Unfinished Scraps

When I think of the word domestic, I think of Martha Stewart or Betty Crocker (or my roomie Marin). Some may think of pets or of national items of interest. But Betty Crocker is my take on domestic. And domestic and Dominique have not always gone hand-in-hand. Every year I am learning more about this desired trait in life but every year I realize I have much more to learn.

To attain a higher level of life domestically driven, I once took a quilting class in high school. Our task for the class was simply put: make a quilt. I took this challenge with a smile and began cutting my fabric. It just so happened that the year was 2000 and my fabric proudly screamed patriotism with red, white and blue pieces of cotton. Not only were the colors loud and proud, the quilt has "2000" written all over it, literally, along with silver stars speckling the empty spaces.

The class was great. My domestic skills grew in leaps and bounds, though the quilt remains unfinished. To this day, 8 years later, I have yet taken the time to bind the edges. The quilt is folded neatly on a hanger in a closet in my parent's house. It's another unfinished piece of my life. Thinking about quilting, my thoughts often fall to my mom.

My mother has been a picture of "domestic" and has set high standards in every area of life. When I was in grade school and had to pick a life hero, my mom's name always ended up on my paper with a poorly but proudly drawn picture of what she looked like to me. My mother has a knack for keeping our house spotless, entertaining people, listening to joys/sorrows, taking time to call people, making a mean enchilada casserole (along with any other hotdish one would desire), and many other things I could only hope to attain someday. She also has a love for quilting.

This love has transformed our basement in Minnesota into a sewing haven at times with fabric strewn over the chairs and her sewing machine dominating the retro table she purchased as antiques are also a love of hers. Looking at all the fabric when I go home, I often wonder "will she ever be able to use all of it?"

But my thoughts also fall to another tidbit of wisdom she once blew in my direction. "You never know how the fabric will go together. Sometimes the best things come from the scraps of fabric you decide to hold on to. Some of the best quilts come from pieces you never thought would blend together."

Sigh. I don't know how she always does that. Something that could be left with a simple answer turns into a profound take on life. My mom's gentle perspective on life drives me to understand life through her eyes.

Looking at the events in my life, I am constantly throwing out "fabric" or wondering why the "scraps" of life still surface. I question what has happened in life and wonder how anything beautiful can come out of the ugliness I dwell upon occasionally.

Yet, in spite of or because of the glum experiences that have happened, I see the patchwork quilt of my life being enhanced. It's almost comical to reflect on the lows in life and see how the highs in life so easily rebut those experiences.

The canyons (rough times) that seemed to prohibit an exit now look like dehydrated puddles from the past. And each of those puddles contributes to who I am today. The circumstances of my life today are based on what has happened in the past. And never would I have been able to predict any of it.

Every scrap from my life in the past is part of my life today.

Every high, every low is being sewn into the quilt.

Every surprise is a stitch that only enriches the pattern.

And it's ok if I'm still no Betty Crocker. I am learning.

And it's ok that my one attempt at a quilt is still unfinished.

I am unfinished.