I made this quilt with the intention of writing it up as a pattern. I thought it would be beautiful in a magazine. Or maybe I would just sell the pattern as a digital download. And I made a bazillion half square triangles for it. And really thought about my fabric choices and the placement of colors.
Making the quilt was relaxing and enjoyable and I loved seeing it take shape. It was quilted. I bound it. And then it sat. And sat and sat and sat. It sat in the corner of my sewing space. And then it felt like it started to loom over me. "Write me up as a pattern," it would say. Over and over and over. For far longer than I care to admit.
A few weeks ago, I unfolded it and lay it out on my bed. I felt detached from it and looked at it almost as if I wasn't it's maker. I oohed and aahed over the perfect points. The color. The movement. And then I snapped out of my trance and breathed a heavy sigh of relief.
I don't quilt to make money.
I quilt for the joy of it. The creative expression. The knowledge that I make something so practical and beautiful.
Now finally today, this quilt is in the washing machine. It will soon tumble around in the dryer. And it will forever be a reminder of precisely why I love to quilt.