(The photo above is by Jinx McCombs on flickr.com)
Last night, it was one of those nights. Generally, life has been pretty good to me, but every once in a while it sneaks up and snaps with teeth. I was feeling upset, unsettled, and not entirely safe, even though I knew the last was in my head. I wan't actually in physical danger. I've been packing to move. Most of my life is in boxes, and that seems to make everything a little harder to deal with.
I wandered out into my living room, trying to decide what to do. Driving while upset is a bad idea. Walking anywhere in the dark didn't sound great to me. I unpacked my quilts, and huddled in them on the floor, instead of trying to run from my thoughts. It calmed me down, and I finally got some sleep. Sure, I'm sore today from sleeping on the floor, but I feel much better than if I hadn't.
My quilts make me feel safe, and loved, and like everything's going to be okay with life. Each one has a story behind it, from the person who made it, or some event that's happened in its presence. There is the small blood stain I never could get out from my son losing his first tooth on one. There are all the tiny stitches Great Grandma put in another. The quilt my mom made that's amazing, but leaves her indignant every time she sees it. She put zigzag stitches on the black borders made from hem tape, and at the fair, she got scored down heavily for those not being straight stitches. I have a quilt my sister made, then was going to throw away due to stains and abuse. It'll never be completely clean looking, and it has several inexpert mends I made, but I love it - not in spite of the abuse, but probably because of it. It's lived a life, and now has retired rather ungracefully into my care.
Every item I own tells some sort of story, but the quilts more than others. While my other blankets have been through as much, for some reason they just don't give off an air of comfort and safety like the quilts do. You laugh and cry with your quilts. You snuggle in them on cold days, and sometimes toss them on the floor on hot nights. They're always around, just waiting for you to come back to them. What stories would your quilts tell, if they could just speak?