'Joy' is a beautifully simple and elegant quilt. It is Kerry's favorite quilt in the Limited Edition Collection and currently on her own bed! The phrase "and be not afraid to dance like the white-skirted girl with the suntanned face, for joy is surely the greater of our gifts." is quilted in Verdana font across the front.
Written specifically for Comma Workshop by award winning creative writer Jody Jenkins, "Rust Becomes Earth Becomes Me" is quilted in its entirety in white thread in the background of the quilt.
Now 40% off -- $615/throw, $1155/queen, $1410/king for a limited time.
100% Cotton. Hand and machine crafted by artisan quilters in Colorado, USA.
Wash in cold water on gentle cycle, tumble dry low, light iron.
Each quilt is machine quilted by hand, so no two are exactly alike. Our quilts are made to order, please allow at least 3 to 8 weeks for delievery. When you place your order, you'll receive an estimated ship time.
The wind speaks in the weathervane. A scrap of thought, a memory of something long ago quickly lost like a massasauga through an expanse of wheat. There is only the silence and humility of the blank blonde heat that stretches to the horizon. Out here we are counterpoint, at once infinitesimal and vast. Reach across.
Live the gift of the unadorned. Drink the daily dilemma like cold water from a cupped hand. Sweat tracking the small of your back from a day's work. We are one with what we know and love. Whispered confidences. The preoccupations of the darkling beetle. Trust in the eyes of a child. Express without words the meaning of all things. None since the beginning of time could put it to paper.
And yet, still we salvage what we know like crooked nails. Hammer them straight in miserly hopes of resurrecting purpose, of finding use for things we've been and done and suffered. Old relationships. Stray virtues. The mantra of the dimestore freeway mile. These are our inheritance. Our bequeath. They must have meaning. So waste nothing. Be discerning. Collect tomes. But walk the razor's edge between wisdom and desolation. And be not afraid to dance like the white-skirted girl with the suntanned face, for joy is surely the greater of our gifts. Eyes like blue flax. Breath a cool and inviting garden. Make love and know not who is man or who is woman. Skin that smells like earth in the first rain. Liturgy.
And then, remark the rust, layered upon all things like your outstretched hand in mine. Becoming one. Together. Soon it becomes earth. Eventually dust. Surrenders to the inevitability of time. Sags like an abandoned homestead against the evening sky. We are one and the same. Our dreams. Our losses. We must tend them. Live with them the way a tree grows around barbed wire nailed into it's skin. Spirituality as understanding and self-acceptance.
That is what we seek as days spin away like questions scribbled on scraps of paper and cast to the wind. Will we ever know the world? Will anyone share this loneliness? Is there meaning in the period? Or comma? Do away with all punctuation. Strip away all words. Put down the paper. Abandon the frame. Rest in the pause. The picture is here before you. See the leaves of the aspen shimmer silver coins with the coming storm.
Then lay down in the darkness as the wind comes in the weathervane and the rafters groan. Settle like an ancient sanctuary. Listen to the rain speak volumes. Inexpressible.