So late last night I began the arduous task of cutting out pieces of my favourite fabric to make a small quilt to take with me to Nepal. Now I say 'arduous' because I like the end product, but not the actual effort involved in making it. It's truly evident when you look at it, it's not very good. Anyhow, I'm sure a piece of home will be welcomed as the days go on. The blanket is slightly sentimental in quite a daggy and selfish way. When I have been asked to make an item, I often give the client the final choice on what fabric they would like me to use. Frequently I have strange people that trust my judgement, but for those that don't, there are a few who choose my favourite fabrics. Now, to be a favourit fabric of mine is no easy feat. I have hundreds of pieces of fabric, and have only around 10 loves. If Big Brother had his watchful eye on me and deep voice surrounding me, he would be awfully concerned to see that I need a moment, or even several before I cut the fabric and give it away. Sometimes even shed a tear. Why? Because in it I assign hope that is attached to history. Some designs remind me of my grandmother, who, in my mind, is second only to Jesus. We share uncanny similarities and I wonder what she would've made with the fabric, if I make her proud, or if she has beaten Aunty June at poker yet. Simultaneously I find myself thinking about how I'd like to incorporate the fabric design into my wedding, how my children will be wearing an item I have made from the fabric for them, how my garden will be just as beautiful and as rich as the flowers imprinted upon the cotton, and how, when I'm old, I'll be able to give my loved material possessions, in every literal sense of the word, to someone I love and treasure.
Now I don't pride myself on being a thoughtful person. Frankly, if you have half a brain, and you can think, then you are a thoughtful person. However I do admit to stumbling upon evenings such as these where this is nothing that can resolve my 'situation' as I like to call it, but to write. I will promise you that this will all relate back to Nepal in some way or another, but be prepared for a round trip that takes 3,295 days on the road with flat tyres, hitch-hikers and can't-be-passed-up-because-they-need-to-be-surfed-with-a-piece-of-cardboard sand dunes!
It's said evening that remind my of my dream book. Its a gloriously handmade book from somewhere in the beautiful wide world, that has hidiously penned marks throughout it that are simple attempts of a young woman to convey hope and remind herself of the train tracks ahead. I will also admit to being scared to look at the pages in the beginning. I wonder if the person who penned those pages was out of her mind, in a state of complete faith, or me? Rereading those pages makes me tear up just like I do in the last 10 minutes of watching The Notebook. Written infront of me is all I've ever wanted. None of it is unattainable, but that's what makes it beautiful. There is beauty in simplicity and beauty is individual. Someone else may want more than I, but that is more than ok.
I learnt something pivitol to my life the other day. That is that hope can range from mere wishing to a strong desire for something. While faith is hoping for something, but a step further in that we are atiently waiting for it to arrive. So, I still have hope for the days ahead. Hope is apart of faith, they are borther. But I have FAITH that what is penned in my dream book will be fulfilled. They are in God's hands now because I have asked. All is left to do is wait, because I believe.
The amazing thing is that not only can I see glimpses of some dreams down the tracks of my life, but some have already come and gone in their full glory.
I remain confident of this: I will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living Ps 27:13
So namaste, and keep believing.
Yours sincerely,
xx
P.S. Thanks to Ms Adele and Mr Mayer for accompanying me during this time
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