This morning I finished repairing a quilt that I made for my husband nearly thirteen years ago. He wasn’t my husband yet although he proposed to me shortly after I gave him the (unfinished) quilt for Christmas, 2003. The quilt has been on our bed since 2004 and over the years it developed tears and the fabric wore thin along the edges. I did my first repair on the quilt a few years ago and in the interim more tears appeared. Sometime last year I decided that I had time to do a proper repair. I bought new fabric to replace the torn pieces, I washed, measured, replaced the batting inside, started sewing and then I stalled. I wanted it to be perfect, and if not perfect, at least better than it had been. The quilt stayed on the bed, incomplete, and told myself that I would finish it when I was ready to make it better. Every so often I would take it off the bed, fold it and put it on my great-grandmother’s antique foot pedal sewing machine and then, a week or a month later, I would take it back to the bedroom and put it on the bed, still torn. I sewed a strip of new fabric on the top edge, the one that was most damaged but didn’t close it up. The edges were different widths and the corners didn’t match so I didn’t finish it.
This morning as I was making the bed I once again looked at the quilt. The tears were getting worse and the batting that I had replaced was starting to get worn since it wasn’t protected by fabric. I folded the quilt and put it on the top of the sewing machine, which is also my writing table. Two thirds of the way through my Morning Pages I wrote, once again, “I want to repair the quilt”. And then I stopped writing and repaired the quilt. It didn’t take nearly as long as I had been telling myself it would take. Yes, it was tedious to pin it and keep the edges straight. No, the corners are not squared and in fact one of them had to be pleated to get the fabric to come together. But its done. And when I look at the quilt on the bed I feel happy.
Now I can move on to the other things in my life that are also not perfect and may not even be better when I complete them. The novel I started during last November’s NaNoWriMo . The sequel to The Secret Labyrinth that I started in July. By accepting my gift of non-perfection I can allow myself to move forward in my messy, creative and lovely life.
Is there something you’re not doing that’s keeping you from moving forward on your path? Would it be alright if it wasn’t perfect?
I’d love to hear from you, so please leave a comment!