A Red Scarf and a Yellow Dress

A story about they day we first met and the quilt it inspired

(Note: The quilt referenced will be on display as part of a quilt exhibit. Opening reception originally scheduled for December 2024 will be held at a different date. Please considering subscribing - for free - for details!)

There’s a story from East Asian folklore that speaks to the unseen bonds we share with others about the Red String of Fate: an invisible thread that ties two people together, destined to meet, no matter how long it takes. Some refer to it as Red String Theory. It tangles, it frays, it stretches, but it never breaks. I’ve been thinking about that a lot since the day I met my birth mother and sisters for the first time. I dreamt of that day for 30 years, and in some ways, it feels like it always existed, even if I didn’t know who they were. The universe was just waiting for me to step into it.

It happened in Denver, over a decade ago, in a café that smelled of old coffee and nervous conversation. I wore a yellow dress. For an occasion like that, you remember what it takes to pick out your outfit. I remember buying the dress, thinking I wanted to make a good first impression. I wanted to be someone worth meeting. At that lunch gathering was my birth mom, MaryJo, two of three biological half-sisters, Marie and Katie, and my former husband and children.

Recently, my sister Marie sent me a red plaid scarf. I had specifically requested a textile from her and the others, with the idea of working the collection of textiles into a quilt. In the note that accompanied the scarf, Marie admitted she had agonized over what to wear that day because she wanted to impress me. It’s strange, how you can feel so connected to someone you’ve never met, yet still feel like you need to prove you belong in their life.

When I unboxed Marie’s scarf, it was worn, full of tiny holes, a little frayed around the edges, like everything that’s been loved too much for too long. That note, that scarf - it hit me in a way I wasn’t prepared for. She didn’t need to say it, but I knew: we had both been scared that day. Scared of rejection, scared of expectations we couldn’t meet, scared that this moment we had imagined so many times would fall flat.

When I received the scarf, I didn’t know what to do with it at first. It felt like too much and not enough at the same time. Then it came to me, after reading her note a second time: I could stitch the story of that first day together. I looked at my yellow dress in the closet and immediately started seeing stars.

As I designed this quilt, I imagine thin strips of red resembling strands of thread woven throughout, like string across a starry night sky.

After we went our separate ways that day, I didn’t know what to do with myself. My mind kept racing with thoughts of “Now what?” And with each step taken and mile driven away from that cafe, it felt like a dream. None of it felt real. I was completely overwhelmed. It felt like I had stepped off a cliff and, mid-air, realized I didn’t know how to fly.

That night, I left the husband and kids behind at the hotel and went to see Phosphorescent play at the Hi-Dive. While waiting outside, a woman sat down beside me and asked where I was from. And because she asked, I told her. I told her about meeting my birth mother and sisters and how I didn’t know what was supposed to happen next. She didn’t say anything in response. Instead, she wrapped me in her arms.

I cried, hard. I cried in that way you do when you finally realize that everything you’ve been holding inside has been slowly breaking you apart. Her friends came outside, and before I knew it, my story was spreading through the club like wildfire. Strangers - complete strangers - started coming up to me, offering hugs, saying words I couldn’t even hear over the music, but I understood their sentiment. It was humanity at its most raw and beautiful - a moment of overwhelming compassion from people who didn’t owe me anything but gave me everything I needed.

As I stood in the crowd, held by strangers, the band started playing “A Song for Zula.” I’ll never forget that moment, feeling every part of me that had been hollowed out from the day, slowly fill with music and warmth.

That night wasn’t just about meeting my birth family. It was about discovering that people can be kind and supportive in ways I didn’t expect. I realized I am connected to people I’ve never met by strings I’ll never see.

This quilt is my way of stitching that day together, piece by piece, moment by moment. The red scarf and yellow dress, the hugs from strangers, the music, my hurt, and my happiness - it all comes together in a pattern that doesn’t make sense until you step back and see the whole thing. It’s messy and imperfect, but so is everything that matters.

Maybe that’s what the Red String of Fate or Red String Theory is: not just some mystical thread that ties you to one person, but the connections we make along the way. The ones we don’t plan for. The ones that surprise us. The ones that, if we’re lucky, hold us together when we feel like we’re coming apart.