Stars

My friend Franci and I gathered full baskets of cotton prints. The rolls of fabric looked like bursting wildflower bouquets. Mine tended toward oranges and blues, with every hue in between. Franci, a New Zealander, had a riot of reds, whites and blues. We were buying frantically. Our beloved local fabric store was closing.

As each week went by and the prices got lower and lower, we let our kids loose in the store and walked up and down the aisles, pulling bolts and bolts of prints from the meticulously curated collection. Art by the yard. At home, I snuck my bags past my husband and secretly fingered each carefully folded thing of beauty and dreamed.

Gathering the material to create was easy. The next step was harder. That first cut into a beautiful piece of fabric is an immutable commitment. It’s also a loss. It can’t be woven back together. In some cases, I have held onto precious yardage for decades, afraid to sever and dismember what is meant to be whole. But Franci, practical and determined, pushed me into new territory. She wanted to help me make a quilt. To chop up these grand fluid paintings into tiny geometric shapes then piece them back together to form something new.

Sssst sssst sssst went our tandem scissors. On her kitchen table—packed end to end with our sewing machines, tools, and fabrics—we began a weekly ritual of measuring, planning, cutting, and sewing. There was also talking, laughing, and drinking cup after cup of good tea. Kids played in the basement on cold days or ran just outside the window on warm ones. They interrupted us with their scrapes and bruises. Or they demanded that we arbitrate their disputes. But through it all we kept measuring, planning, cutting, and sewing.

I had an eight-pointed star quilt in mind–crazy for a first-time quilter. But I was driven by chromatic chaos. I wanted over-the-top color. I chose fabrics because I loved them, not because they matched. The designs were equally impertinent—coy foxes and polka dots, dark batik and sunny flower prints, rainbow feathers and forest scenes. However, on the last day of the store closing, I bought a somber beige calico for my backing.

My first star, jigsawed together from 72 diamond shapes, came out surprisingly good. Lumpy, perhaps, but radiant.

Franci, a veteran quilter, was following an Americana pattern to commemorate her time in the States. She was my sage, both in quilting and in life. We consulted on perfect star points and uneven squares. We talked about our kids. We gifted each other fabric to put in our quilts. We discussed our husbands and their ways. One week we celebrated her conquering a difficult border. Another week I finished a row of stars. And with each week our creations grew.

Then tragedy hit. My husband. Cardiac arrest with resulting brain trauma. He was alive, but profoundly altered. I still went to Franci’s for cups of good tea, but I left my scissors at home. I brought tears instead. I felt extinguished.

Those were hard days.

The freshly grieving heart turns away from its passions and pleasures. It is cut up in myriad pieces. Yet as it surrenders to the process, a new thing emerges. The broken heart gets pieced back together to create an aching loveliness.

One day, practical and determined Franci said, “Let’s start again.” She knew it was time. I found my bag with my stars. I laid them all out. Each kaleidoscope of broken pieces formed luminous and twinkling into eight points. As I looked at these shattered bits made into something new, the Morning Star whispered sweet welcoming words to my heart, announcing a new day. I went to her house with my bag and scissors. Once again we began measuring, planning, cutting, and sewing. There were still tears. And there was plenty of good tea. And with each week our creations grew.

I finished my quilt. The coming together of its parts collectively forming a more resilient fabric. Sixteen big stars and lots of little ones in between.

Then exactly one year after my family tragedy, Franci boarded a plane and took her almost-finished Americana quilt to New Zealand. No more measuring, planning, cutting, and sewing on her kitchen table.

How does the pieced-together heart bear more grief? It just does. It is larger and stronger and elastic. It understands that our loves, dreams, and friendships can be riven and hewn from the fabric of our lives. It grasps a deeper, incandescent beauty.

Franci and I continue talking and laughing on Zoom now. And we each drink our own cup of good tea. My quilt covers my big bed where my husband and I sleep. And the stars shine in the night.