What more comfort can exist in the world than a conglomeration of turned edges and love? Fancy stitches or not, the assembled world of cloth stands testament to devotion and diligence. Careful collections, meaningful to the collector and mysterious to the possessor, fulfill the primal urge to shelter and be safe. Time is testimony to endurance. Thread against thread, solidarity is strength embracing flexibility. The bed of life is made and remade daily with the affection of kind quilters’ needles of love.
Find a room for zeal.
Wrong as wrong as wrong can be
To be wrong in my family and in my past
meant to be tortured and I prefer death to torture,
so being wrong meant death or longing for death.
I tried never to be wrong
as a way to stave of the desire to leap from tall buildings;
I did not turn into superman,
wonder woman or mighty mouse through my efforts.
I did turn into someone else;
I became a cartoon of a real person,
two dimensional and overflowing with irrational color.
Now I see how wrong, wrong can be.
Wrong is not an allowable excuse to be tormented.
It can be the turning point for knowledge if I choose
or the stairway to something deep dark and ugly;
my choice, always my choice.