Quilt – Marilyn R. Gardner

From the time I can remember we had two types of quilts in our home. One type was lovingly made by women in churches in the United States, given periodically to my parents as gifts for their home in the far away land of Pakistan – a land understood by church goers primarily through slide shows and the eyes of my parents. I am convinced those quilts were made with prayer and our good in mind. The quilts were hand crafted so well, and provided such warmth, that this past year two of my children absconded with a couple of them as a means of comfort against Chicago and New York winters.

The others were completely different, from pattern, to fabric, to the circumstances of those making the quilts – they were Sindhi rillis. Sindhi rillis are generally of brighter colors than the more muted choices of quilters in the United states and the patterns are more complicated and geometric. They graced beds, couches, floors and even served as picnic blankets throughout my life in Pakistan. Rillis are not only beautiful, they are warm, they are artistic, and they offer economic opportunity for women that is not dependent on weather or other circumstances external to the home.

Rillis, like many crafts in Pakistan, are made for practical use and the creator doesn’t realize how beautiful and unique they are. Like many things in my childhood, I didn’t always realize how beautiful they were. As I went into junior high I began favoring the synthetic, fluffy, comforters, purchased on sale out of a Sears catalogue, made not for warmth but for show. My mother kindly conceded to this (and I might add other requests reflecting my age) probably thinking “what a waste” but allowing me this “all things American are better” attitude, recognizing I would outgrow it. Future interactions had me expressing the opposite view of “all things away from America are better” until the pendulum settled in the middle. The point it, I didn’t see rillis for what they were – a beautiful craft, skillfully created with minimal materials and maximum ingenuity.

My appreciation for rillis grew as I got older. The difficult patterns and stitches executed by women in villages who were illiterate amazed me. This weekend I saw a clip of a YouTube video from a friend that shows a beautiful slide show of rillis accompanied by music. It brought me once again across the ocean to a different place and time. Most of all it took me back to the women behind the rillis – women who were true entrepreneurs in their homes and villages. It also brings me back, in gratefulness, to my childhood and the warmth, beauty and comfort that I experienced, so well represented by the Sindhi rilli.

What are things from your childhood that represent comfort? Better still, what do you have appreciation for now, that you didn’t in your childhood? Join the conversation in the comment section!

A guest post for Communicating Across Boundaries called Bright Pink Razais written by Robynn Bliss is a great piece about the comfort of Indian quilts. If you haven’t read it already, take a look!

The city has a way of reminding me that the world is not as it should be. There is more dirt and grime, the homeless are ever-present, the blind with service dogs walk beside those who, with canes, are limping their way through life, and the general atmosphere is one of chaos. You can’t escape life and all that it encompasses. It’s my daily reality check – for no matter how I’m feeling and what the condition of my life, there is always someone who is having a much harder time

No matter how much frosting you put on the city, through Longchamps totebags and designer suits, the broken are still there. But that’s why I love the city. It reminds me of me. I can “clean up” real well, but even as I clean up, I’m aware of my insecurities and flaws, those things that are broken and can hurt others. My eyes, sometimes blind to needs around me; my feet sometimes limping toward a goal instead of running; and the dirt and grime of some of my thoughts and actions.

This weekend, in the midst of decorating a large open space for the wedding of my niece, I began talking to a friend. We were surveying the overall look of the room, once the linen tablecloths, flowers, and candles were in place. Once that was all in place, the ugly didn’t matter. The ugly was part of the overall picture but not the focus. Someone had told my friend that when you make a quilt, you need a color that is ‘ugly’. While by itself the color is not something you would ever choose, once it’s put into the mosaic of the quilt, it fits together perfectly. At that point no one would call the fabric ugly – it’s a pattern of beauty. The total package of the city is the same – while the separate parts are a reminder that life is not as it should be, the whole is a picture of beauty and opportunity. A beautiful, though broken, space and the opportunity to reflect love and grace in the midst of it.

Here are glimpses of my everyday world in the city. Even as I daily see things that make me cry – a teenage girl sobbing into her cell phone at 7am, unable to stop because she is in pain; a man sleeping, curled up in a doorway with a bottle of Listerine beside him; another angry at all of life shouting at anyone who passes with language that describes his life, I also see glimpses of beauty and redemption around every corner.