-motion bubbles had thread breaking all over the place. I picked out more walking foot stitches than I care to remember. I did sit down and cry after leaving a frustrated message for the repairman who assured me no more stitches would skip.
And then I tried one last thing: I changed back to a universal needle, and suddenly, it was okay.
Straight lines and self-binding stitched down, run through the wash to make it soft and crinkly, folded and tied for delivery, I surprised Momma at work for her birthday. And it seems words just aren't necessary.
Because my Mamaw died four years before I was born, but she sewed, like her mother, like my mother, like me. My stitches and hers now wrap her daughter, soft and warm and comforting, embodying what my Mamaw must have been. I know, because that's the way my mom is.
The way I'll be, one day.
Linking up with Sarah this week. Click here to return.