- Posted by Donna Emert on December 8, 2009
by Donna Emert
How does anyone get anything done this time of year? Those of us who make gifts by hand, under the weighty onus of a December 24 deadline, need look no further than the story of The First Christmas to get some perspective.
Let’s take an unbiased look at Mary:
In the Middle East, in an era even less enlightened than our own, a pregnant teenaged virgin is traversing the desert on a donkey, led by her husband, who is not the father of her child-- circumstances that would almost guarantee some fascinating conversation between them.
In addition, they might also be a little peeved that their government requires them to travel, while impossibly pregnant, so that they can be counted and thus, taxed! It is hot. Did I mention this is the Middle East, approximately Zero, B.C. ? I think that’s the working definition of Back in the Day. So Mary is likely wearing, what, maybe 37 lbs of clothing? Perhaps her eyes are allowed to show, but not her potentially sexual-frenzy-inducing calves or arms.
So the holy couple finally schleps into Bethlehem where the census is being taken-- dirty, exhausted, reeking of donkey, to find there is no room at the Inn. (Couldn’t Joseph have made reservations via carrier pigeon, turtle dove or whatever?) So they accept an invitation to sleep in a stranger’s barn. Correction: a generous foreigner’s barn; they’re way outta town.
To recap our heroine’s motivation in this scene: Mary is required to be a gracious, pregnant, barn guest to a host from outside her culture, get herself to the census department to provide sensitive, personal data (Job description: Mother of God), AND to give birth to a deity who is, let us not forget, also a baby. Then she must somehow get the child circumcised, keep him alive in a world riddled with pestilence and ready herself and the baby/God for the long trip home.
There are additional pressures here: Seeing as how she is the parent of God, little questions likely take on deeper significance. I mean, when’s His bedtime? What do we need to teach Him? What is the Alpha and the Omega really telling us when He cries? And what kind of formidable consciousness, terrible and magnificent, is in that tiny head?
Actually I guess we all ask these questions about babies. But I digress:
So they do the census and Mary gives birth to Jesus. It doesn’t take long for word to get out, what with the celestial anomaly of the Star of Bethlehem and all, and pretty soon, Mary is ALSO hostess to THREE KINGS IN HER BARN, their many attendants, a bunch of shepherds, their sheep, cherubim and seraphim caroling at the top of their lungs and blasting those long brass horns, a little drummer boy pounding out a backbeat, and the standard array of barnyard animals, braying, mooing, clucking—and doing far worse deeds. (Thank God the kings brought frankincense and myrrh.)
How is Mary supposed to achieve her objectives, earthly or spiritual? How will she get anything done? Maybe the only rational advice for Mary, and for us, is to take in the moment.
During this Christmas, Hanukah, Solstice season, while we furiously toil at our projects, we are all just trying to celebrate what is beautiful and timeless: our babies, our beliefs, our families and friends. In fact, the quilts we’re stitching and sox we’re knitting are meant to honor them and all of this--this thing where kings and chickens inevitably collide.
When, via radio, John Lennon asks, somewhat accusingly, “So this is Christmas and What Have You Done?” if you’ve done what you can, pour something worthwhile into your cocoa, indulge in a forgiving assessment of the menagerie in your barn, and celebrate membership in your deeply flawed, ineffably sacred family. The projects will wait.
Donna Emert is a writer/quilter living in Coeur d' Alene Idaho
- Posted by Donna Emert on November 8, 2009
by Donna Emert
Most quilting advice hones in on aesthetics and engineering, offering solid direction that can be summarized thus: design with abandon and execute with precision. But comes a time when you’ve done that and your quilt is finally in hand. It’s a beautiful thing, and a long awaited moment, not unlike a birth. (But yeah, not too much like one either.)
You have made a piece of art-- complex, modern, sophisticated, simple, utilitarian, folksy, or some hybrid of those fine qualities. Your creation has symbolic as well as functional value: It is meant to warm your chin and your feet simultaneously; to cover a threadbare sofa; to radiate love; to indulge your cat; to one-up your sister who is the freaking McGiver of the crafting world; to placate your mother in law. Or it is meant to remind your child—its recipient--- that you are present in his life, perhaps even a presence in his room; in grown children, we hope this quilt also has a guilt-fueled, frivolous--lover–repellent function.
Regardless of its destiny, your quilt needs a name.
Some quilters are language lovers who have been haplessly sucked into the vortex of fabric-as-a -medium of expression. Superior quilters often are more skilled at expressing themselves in fabric than in words. But we can all embrace the same handy guidelines for naming a quilt:
Choose a name that aptly reflects its origins. Some people may genuinely experience “Fall Rhapsody” when they build a quilt of chocolate browns and burnt umber. You, however, may recall only that pins slit you wrist-to-elbow as you quilted, or that you got nothing but skunk eye from your family for dinners you burned or blew off while lovingly constructing this heirloom. So a different title may be more apt: “Fall from Rhapsody,” “Passive Suicide,” or “Macaroni Flambé.” These are names that invite translation.
Remember that names can shape destiny or be shaped by it. We named our middle kid Austin Shane. Then we called him Shane, a decision which I am pretty certain eliminates his chances of sitting on the U.S. Supreme Court while increasing, exponentially, his likelihood of punching cattle in Wyoming. But the name fit. If you have a huge quilt, and it is one of the most visually powerful forces in your domestic universe, why not call it “Zeus”? You can Go Big, Go Big and Weird, or even Go Big and Weird with Obscure Literary /Mythological References. It’s your quilt.
Find delightfully descriptive alternatives to convention. Try “Wine Patch,” “Shew Slug,” (as a Northwest variation of Shew Fly) or “Bedding Ring” (for those who just cohabitate). I also like the sound of “Monkey Wench.” “Quail’s Trail” might serve as a variation of “Snail’s Trail.” As the neurotics of the avian world, quail can’t even decide how to cross the road. Hence, their “trail” might be pretty amusing to quilt.
Steal something. Go ahead and call that dark, old, wool, four-patch, “Beowulf,” because it’s so swarthy and male it almost has stubble and you don’t feel like apologizing for sleeping with it. If it’s a big, gorgeous, ratty old monster maybe “Grendel.”
As an alternative to dipping into the deep well of pagan mythology, you can always jack a Bible verse: who wouldn’t be compelled to wrap up in a chunky, plaid, “Yay Though I Walk Through the Valley of Death,” on a cold winter’s night?
Perpetuate and build your personal mythology. Use bits and pieces of conversation overheard on the bus, song lyrics or even poem fragments. Haven’t we all made quilts aptly summarized by the words of the poet Robert Burns, who pointed out that the best laid plans of mice and men “Gang Aft Aglee.” Translation: “we screw up.”
Let’s try it out: “This one is ‘Monkey Wench,’ from my ‘Gang Aft Aglee’ period.”
Toss inharmonious adjectives and nouns together like salad. “Pertinent Affiliation,” “Seamless Aftermath,” “Unholy Kitchen Fire.” Alternatively, you can use these as band names.
Keep trying. You can call it, “The Nine Patch,” or you can bravely offer a glimpse of your personal journey by naming it, “Escape Through the Briar Patch.” Keep on naming till you find one that suits you. The good ones stick.
Donna Emert is a quilter and writer in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho.