43. Winter Peace

I had never really wanted a dog. I had been dragged into dog ownership against my better judgment, moved by the desires of my children while knowing that the dog would become my responsibility. Eighteen years later, having fully experienced the expected burdens, I had also unexpectedly enjoyed the profound emotional depth of a relationship between a 12-pound, four-legged creature and me. This was a chapter in my life that was about to end.

On March 3 of the winter following our son's wedding, a veterinarian would visit us to help Jack exit what had become a painful existence. Agitated and completely incapable of settling down, I went into my studio and without any thought at all pulled out some fabrics and bits and pieces of things begun but never finished. I put them up on my wall and began this quilt, though I could not continue. Looking at the fabrics I had selected, I knew it was a winter piece, for an end-of-winter peace. In the colors and patterns there was a suggestion of the quiet of the woods and trees and ground so loved by the smallest member of our family. I had even turned up a photo, transferred to fabric, of snow-covered pine needles taken very near the spot where we would bury him in our back yard. The vet came and the rest of the day was spent in tears and a sadness more overwhelming than I could have believed possible.

Beginning this quilt and running ten miles the following day were the two things that gave me the time to feel all of the emotions surrounding this event. The run left nothing behind except a bit more peace of mind, but this quilt--every hand and machine stitch, and even the cozy flannel backing--will always be a tangible reminder of that little companion who had been with me since the beginning of my career as a professional quiltmaker.

Jack wasn't the only one getting older during this time. I didn't have all the time in the world--who does?--and I hoped I was getting wise enough to focus on doing the quilts that were important to me and letting the rest go. But even so, with each new quilt I made (apart from the commissioned quilts that were pre-sold), I was adding to an already large body of work, and it occurred to me to wonder: How many quilts does one family need? How many could I actually sell? How many was I willing to part with? How many could I give away for good causes?

For the moment, there was really only one answer to all the questioning: working kept me sane, and sanity was good, so... I got back to work. I was still eager to get to my studio every day, there were miles and piles of fabrics to use up, and there were articles left to write.