I’d brought a bottle of ink with me, which I’d borrowed from Papa’s desk, and a paintbrush from my art box. We told Kenza what I was going to do – although we left out the fact that I was following the instructions of the dreamseller – and then Nina and Kenza helped me find some stones that were the right shape and size, big enough and flat enough to write on, but not too big for me to be able to throw them far out beyond where the waves break. After meeting the dreamseller, I’d thought about what she’d said and decided what I needed to put on the stones. I wrote four things. The first one was Home. The second one was France. The third one was Friends （the ones I’ve left behind）。 On the fourth one I didn’t write any words, I just drew a six-pointed star like the one on my necklace in the sandalwood box.
While the sun and the wind helped the ink to dry, I washed my paintbrush in the salty water of the Atlantic Ocean. Then I took each stone in turn and held it in my hands for a moment before throwing it out as far as I could. The sea swallowed them all up hungrily. I felt a great wave of sadness, but it was different from the heavy lump – like a pile of rocks – that I’ve been carrying around for so long. Mixed in with it was a feeling of relief that I didn’t have those rocks inside me any longer. And so the sadness seemed not to take up the whole of my heart any more and there was a bit of room for other things. Kenza gave me a big hug and wiped away my tears with a corner of her scarf and then the three of us walked along at the water’s edge for a while, letting the wash of the waves foam over our bare feet and feeling the warm wind on our cheeks. We came to a stretch of wet sand, and suddenly I felt like running and then I did a cartwheel and Nina joined in. Then the three of us were all running and laughing and I realised the dreamseller had been absolutely right. It was a kind of freedom.
There have been three nights since then and I haven’t had any bad dreams at all. Last night I dreamed I was dancing on the beach with Josephine Baker and her animals and we were all laughing, even the mice.
Zoe – 2010
Kate and I meet up at the mall and she shows me the way to the crafting shop, which is tucked away in a corner on the upper floor. It’s a treasure trove of a place, crammed to the ceiling with shelves containing spools of thread and pieces of felt and sheets of card in all the colours of the rainbow. As well as the things I’ll need for cutting my selection of old clothes into precise squares and triangles, I buy a large spool of ivory thread and a packet of pins with bright-coloured heads. Kate offers to lend me her sewing machine for piecing my blocks, but I politely decline. I want to sew them by hand. Each block will be a labour of love, as well as it being a way of keeping my hands busy – a welcome distraction from scratching at my inflamed skin. I want to immerse myself in this project, taking my time. I want to focus on every stitch and every scrap of fabric.
Once we’ve finished our shopping, we retreat to the coffee shop so that I can show Kate the design I’ve chosen and she can give me a few more tips for getting started. I turn to the bookmarked page.
‘The Tree of Life.’ She smiles. ‘That’s the perfect choice for a beginner. You’ll be working with squares and quarter-square triangles to make the tree and you’ll need some plain fabric for the setting squares and triangles you’ll use to surround the patterned pieces – the book gives you the measurements here, see, depending on the size you want your finished quilt to be. I’d suggest you cut everything out for your first block and pin it, just to get an idea of how it all fits together. That way you won’t make any mistakes. The hand-piecing will take some time, but it’s a very good way to start to understand how the design works.’
She takes another look at the book and turns the pages. ‘All the different block patterns tell a story. See here, for example, this log cabin design is hundreds of years old. The square in the centre is usually red, to represent the fire in the hearth, or sometimes yellow for a light shining from a window. And then the offset strips of fabric surrounding it are the logs of the cabin. You can just imagine how comforting that would be if you were a settler in the Wild West, longing to be safe inside a cosy home. By the time you’d sewn enough blocks for your quilt, you’d have created a whole settlement.’
‘And the Tree of Life?’ I ask. ‘Does it tell its own story too?’
She sips her coffee and turns back to the page with the design I’ve chosen. ‘Indeed – a Tree of Life is a powerful symbol of family and ancestors. Its branches map generation upon generation, each following on from the ones that have gone before. It reminds us that we’re never alone, you see. Everything is interconnected. A tree may lose its leaves in wintertime but then, after a period of hibernation, there’s a rebirth in the spring as new life unfurls. I love that idea of making a fresh start, of hope reawakening.’ She unwraps one of the little almond biscuits that the waiter’s delivered with our coffees and takes a bite, still considering the pattern. ‘Then, too, it tells us we are rooted in the earth, which nourishes us and gives us strength. And even though a tree will age and die, it holds new life in its seeds – it represents the idea of life after death, of an ending also holding the promise of a new beginning.’