Light

It's raining in northcentral Pennsylvania--one of those cold, constant November rains.

And while I am not motivated to take the dog on her long walk of the afternoon, I have been motivated to quilt.  My husband teases that my studio is actually our whole house, which is not exactly true, but, when I think about it, every room except for his study and the guest room has been the site of some quilt-related activity--and even the guest room is a great place to store quilts when it's not in danger of being used.  

Today, since one of my projects involves a lot of hand sewing of bias strips, I am seizing the opportunity to work in one of my favorite spots: a bay window that takes up one wall of our dining room.

Years ago we picked up an old rocking chair that ended up in that window.  It has gotten older and uglier over the years, but fits the space perfectly and circles on its base so that you can turn to face the room or to look out at the valley and fields outside.  It is also perfect for handwork.

In the summer the angle of the sun is such that it doesn't heat up this area, and it is the next best thing to being outside to sit here and work with both windows open on either end.  One of the things my aging eyes love about this spot is the light, and, even though my quilts are a bit different from theirs, I feel connected with all those generations of women who quilted with natural light.  

These windows face south, however, so in the fall and winter, they do their job of heating the house as the sun moves further and further into the dining room.  You can have too much of a good thing, and the sunny days become too hot and glaring to work in this space.  It's one of those paradoxes that I need light to follow the marking lines but too much light obscures rather than reveals.

Today the light is perfect, and I am enjoying sitting quietly with Terra, as I slowly move this quilt along.  So I will return to my work, and, if you are still with me, thanks for the company.