My mom’s quilts are made to be used. For babies to crawl on. For kids to take when they leave home for the first time. For adults to curl up with on a cold night. I have been given four quilts over the years and while I could never choose a favorite, there is one that I have to sit with, when it’s been on the shelf for a while. This quilt is a snapshot in time of our extended family - aunts, uncles, cousins, siblings, parents. We each picked a piece of fabric and then traced an outline of our hand with pencil. My mom appliqued every handprint and then embroidered our names with a contrasting color thread. When I’m sitting with this quilt, I can’t help but place my own hand on top of the soft fabric hands one at a time. Laughing at how my hand today is about twice the size of my brother’s then. A brother, who is now over six feet tall. Not everyone from the quilt is still alive, making this connection to them even more precious.
Whimsiradicals see the world clearly as a lively basket of contradictions. They refuse to organize life into tidy stories, or mistake certainty for strength. People who find this unsettling might call them impractical or unproductive, but I think we have a lot to learn from whimsiradicals. I sure have from my mom.