Quilted

I had just finished my workout tonight. Meg (my daughter) and I went Beast Mode at the gym! Well, as beastly as a man of a certain age can go. I was drenched in sweat and my heart was racing and the dopamine was coursing through my brain. In addition to the health benefits of exercise (which I have had seasons in my life when I cared about that and plenty of seasons when I did not), the thing I love most about it is the feeling of being done. Doing something that is hard and unpleasant (weights are heavy!) for a future payoff is where it’s at for me.

So I walked into the locker room in my post workout high feeling good about the universe, my life, my fellow Americans, all the animals of the land. I was alone in the locker room and started to change into dry clothes, when something caught my eye across the room. In an empty locker whose door had been left open, was an empty bottle of vodka. The cheap kind. I sat down for a minute and let my imagination run wild about the owner of that bottle.

I imagined that he is trying to better himself. It was a gym after all. People go there to get in shape, or to keep their shape. Improve their health. I wasn’t in a Krispy Kreme. God, that sounds good right about now! This was a place of upward challenge. And yet, here was an empty bottle of poison. Now, before you accuse me of being a prohibitionist, I’m only calling it poison because that’s what the body thinks of it. The moment alcohol enters the body, the body works very hard to get rid of it. That’s why it burns going down. I’ve got nothing against people who drink successfully. I’ve got nothing against people who don’t. Live your life. BUT, let’s call it what it is. Remember that horseshit that came out years ago that said a little red wine was good for your heart? Turns out, it’s primarily the grape juice that’s beneficial. Alcohol, used regularly, has been proven to have dramatic negative effects on every major system of the human body. It’s infinitely more harmful than cannabis. So my gym guy was, in effect, putting a humidifier and a dehumidifier in a room at the same time, looking for relief. Doesn’t make much sense, does it?

He took time out of his day, drove to the gym, threw down a few bench presses, maybe got on the gerbil wheel for a mile or so, and then changed in the locker room and helped himself to the last couple of drinks from his bottom shelf vodka. Which means that at some point while he was packing his gym bag he remembered his sweats, his tennis shoes, a workout shirt, and Oh yes, his alcohol.

Speaking of bottom shelf, I’ve noticed three kinds of people that buy that particular type of vodka. The first, it’s purely economical. Whatever the budget will allow. The second group, they consume such a high volume of the stuff that they can’t justify the coin needed for elit or Grey Goose. So they go for Zelko and get the quantity. The third group, my heart goes out to them. They don’t care anymore. Not about themselves. Not others. Certainly not about the taste of their beverage. It’s a means to an end.

I don’t know what category my guy was in. But I do know he’s currently tortured. Or if he’s not, he’s going to be.

Here’s a question for you: Do you judge a guy like that? By “judge” I mean, do you think he is worth less as a human because he displays contradictory behaviors? To simply point out that his behaviors are at odds isn’t a judgement; that’s an observation. The judgement comes in the valuation. So, do you judge him? Or do you understand him?

He’s quilted. Just like the rest of us. Or, at least, just like me. Quilted, as in, not a smooth pattern made on a loom. Quilted, as in, assorted pieces stitched together to make a whole. Quilted, as in, scraps sewn together for sheer functionality.

Quilting is a pretty ancient craft, dating back to 3400 BC. It gained steam in Europe in the Middle Ages, for both decoration and function. Quilting was brought to Colonial America by some of those European settlers, but at that time, it gained popularity not as decoration, but as a way of making the most of available resources. In other words, they used scraps. This art form has certainly transitioned since then. We see patterns such as the Double Wedding Ring or the Nine Patch or the Bargello. My grandmother and my great grandmother made me quilts when I was a boy. It covered my first bed when I went away to college. But those quilts weren’t made of scraps. If you try to buy a handmade quilt today you’ll pay anywhere from $500.00-$5000.00. Sometimes more.

My gym guy wasn’t a Pinwheel or an Irish Chain quilt, he was a Colonial quilt, scraps stitched together. Just like the rest of us. Or, at least, just like me.

The first time I can remember displaying my “Quiltedness” I was in high school, 1982. We had a very tight youth group at our church, full of connection and community. We went on retreats together, we did service projects together. It was like an extended family. On Sunday nights, we gathered at the church for a worship session. We would sing songs to God, bow our heads in prayer, encourage one another and lift one another up, and learn from the scriptures. Youth group ended around 8pm. At 8:15, several of us would load into a car and head out of town south to a nightclub that was 21 and over Monday through Saturday. But on Sunday (no liquor sales on Sunday then), they would open up to teenagers. Same music, same dance floor. Just no alcohol. Not for sale inside anyway. With knees still dusty from fervent prayer, we rushed into that hall to the Gap Band playing Your Dropped A Bomb On Me. We were just getting warmed up. Then Vanity 6 sang Nasty Girl (written by Prince), and we were all out on the dance floor, one big pile of hormones. My hands that were previously raised in worship were now trying to see how much I could touch on my previous prayer partner. Turns out, praise God, quite a bit.

That wasn’t the last time in my life there was a stark contrast between quilting squares. Not by a long shot.

Maybe you were a loom person. One way or the other. All bar, no church. Or fully saint, no sinner. I know there’s people like that in the world. Fully congruent humans. I’ve studied human development quite a bit. Both generally and my own. But I can’t make out why some are quilts and some are woven tapestries.

Ben Franklin may have been a loom kind of guy. He’s attributed to saying, “Experience is the fool’s education.” I kind of identify more with Mark Twain, "A man who carries a cat by the tail learns something he can learn in no other way.”

The thing about quilted people, though, is we can be pretty tough. Pretty resilient. If we have cultivated any level of self awareness, then our lives have been a series of carefully (and not so carefully) removing certain blocks that have become torn and replacing them with sturdy, intentionally crafted, new blocks. And that’s just what we do. Who we are. And every new block tells a story about destruction and redemption. About pain and relief. Be careful with your quilts; they are both strong and fragile and tell a wonderful story of how you came to be.

I remember hearing about the old prophet, Jeremiah, taught to me on Sunday nights from 7-8pm. He told us that God would turn our mourning into joy. Turns out that’s true. Sometimes.

I also remember the Gap Band lyrics, taught to me on Sunday nights from 8:30-midnight.

Just like Adam and Eve

Said you'd set me free

You took me to the sky, I'd never been so high

You were my pills, you were my thrills

You were my hope baby, you were my smoke.

You dropped a bomb on me.

Turns out that’s also true.