Quilting the Quiltmaker
I am friends with the best Quiltmaker (Making the Quilt I; Making the Quilt II) in my universe. She takes bits and pieces of the most colorful characters in her own world and makes an amazingly beautiful needlework of their dreams and weaknesses, their mere idiosyncracies. I wonder if she considers herself an equally worthy patch in her own Quilt. If she doesn’t, then what a shame, because she is silk and velvet and paisley, with just about the right amount of plainness where it matters.
She makes me ramble on like she were the goddess of patchwork material, which should be surprising because I first came across her ten years ago—Blimey! (as Rawlings babies put it) that’s how old far away from college freshman we are?!—wearing jeans and baby tees and sneakers. Her elegance manifests itself in her witty insights and empathic heart. And it doesn’t hurt that she has charming brown eyes. I used to think she was a little on the boyish side and had the bearing of a Goth-in-the-making, probably because she hung out and is best friends with a girl who particularly wore black during Valentine’s Day, plus, the first poetry I’d read from her told of black roses blooming inside her dark heart. But I’ve gotten over that, thank God, and seen more of the pinks and Peter Pan allusions. She had been in good relationships with good men, but somehow, a part of her wasn’t that fearless, so she nurtured a commitment-phobic nature. She kept holding out after her last breakup, going on first, second, nth dates without really caring about being “in a relationship.” For two whole years.
Recently, she surprised me. Not only did she let just two margaritas (frozen at that) get to her—the fact remains to embarrass her, by the way—but she finally committed herself to somebody whose name sounds like a drink. No surprise there, though.
Congratulations, Twin-soul! And cheers! hehehe
It was one of those achingly long walks and climbs on my way to work one morning—just when I’d much rather stay in bed and sleep—when I acknowledged this habit. Deep in thought, or probably just daydreaming, I found myself standing alone on the pedestrian lane, and a blue car with untinted windows stopped in front of me. The driver nodded his head and smiled as if to hide what would probably be spoken like, “You’re standing the white line, duh dummy, so might as well go ahead and cross the damn street.” Finally awake, I moved behind the car and crossed. I looked back and mouthed, “Thank you,” and found the car still not moving, the driver staring questioningly at me. He removed his hands from the steering wheel to point to the back of the car with his thumb, and then nonplussed, he resignedly raised both hands, while shaking his head as if to say, “What the heck was THAT?”
Oh yeah, that. I had, I realized, once again walked around a car driven by someone who had enough courtesy to let me cross the street unscathed, un-cursed, un-honked at.
I had to admit I do that all the time. I fear crossing streets. And even when a car slows down to allow me to pass through, I walk around it, not trusting the driver to let me walk across without suddenly stepping on the accelerator and run me down splat all over the pavement.
Sigh. Trust issues. For someone who once wrote of faith and trust and pixie dust, I am a disappointment. Geez!
Hey Coach, just wondering, why doesn’t God speak to me? I ask him questions, ask for his guidance. Why can’t I hear him?I am at too many forks in the road, and when I ask him to show me which one to take, I don’t get a response. Does he withhold answers sometimes? Or is he speaking through another? If yes, how do I know it isn’t the enemy speaking to me, pretending to be him, once more taking me for a ride?
What I seek is only an answer. I’m not even asking for anything. Why does he call me back, seek me out, and remain silent? Does the enemy eavesdrop when I speak to him? I have gone through New Age and witchcraft, worshipped the Moon, and now I am home. It is difficult enough being a Christian, should it be more difficult to be a better person?
When I can’t do anything
write rite right:
My high school teacher said it’s best to write to express, not to impress. That’s what I always do. Therefore, I blog.