The Pace of Things

It is significantly more challenging to blog about quilting than knitting and spinning. All of the craft blogging is more difficult than nurse blogging. Other than needing to let nurse stories age a bit, and change names and details, their is a nurse story for every day that I work.

Anyone who ever listened to two or more nurse, firefighters, paramedics, cops, EMTs, anyone who helps people weather they want to be helped or not- if you have ever been in a room with two or more of us folks, you have heard stories. It used to bother me, as a holier than thou young nurse how the veterans had stories that they told, and the obvious enjoyment of hashing over old patients, old times, old procedures. I had this image that as a nurse, I became a vault for all that I saw and heard and did and felt, and all that my patients did to me or to themselves. After about a week, I was full up. I slipped a little, and started to listen into other nurses talk. The best don’t talk much, and never say anything where a patient or loved one could hear them. The best also don’t practice one up man ship of the you think your patient was crazy, honey, mine was crazier type.

But we do talk. More about what our patients made us feel, than about the patients themselves. We are too frail a vessel to hold all of that in, and we are patients, too, under the surface. Every young woman we see with cancer- well, there’s no reason she has it, and there’s no reason we might not be next. Every car crash, every random shooting, every meningitis, every twisted ankle, we nurse could be next. And we know it. So, we talk, we tell stories. I have a Hawaiian fried who calls it “talking story” and that really resonates with me. Telling stories is a basic human need, and I’m not ashamed of it anymore. It may be why we came up with language in the first place.

But I was going to write about quilting, and how slow it seems compared to knitting. I read an article lately that referred to ten quilts a years as “cranking them out”. Really- only ten? Well, they are rather big, you know, a lot of them. I’m still a quilts for beds maker, reasoning that even the ugliest quilt is still a serviceable bed cover. I know art quilters make smaller quilts. I’m in between baby booms at the present, without much scope for crib quilts at the moment.

I made my first quilt in 2006. I think it was in the fall, but I’m not really sure. That was nine quilts ago, and I’m getting more productive and not less. At some point, they may endanger the foundation of the house, by sheer weight alone.


One response »

  1. To quote Rachel Remen, the doctor/writer at UCSF: “Meaning is the language of the soul.” When we tell our stories, we find the meanings. Maybe not on the first telling, either. Sometimes, though, yes.

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