a year...

I sewed a year of life into this blanket.

I sewed hopes, excitement and joy into this blanket.

I sewed dreams into this blanket.

I sat and sewed, dreamed and prayed.

Each stitch. A prayer of some sort.

I sewed grief into this blanket.

I sewed heart break and disappointment into this blanket.

I sewed questions and doubts, and deep sadness into this blanket.

I sewed loss and grief and death into this blanket.

I sat and sewed, grieved, questioned, and lamented.

Each stitch. A prayer or some sort.

This blanket is a treasure, a collection of good days and bad, highs and lows, joy and lament.

On the day I laid it out to begin sewing I could not possibly have guessed what I would sew into it.

i sewed a year of life into this blanket.

I started it in August of 2011. Right before my Servant Team came. It was a season in Kolkata where I had a bit more “free time” on my hands when I was at the office. So each week when I’d come to our Southern unit, I’d spend a couple hours sewing.

After a couple hours my fingers hurt. My knee would ache. and I’d stop.

The women would tease me…and encourage me...

 “Oh Mousumi-di, how many lines did you sew today?”

 “your sewing so fast, you should sew a king size blanket next.”

“what, you’re still working on that same blanket?! How will you eat this month.”

“Chaya, when you check her blanket, show no mercy.”

“Moushumi, when are you going to finish that blanket. We want our ice cream.” (I told them that when I finished it I’d buy them all ice cream…so their encouragement may not have been all altruistic)

Slowly I got faster.

Slowly my lines got straighter.

Slowly my spacing got more even.

On the other hand my respect for the women of sari Bari grew quickly. Their attention to detail. That they sew for 7 hrs a day. The high standards of workmanship that they attain. They are artisans. And they have always had my respect for their bravery, their tenacity, their fierce determination to hope. Sewing this blanket increased my respect for their work ethic. The work they do (so beautifully) is hard.

When I got to the point of sewing patches on the blanket I brought it out to the prevention unit, and to our Northern unit too. It was great to spend time with the ladies…sewing, getting tips, being together.

I nearly finished the blanket last September before I came to the states...i just had to wash it and put my last few patches on…but then the washing machines were broken at both units…and I got that horrible fever…and my blanket went into a bag for safe keeping and waiting.

In May I got it out (at the insistence of the ladies…I think they were really ready for me to deliver on the promise of that ice cream!) and sewed my last 4 patches on. And then I got a “moushumi” tag and sewed that on at home.

I gave the blanket to my dad for safe keeping. (he kept stealing my mom’s Sari Bari blanket…so I figured it was time). He took no time at all laying claim to it…crooked stitching and all.

It’s a blanket. 

Just a blanket. 

and so much more.

It is a marker to me…of a year. 

A marker of lessons learned, self-discovery, things gained, and things lost. 

It is a marker of memories, good and bad, days of joy and sorrow. 

It is sacred.