So it so happens I had this afternoon nap and I had a dream and it was a gift like sometimes they are these naps and these dreams and I dreamt about the patchwork quilt I made a few years ago when I was recovering from a heartbreak and in the dream my friend was admiring the quilt and the colours and the textures and I kept pointing out the flaws the bits where the bit that should hold it together all round the edges and I can’t even remember now what that bit is called but I remember spending all day trying to find just the right one in the haberdasheries of the Northern Quarter and spending even longer trying to fit it all together because it was complicated and not as easy as you might think and how really I was probably just trying to keep myself busy to keep my mind off the pain and how now I can see all the mistakes I made in this quilt and how the green border that’s what you call it a border like in a garden how there are places where it doesn’t hold together and it kind of comes apart and in the dream I kept trying to show this friend the bit that wasn’t right and this friend just kept not seeing it and kept telling me how beautiful the quilt was and it wasn’t until I remembered the dream later that I realised how just like a quilt this writing blog is with its oddments and fragments and its bits and its bobs and how the words are like stitches and how it doesn’t matter if it is thin in places and bumpy in others and if it’s not that neat because it’s not that kind of quilt and it doesn’t matter really if there are mistakes in it because that’s not really the point anyway and how it doesn’t matter if I don’t know what it will look like in the end because there doesn’t even ever have to be an end and words are like stitches and they can repair things and with stitches you can take things which are nothing in themselves and turn them into something new you can transform things and I think of all the quilts that I love like Tracey Emin’s ones which use bits of fabric from all different parts of her life and how thinking of how she used old bedding that belonged to her gran and stuff that she used to have as a kid in her art makes me want to cry and how she puts all these things that don’t go together together with misspelt messages over the top and how she shares on them stuff you wouldn’t usually share with strangers and how it closes a gap somehow in a beautiful way and I think of the AIDS quilt and how many lives and how moving it is to see it all laid out there and with so many hands having touched it and I think of how many different ways there are of telling our stories and how it closes a gap somehow and how words are like stitches and how all of these stories matter and how all of the stitching and writing and remembering and sharing and listening don’t ever even need to have an end because when it comes down to it all of this all of it really is just about love.