I have always wanted to sew a quilt, the kind you see in old country houses that have worn through the years, aged in such tender ways from the carefulness of their crafting.
Delicate hands, patches of thread worn fabrics, contrasting and complimenting. Stories woven together. Simple and special.
Yards and meters of fabrics collected - similar and different all at once. Hundreds of small squares cut to the perfect dimensions, exacting.
Pieces sewn into larger squares, straight lines, constant sizes.
Larger squares become rows and rows become the front half. Perfectly formed perfection.
In theory.
As I sat at my machine turning first those pieces into squares and the squares into rows I realized that there is no perfection. I can see the flaws in every line I sew, slight slips of the cutter making slightly imperfect pieces, the pieces adding imperfections into the squares which continues into the rows and quilt itself.
You can teach me how to make the perfect of squares but then I'd still have to sew the straightest of lines - a task that even through years of practice I still at times struggle with - attention distracted for the slightest of seconds and oops.
But put all together the flaws flow together, vanish to the naked eye. The bigger picture overwhelming the details.
It was through the construction of these quilt pieces that I saw a reflection of me. Perfectly imperfect. Filled with flaws but still something tender and made with love.
I am not perfect, years of life have shaped and formed me. I am a result as much of as my successes as I am of my mistakes. I am worn and in some places a little thread bare but I am beautiful too.
Imperfect pieces have formed me into a being that belongs in this world exactly how I am.
Perfectly imperfect.
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