Here I was making a tiny little quilt, enjoying the soft feel of the felted sweater base, taking pleasure in tucking a little sliver of black silk behind the black/gold gingko print in the near-center, finding intrigue in the fiery sheer print defining the sky above the roof… (because of course the central shape took on the characteristics of a house).
At some point, the prospect of completing the piece made me feel bored or restless or both.
Maybe it was that the black house had nothing to say to me. A mute house of shadows? Or could it have been chock full of old hauntings that I just didn’t want to hear again?
On the way up to Montreal last week, I left it in a bathroom in St. Albans, Vermont. It was weirdly satisfying.
It may have been thrown out by the cleaning crew or it could have been grabbed by someone who saw it as an unexpected little find. Or maybe someone took it in a swipe of puzzled acquisition and THEN threw it out. I’ll never know.
And it doesn’t matter. For me, the treasure was in letting it go. And you know what? I can now start to listen to what that dark house had to say.