Emily Dickinson’s phrase, Dying is a Wild Night and a New Road, accompanies me at times in my life. Dickinson first said it in a letter: “I know there is no pang like that for those we love, nor any leisure like the one they leave so closed behind them, but Dying is a wild Night and a new Road.” This past year, I said this phrase to my father, as we sat in the living room of where he lived with mother, who was on her own New Road that week. Life felt like a total slog in those early weeks after we lost her. I tried to get it together, but I felt so strange. Many of you wrote notes, send letters, welcoming me into this new club, and reminded me to give it time.

After a soggy winter and spring, this summer I let myself be pulled into this. I had no idea what it was going to be, or what kind of work it was. Yes, time does heal all wounds, but perhaps a little quilting wouldn’t hurt, either.

The first thing was to watch a video on how to choose fabrics, which was a great video. I could do this new thing. And when the first steps were to cut strips and sew them together, yeah — I was totally in.

Week by week, I cut and sewed and soon my file of print-outs and blocks was full:

It was like I was back in school, in a good way. In school, there’s always a syllabus, a raft of homework, a goal, a test, a completion. Working on this quilt I felt like I was accomplished something that wasn’t a duty. During this time I was getting quilts finished, but usually I have a lot of ideas and sparkles of creativity and things I want to say, but…it not this year. We had our kitchen torn apart, and then rebuilt. It was actually a relief to choose doorknobs, tile and countertop: a welcome distraction.

This article helped a lot with the sadness, letting me know that what I was going through was normal, would take time. Talking to my husband, my sisters, daughter, friends and my family was a solace. It’s all normal, yes, normal, normal, normal…but I wanted my old normal back, of happily diving into color and cloth, of not missing someone terribly.

I began to screenshot memes on Instagram, like this one, or the one below:

I retreated from life for awhile, but kept working on this Summer Camp quilt. Weeks Ringle and Bill Kerr, of the Modern Quilt Studio (who were running the Sew-A-Long) held “campfire talks.” Sometimes goofy, but always authentic, warm and interesting, I would join them a day or two late, and read through the posted comments. This project became my through-line.

I ended up with 52 blocks ( photo 1) which when placed on the wall revealed themselves to be Not Enough (2) and so I chose some of my favorite prompts and made more (3). I couldn’t see how this would ever become anything but a mush of color and line, just like I couldn’t see how I would ever feel like a life without my mother was something I wanted to have. She died at age 94, on November 13, 2022, a year ago. I’d had her all my life. I burst into tears at odd moments.

Finally, the Summer Camp Quilt-A-Long project turned a corner. Now I had to make something of these small blocks. I chose this layout, It’s a variation of one of their variations, with some changes suggested by my husband.

I finished quilting it this month, and made this label.

On the anniversary of her death, my husband and I drove to Utah. We picked up my father and drove to the cemetery in Paradise, Utah to see her gravesite, to remember her. Dad’s very old, and I’d forgotten to bring lawn chairs, so we were there about 3 minutes, 20 seconds. No lie. After he got back in the car, I took a few photographs, feeling a bit strange having such a cheerful quilt in this setting. While we were driving there, my father kept saying little tidbits like, “When she was a senior in high school, she was the editor of both the newspaper and the yearbook.” And, “She lived with her grandmother for a year the year before that.”

When we drove along the road beside this reservoir, he said: “We came along this way some time ago, and got as far as this bridge before we had to turn back. It was under construction.” They’d driven up there nearly every Memorial Day — or as they called it, Decoration Day — to put flowers on the gravesites of all those who had gone before. It felt very circular this day, me with my quilt, thinking about my Mom, as she always thought of her mother, her grandmother and others before her.

Back home several days later, I threw the quilt in the wash, and of course, it changed as quilts do, becoming something soft and cuddly and maybe perfect for a baby blanket? In the end I didn’t put the label on. I’ll send it out in the world without its history, letting it find its own way and purpose. I’m grateful for projects like this which are small bites at a time, helping me become reacquainted with why I like cloth and thread and quilts. I can’t always put my finger on where I am on this new road, but I feel better. I doodled a new design last night and I’m looking forward to making it.

My mother taught me to sew, first doll clothes, then enrolled me in a class at school where I made my first dress. Recently, I’ve had a couple of moments of deep remembrance, times when her presence has popped into my life, seemingly a reminder that she lives on, and still loves her daughter, and her quilts.

Thanks, Mom, for everything.

Quilt #282 • 45″ wide by 60″ long