The UPS man arrived at the house the other day with 4 heavy boxes–a donation of fabric, shipped all the way from Idaho. As I sorted through the neatly folded pieces I began to think about what our fabric says, how it speaks. Pastel remnants, gentle prints, humming a lullabye of a baby quilt. Red, white and blue, proudly speaking of a patriotic project, a fourth of July table runner perhaps or a piece to commemorate a soldier’s homecoming. A soft, sedate wool plaid–a remnant of a cozy winter skirt?
We, as sewists, remark about our “fabric stashes”…how there are fabrics we just have to have because they speak to us. Some fabrics we use, others we save and savor…sometimes we’re even afraid to cut into them.
It’s interesting to look through these collections of fibers, seeing them as more than an assemblage of fabric, but rather as books of our lives, giving little glimpses into chapters that have come and gone. There is something so personal about one’s collection of fabric.
I feel honored and grateful that so many are willing to share these tactile and telling pages from the books of their lives.