Recently we were graciously asked for permission to use Charlie’s poem from our book, IN EVERY MOON THERE IS A FACE, on a quilt. Needless, to say, we thought this was a delightful idea! I was reminded of a piece I’d once written about my love of Quilts. I’m posting it here, for in rereading it, I agree with it still. Quilts are Spiritual things, and Quilters, Angels among us.
———————————————————————————

Quilts come from Heaven to bring peace and comfort to us on Earth. This, I believe.

Honestly, what human-made artifact has more love and practicality poured into its minutest bit of self? What has ever been created more humbly, more modestly, more patiently, more generously, more simply … only to end up more beautifully? These qualities, Virtues all, speak only to the Sublime. And in my world, the Sublime is a quiet thing, a simple thing, a functional thing that honors the body and soul of my human life.

I really love Quilts. I can sit and gaze at one, or two, or three … for hours. I go to shows and let my breath be taken away. My Quilt books are dog-eared. I admire anyone who makes them. I bless all the unknown women (and some men) who have made them and never told us who they were. I, myself, have never sewn a quilt and probably never will. And yet, and yet … in the mysterious ways of these things, it was brought to my awareness that, in a way, I do make Quilts. You see, that’s the wonder of Quilts and Quilt makers — like Prayer, they have the gentle ability to help us discover more than what we thought could be there. I don’t use a needle and thread in my “quilts,” I use paint and a very tiny brush. And I use my heart, a lot of heart — that’s an essential ingredient for any Quilt!

The Universe is ALIVE to me. Each single bit of it. Each seemingly empty space vibrates before my eyes and touches my mind with possibilities. When I paint I show this aliveness. My skies are not flat, my flowers are not just made from petals, they have stars in them. I fill up sheets of paper with lots of little squares, each denoting its measure of the Presence of Life in that particular place I put it. My art needs lots and lots of little squares. And isn’t that just what a Quilt does, too, with its INCALCULABLE tiny stitches, its myriad bits of fabric, all coming together to show a wondrous whole? A joyful coming together, revealing the oneness of all things.

Oh yes, Quilts are truly wonderful, for their existence confirms our Spiritual Nature. They confirm this in the most important way: by keeping us warm and feeling safe, uplifting us with beauty and, through the living heritage of generations, connecting us to one another in the present and for all time. We need them now just as much as in days gone by. And, thankfully, more and more are being made. Constant reminders that people are — good.

I stood behind the little flower that had forced itself through the snow. It was a small tender thing with a stem so slim it appeared to be merely a thread. I was entranced by the strength such a sweet creature could display.

When I was a young human I felt empty of sufficient personal power. The Word said to children is that what they need for living must be found coming from other people, while The Weights and Measurements must first be learned before any attempt at expression can be made. Is it any wonder that loss of self starts early?

Now, no longer a child, I have reclaimed my Flowerness (not botanically speaking, of course — for neither is a Flower only a  flower, botanically speaking). I have reclaimed, in the face of absurdity, the living stuff of Life. Fragile is my Soul, not from weakness but from a Self exquisitely refined. My petal-like Intentions display endless harmony and joy while the reed that sings my Song is long and graceful and true. I’ve become Myself in a world that does not acknowledge what is real, but it matters, only, that – I – know what I bring. There is Power in the fiber of my makeup and I need its strength and courage to remember and express the one I Really Am.

So do the Children who grow here. We must tell them, often, of the invisible Substance they already possess for their journey.

Deep in the Invisible, is a single pure Flame that burns brightly in a timeless Hearth. The Room It warms is filled with friends and patience and the many colors of kindness. When I quietly think of that Warmth and imagine standing in that Room, I am assured of all I already possess. In me is the ever present Life-givingness.  It is what I am and what I need not seek.

In this dream world where my lesser nature rails and sobs, there is a higher ground of Being waiting for my awareness. Yes, only, awareness. Then, I see a Presence illuminating my understanding in ways so unthinkable to my human mind.

Ironically, unhappiness is often what I use to remind myself to look for this inner wisdom.  Of course, simply stopping to consider who and what I am in each quiet moment, would be an easier way to find it.  Unhappiness is such a silly old habit … and most unreliable.

I found a small precious stone in my pocket today. I don’t know how long it had lived there in the darkness of my obliviousness. Had it been there always? Had it been waiting patiently, or impatiently, for me? Who can say? How can I know? I live in a world that doesn’t ask these kinds of questions or believe in unexpected treasures in one’s pocket. Yet they are hopeful sorts of questions, aren’t they, in a world like this one?

Given my druthers, I’d go through the day pondering things like this and nothing else. I believe Life is made of treasures appearing to be of small significance. I am the one who searches the back of the bookshelf where the tiny pamphlet by an unknown author disappeared through the crevice of important books–the one dusty and dog-eared in which a nameless reader found Something.

I presently (still, though my world is changing) live in a world of books. They line my walls and to enter the room where they live brings me so much inner satisfaction. I feel cozy and warm. And yet, and yet, they contain nothing I can ever really need. It is agreed, where I live, that books are the repository of great ideas and it is important, they tell me, to collect these great ideas as if they were going to go away someday.

The world I live in is full of books in many ever-changing forms. Full of ideas put down somewhere after having been thought by somebody. I’ve been told how important it is for me to know these ideas, to hear them, to read them … to STUDY them. “They will make me more than I am.” I did wonder about all this kind of thinking when I first started on this human journey and then I realized this was not to be questioned so I gave up and simply evaded the issue, even with myself, and got on with things. I read and I studied. And I studied and I read.

Sigh. How lonely and unfulfilling it is, merely attaining externals. It leaves me feeling empty somehow.

When I was Home in Heaven (no, not that heaven, the Real one), I loved my Empty room. It was a pocket of calm and creativity in All That Is, for Emptiness is not a vacuum, there being all sorts of Goodness lurking within the Within of Everything, and always found to overflowing in the Empty rooms that inhabit Forever.

I am not at present living in an Empty room, and this is a problem. I find myself in lots of confining clutter as I spend Time with the self that does not clearly see her Home in Heaven. In Empty rooms there is so very much space. So much room to imagine. Imagine what can be imagined in an Empty room, this quiet place for holding forth the celebration of Life. Imagine what can be created!  I just loved that Empty room of mine and I loved what it did to my thought. In it I heard my Heart and my Heart showed me ALL the delights in being alive. Oh, it was so nice.

Since I’ve been away from there, I’ve been trying to bring the Memory of all that to my clutter, and even some of that wondrous Emptiness to my Heart. But it’s tricky, because I am so easily distracted by appearances since I’ve been fooled into thinking I am not at Home in Heaven. Still, I am persisting. I know you are too.