By telling stories, it’s hard to know where to begin. All stories started somewhere long before any of our lifetimes, and will continue long after we cycle back into compost. I feel called to write, share stories, and continually convince myself it’s not a waste of time. I ask myself why? Why do I enjoy writing? For the joy of creating? Seems superfluous. For the lessons? Could come off condescending. For the sake of sharing an experience? Feels human.
Telling a story is a bit like crafting or gardening. Having the gumption to even start a project takes quite a bit of mental energy. Picking the supplies, deciding what parts will eventually become a whole. Throughout the project, deciding what to save, what’s a remnant, what’s scrap. Having the end result in mind, and watching it unfold as it will in spite of human efforts to influence it. Accepting when it’s finished. A story is much like a quilt, a hobby for which I have a growing appreciation. There’s tradition in quilting, as with storytelling.
Before a quilt can be fully appreciated, it’s helpful to consider the coming together of its parts. The creator chose fabrics and threads, and even before that, those had to be made from textiles and dyes. Like storytelling, it’s hard to know where to start when describing the process, let alone the final product (if there ever is one). As with any piece of art, when is it ever finished? Is it?
Modern American Healthcare, and the state of the world in the year 2022, may be best described as a work in progress. The weaving together of fabrics, the choice and chance of the appearance of the final product. The opinions and perceptions of the viewers. The consumers and the consumed. The human influence throughout.
Regardless of the process, a quilt is sometimes only used for decoration. To hang from a wall and be appreciated from a distance. But, as a blanket, its original purpose is always warmth and comfort. Warmth, comfort, and a beautiful memory.
Memory of the time spent creating, memory of its use, memories of the makers. Memories of the shared warmth.
At some point, the quilt appears finished. It is put on display or put into use, and care is taken (or not) to maintain its integrity. To keep it fresh, repair tears, darn rips. Clean stains, while simultaneously using it to absorb more.
Blood, sweat, tears. A quilt might take them all. Hold onto stains and watermarks indefinitely. Fraying and falling apart. Patched patchwork. How strong is the thread? How heavy the tread? How strong is the belief in its importance? Who sees the value anymore?
Maybe the quilt has become a knapsack? Bundled around the weight of the world, and thrown over the shoulder for the uphill battle. Futile? What’s in the pack? A picnic? A boulder? Medicine.
Musical medicine. Stories. To be opened, shared, laid out, displayed.
To rest, to lay upon and within. To comfort and console.
Are we the thread? The fabric? The burden? The weight? The light?
Put down what you are carrying. Give it some space. Look from a distance. Is it decorative? Does it have a function? Should it?
Put it down, and savor the dance. Appreciate its beauty. Tell its story. Find the lessons. Share them. Savor.
Then pick up the tools, and get to work. Put down destructive practices. Cease destroying the fabric of caring humans, and start repairing or creating.
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