Think on This

By Sandy Long

Be the blanket

It is hanging on my clothesline, soaking up a blast of August sun, giving off the moisture from another river visit. Seeing the faded yellow blanket draped there, I’m reminded of the Delaware’s hot flank, its gritty rock-knobbed bit of beach, the sweet relief that plunging into the chill water brings. That blanket, I muse, has a pretty good life.

While my finer blankets snooze in dark storage spaces, this old softy gets hauled off on all sorts of adventures. Tossed into the trunk or riding jumpseat in the pick-up, its rather tacky, roughly 70’s, sort of unattractive pattern lies askew. No matter. If not the prettiest piece of cloth, it certainly boasts a bountiful life.

I am thinking about this in the middle of a cornfield where live blues music rolls out across the firefly-studded horizon, where fresh sweet corn steams on a giant grill and potatoes roast among red-hot coals. I’ve draped the blanket across my shoulders while we wander through the field. There is a sensuous comfort in its fibers, a grateful interface with its fellowship. Finally, we drift uphill, use this blanket to claim our patch, climb aboard, stretch out and listen. Overhead, a broad smear of stars arcs across the dome of sky.

I recently made the acquaintance of some nifty old blankets and fabrics at North American Cultural Laboratory’s summer theater program in Highland Lake, New York. One of the performances began with a single spotlight illuminating a large upright mass in the center of the floor — a textured, drapey blanket hung in folds over the forms underneath — later revealed to be a man, a woman and a stone altar. As the work progressed, the cloth played various roles while the couple explored the concept of choice. Flipping and flouncing about, it became a living prop, wildly compelling and enticingly unpredictable.

In a later scene, the actress gyrated within a mystical white cloth that billowed to the witchery of the best belly dancing I’ve ever seen. That cloth, their fluid clothing, the “grande” wall of hanging lace backlit by candlelight, and especially the draped blanket of the opening scene, awoke my sleeping passion for the deep satisfaction that fibers, textures, patterns deliver, for clothing that floats on a body, for the theatrical lives these fabrics live. Reminded of my old blanket, the one that gets tossed onto beaches, flung along river banks, spread across the stubble of a corn field on a cool summer evening, slung around my shoulders, hipped around my waist, I rediscover the joy of this rectangle of cloth, its wild versatility, this life it’s gained where it simply goes to the next place, the next thing. No longer good enough to lie on the bed, its life of adventure has begun; indeed, its loss of beauty is its source of freedom.

The whole thing has me wondering — why do we always strive, waste time, meal out money on efforts to fancy ourselves up? New clothes, haircuts, makeup, trips to the gym, hours spent and therefore gone, trying to improve the impression we make. Why not be the old blanket instead — just who we are — ride that little star where it wanders?

Because it doesn’t hold itself precious, my blanket has a pretty enviable existence — camping trips, fireworks displays, picnics, parks, or just thrown in the yard under the stars. Perhaps we can learn something here: be willing, be okay to go anywhere, do anything, on a dime, anytime. If we were ready to go at a moment’s notice, able to say, “Just toss me in the back,” willing to travel lightly, happy to lie around, might we go without a frown?