Some time last fall, when I was struggling with the case from hell that will not go away, I was also deeply struggling to reconcile my feelings of failure and worthlessness, hopelessness, despair, and total isolation.  I was trying to understand how this case could be ignored.  I felt afraid for my friend, and I felt afraid for my children.  I was afraid that I would be killed over this case.  Overwhelming fear.

I felt ignored and abandoned by my peers and colleagues.  The very people who had supported me and praised me were deaf to me or were attacking and discrediting me.  My world seemed draped with invalidating messages, and I was unable to escape them for a moment.

Everything around me seemed harsh and hostile.  I was desperate for something "gentle"... something about me.  Something mine.  Something that was ok.  Validating somehow.  Something that had nothing to do with work.  Something that was beautiful.

Our shelter manager is supposed to handle donations, etc.  She generally lets them sit for a couple of weeks until she gets around to messing with them.  They are always in the walkway in our cramped quarters.  She hates dealing with them.

We had a donation come through that just sat in the walkway of our
bathroom /kitchen/ hotline/work room (a tiny room).  I never mess with the donations cause I hate dealing with them, too - and I never have time.

And when it comes to clutter... I am one of those people who can't even see it.  I can blindly step over and around it and not have a clue what is there.

I know this box had been there for a couple of weeks... and for some reason, in mid-chaos, with my desk piled high with notebooks, papers, and more projects than I could handle, I looked down and there was a very neatly folded quilt top.  I couldn't believe it.

I just stood and looked at it.  I forced myself to NOT pick it up and run out of shelter like a maniac.  I didn't even touch it.  I just left it there.

For the next few days, I watched that quilt top. I could see it from my desk.  When I couldn't stand it anymore, I picked it up and unfolded it.  I was there alone.  Fortunately.  Because when I unfolded it, it felt like a choir was bursting forth into song!  I was wildly excited and yelled "TOWANDA!!!!" at the top of my lungs!

After letting it sit on my desk for many days waiting for staff to decide if there was a way to use it, I took it home.  It was as if the quilt were telling me I needed it.

At home, I unfolded it and hung it over my bed - fully displayed.  It was like opening a package of sunshine.  It prompted me to unearth and hang all the quilts I have -  all made by my 2 grandmothers.  In my bedroom alone, I have 3 quilts hanging on the walls - pink, white, and blue.

I have remembered my grandma Bruch's hands - arthritic and bent, as she moved the needle in and out of the fabric of so many projects.  She never quit - when she had her final stroke, there was still a needle in her work - threaded with the color of the moment.

I have tremendous guilt over not being with my grandmother when she died or in the months leading up to it.  I didn't know then what was wrong with me, but I now know that the dysfunction that kept me from supporting the woman I loved most in the world and which eventually destroyed my marriage was depression.  I didn't know that my grandmother was consumed with depression, and that our family has been ripped and torn from this ailment.

While the quilt was in my room (the first space of my own since I was 20), I was able to envision the artistry and the woman's' ways of piecing and stitching those many quilts.  I hung them on my walls like the artwork they are.   I rest my eyes on them when my eyes are tired.  I cherish them like no other possession I have.

The women that made these quilts had trials and tribulations as well... many are the same issues that are causing me grief today.  They survived.  They Loved and gave me life.  They are me and I am them.  And I have loved and brought forth life.  And my children are their children.

These were messages I needed to hear.  I needed to know that no matter how alone and isolated I become - how disillusioned and afraid I live - I needed to know that I have a history of strong and creative and nurturing women - and that no matter what happens, I will always "belong" to these women.  I will always have a history, a present and a future.

The color of the Towanda quilt never worked with my room... but the artistry of the quilt top brightened it all through the winter.

When I heard that Audrey was forced to give up her life-work with no say-so whatsoever (because she was a woman, and even in a family business, she had no voice), I pulled the quilt off the wall and shipped it to her.  The quilt seemed anxious and ready to go.

For quite awhile, I hid the fact that the quilt top came from a donation box mixed up with all sorts of bizarre odds and ends - because I felt guilty.  However, I now understand that the quilt top was in the box that was donated to help women in crisis.  That is the purpose it is serving.  It is moving from one woman to another.  From one womans' hands to another.

TOWANDA!

Much love,
Abagail