She was vibrant, but not a beauty. At first I didn’t notice anything at all about this woman working at the fabric store.
I handed her the four bolts of fabric and requested a quarter yard of each one. As she unrolled the first bolt and measured my meager request, I told her that I was making the first quilt for myself. Not wanting to appear a novice, I added that I had made other quilts, but this was the first one just for me. “I already have lots of fabric, but I liked these.” She glanced at me and we both laughed. Quilters always have lots of fabric, but always want more. “My quilt will be a variety of browns and dark reds.” Then I added, “I like those colors.” She nodded as she snipped a perfect cut. Feeling a little foolish about filling the silence with chatter as she worked, I decided to just shut up.
I watched her as she rolled and pinned the remaining fabric back onto the first bolt. Then, without looking up from her work, she said, “The darker colors help me to find my center, to feel grounded.”
There was a moment when I couldn’t respond; I could only look at this woman. I was trying to process this incongruency, a haggard-looking woman and a Zen-like observation. She was probably ten years younger than I am, but she looked much older. She was far too thin, no make-up, and her thin wisps of mousy brown hair hung down in her face as she leaned over the fabric. Her faded jeans hung straight, no hips, no thighs. As I stood in a moment of suspended reality, her words echoed in my mind. “The darker colors help me to find my center, to feel grounded.”
Suddenly we were both animated, sharing with each about the projects we had done and the ones we intend to do. She continued to cut, fold and pin as she talked about a wall hanging that she had seen and wanted to make one similar to it. It was a quilted wall hanging, a grand piano with a long-stemmed red rose lain across it. She talked about its elegance and that she wanted to make hers in black and red silk.
As she talked about the sheen of the silk, the contrast of black and red on a white background, the way black and red combinations pull together all the other colors in a room, I looked again at her hands. Her hands were dry and rough with several scabs and scars, probably cut and poked by scissors and needles. As if she knew my thoughts, she told me about the hand quilting she kept nearby when she was at home. “You have to be very efficient and disciplined to quilt by hand,” she said. “Otherwise, a project would never be finished.”
When she handed me the four carefully folded pieces of fabric, I thanked her for the conversation. Thanking her felt so inadequate. I felt lighter. I felt centered. I had been in the presence of a wise woman, a vibrant woman, though not a beauty.
I handed her the four bolts of fabric and requested a quarter yard of each one. As she unrolled the first bolt and measured my meager request, I told her that I was making the first quilt for myself. Not wanting to appear a novice, I added that I had made other quilts, but this was the first one just for me. “I already have lots of fabric, but I liked these.” She glanced at me and we both laughed. Quilters always have lots of fabric, but always want more. “My quilt will be a variety of browns and dark reds.” Then I added, “I like those colors.” She nodded as she snipped a perfect cut. Feeling a little foolish about filling the silence with chatter as she worked, I decided to just shut up.
I watched her as she rolled and pinned the remaining fabric back onto the first bolt. Then, without looking up from her work, she said, “The darker colors help me to find my center, to feel grounded.”
There was a moment when I couldn’t respond; I could only look at this woman. I was trying to process this incongruency, a haggard-looking woman and a Zen-like observation. She was probably ten years younger than I am, but she looked much older. She was far too thin, no make-up, and her thin wisps of mousy brown hair hung down in her face as she leaned over the fabric. Her faded jeans hung straight, no hips, no thighs. As I stood in a moment of suspended reality, her words echoed in my mind. “The darker colors help me to find my center, to feel grounded.”
Suddenly we were both animated, sharing with each about the projects we had done and the ones we intend to do. She continued to cut, fold and pin as she talked about a wall hanging that she had seen and wanted to make one similar to it. It was a quilted wall hanging, a grand piano with a long-stemmed red rose lain across it. She talked about its elegance and that she wanted to make hers in black and red silk.
As she talked about the sheen of the silk, the contrast of black and red on a white background, the way black and red combinations pull together all the other colors in a room, I looked again at her hands. Her hands were dry and rough with several scabs and scars, probably cut and poked by scissors and needles. As if she knew my thoughts, she told me about the hand quilting she kept nearby when she was at home. “You have to be very efficient and disciplined to quilt by hand,” she said. “Otherwise, a project would never be finished.”
When she handed me the four carefully folded pieces of fabric, I thanked her for the conversation. Thanking her felt so inadequate. I felt lighter. I felt centered. I had been in the presence of a wise woman, a vibrant woman, though not a beauty.
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1 comment:
Dear Mary,
Thank you for writing about this seemingly simply encounter with this sales clerk. The thoughtfulness and feel of your writing style is always a delight to read. It's reassuring to know another person values this kind of serendipitous incident.
Joe
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