The hobbies I’ll (maybe someday) have
Lately, I want to make things. I want to make and make and make. With my hands and eyes and my sleeves rolled up. I want to make things on the couch, in the quiet after their bedtime and before mine. I want to make things in early hours of the day when my spirit is bright and bubbly. I want to create and develop and build and stitch and mold.
I want to be good at making things. I want to make beautiful things. I want to make things that other people covet, they seek, even cherish. I want to make the gift that an older, knowing daughter gives in softness to her mother, once she truly feels the depths of what that woman has been through. I want to create items with resonance, that speak to the pain, the memories, the beauty, the joy that others intuitively need to share and distill into an object. A tchotchke even. A little piece of nothing for your bookshelf, your kitchen counter, your table scape, your inner workings.
Why have I spent so much time thinking about creating and whittling and knitting, researching patterns and guides, building a brand in my mind? Why is it that during these hours and days when my hands are literally full of sleeping baby, bouncing baby, hungry baby, blubbering toddler, I seek to use them more creatively and prolifically?
Maybe if I dream hard enough a beautiful object will appear ✨