I have started to mend the Indian bedspread. After some lines on paper to plan how I would reinforce the fabric and repair some of the rents on the outside I chose to use simple untidy running stitches that are wonky and without much of a pattern.
Like me they travel west to east, north to south so that they show up on both sides. I’m not one for taking the needle through to the back and then to the front . . . I scoop, several stitches at a time. I guess this has been my approach to life . . . take a stab, draw up all you can and trust that it will all come through okay.
The birds in the centre have a problem. The sun has eaten their orange feathers so some patching is needed . . . some soft unbleached calico set into the holes and leave the edges raw? Perhaps. Or patch them over with some old table linen I have found in my efforts to clear out the things that are trying to take ownership of me.
I’m loath to hide their scars, the ravages of time, any more than I feel the need to hide what time is doing to me. And so the metaphor continues . . . time has an impact that can be read if you use eyes, and ears and heart.
There are many who would simply discard this cloth, deciding that with so many holes (about 30) it has reached the end of it’s decorative life. But it can still serve its purpose because I have turned it over to the birdless side. It has a place keeping warm someone who remembers as she stitches.