Energy in Stitches

I sometimes think back to those earlier years and wonder where all my energy came from. I was never still. Not in the good-chair-by-the-window way. More like a hummingbird with a calendar. Wait! I must have some Australian Shepherd blood in me! My hands were always busy. Dirt under my nails from the garden. Flour on my elbows. Yarn trailing behind me like a friendly leash. Crocheting. Sewing. Knitting. If it involved making something from nothing, I was in.

Somehow, in between three jobs and the general chaos of daily life, I even joined a local quilting group. I do not remember sleeping much, but I do remember laughter. I remember the quiet intensity of people bent over fabric, the way conversation floated in and out like birdsong. Delicate needlework has its own kind of gravity. It pulls you in. It asks for patience. It rewards attention.

Eventually, my work schedule tightened its grip. There were only so many hours to go around, and something had to give. I left the quilting group. It was the practical choice. It was also a small heartbreak. I missed the people. I missed the rhythm of stitching alongside others. I missed the calm that came from doing something small and careful in a world that rarely is.

Then, one day, I found Quilts for Kids.

It fit like it had been waiting for me.

I joined and started making quilts for children who needed them. Kids I would never meet, but somehow felt connected to through fabric and thread. Any spare minutes I could find during the day went into those stitches. A few squares before work. A seam after dinner. Binding corners while something simmered on the stove.

It became my meditation. My quiet place.

Fabric has a way of asking you to slow down. To line things up. To notice color. To trust that tiny pieces can become something whole. That felt important.

Terry was excited that I had found an outlet for my restless energy that made me happy. Perhaps even more thrilled that it kept me occupied long enough for him to enjoy his food commercials in peace.

When I look at the pictures of those quilts now, bright, cheerful, and slightly imperfect, I feel grateful. Grateful for hands that still want to make. For time that bends just enough to allow it. For the quiet joy of knowing that something I made might bring comfort to a child, even briefly.

I miss the younger me.
I miss us of those days.