Now for my take:

This quilt hangs above the card table dubbed "Brecken's area." My 4 foot by 4 foot area houses a card table, a box of fabric and yarn, some paper, and scrapbooking supplies, and a sewing machine. With only 560 square feet in the apartment I'm pretty lucky to have my area.

I hung the quilt there because it is my inspiration, it reminds me of the long line of "creators" I come from. My parents, my grandparents, my great grandparents.

My Grandma pieced this quilt, using the reproduction fabric that she loves because of its relation to her. The pastels, the simple designs, the memory of flour sacks of these patterns so little girls could have pretty dresses. She created because she had to, and loved it so when she didn't have to it became a necessity of a different kind.

My Grandpa quilted this baby-sized piece. When I was young I remember him in his workshop, cutting pieces of wood so the aunts could make Christmas sleighs. I also remember him being most proud of things he built to display my grandma's creations. Quilt racks, shelves for plates, quilting hoops. Grandpa never got his stitches as small and even as my grandma's, but he did it out of love. I think of him stitching to spend time with her, and wonder if Justin will ever get to the point where he will want me to let him help. Or if I will ever get to the point where I will be happy to act in his projects just so I can spend the day with him.

My parents have a quilt hanging in their room, of similar fabric (but it isn't reproduction it's antique.) I used to look at it and wonder if I could ever make anything that my great grandchildren would love to look at. The impossibly small stitches, the thought of pushing a peddle or even having to make each stitch by hand, the love and care that preserved the quilt through the years, are all reminders to me of how important it is to be a good creator, and then a better steward.

Reuben loves the few paintings and drawings we have in our home from my parents. He talks about them, and knows who created them. He tells me about the cupid baby that Grandpa painted. He's not old enough to appreciate that the birds are crayon drawings, and that the cupid isn't a photograph but a painting. But he knows where they came from.

I wonder if every family is like mine, I'm almost certain they aren't. I'm lucky to have such a tangible example of creation, and appreciation. Maybe that is why I miss the sky so much.