Crafty

I found this in a box of old photos the other day. I painted it, and gave it to my Grandma. It came back to me after she died.

Daisies have always been one of my favorite flowers. So sunny and bright. I just love the charming lopsided-ness of this one.

I think about four-year-old me wanting to get it just so. And how I might have futzed around with it.

Then it occurs to me.

It’s me-now who would futz around with it. I’d bet four-year-old-me was lost in the fun of creating it. Not to mention the joying of gifting it.

Is that why I don’t do much crafty stuff anymore?

My mom was crafty and we always seemed to have craft projects in process when I was growing up. I used take classes and do things on my own. I’d paint and draw and make soap and candles and throw pots and knit and embroider and color and bead and wood burn and

leather tool and do just about any crafty thing I could get my paws on. (You know about my trusty craft cart right?)

But I haven’t in a while.

Well, except for a rather tame Secret Play Date or two.

How did this happen?

Perfectionism gets in the way.

Not enough time gets in the way.

I don’t know what to do anyway gets in the way.

In my head, those seem like pretty big obstacles. Written down? Flimsy.

Especially when I remember how much satisfaction I used to get from all this crafty goodness.

Opening the door to possibility

Months, well, actually probably years now that I think about it, I had this idea about an embroidery project I wanted to do. I even went so far as to by the floss and fabric and a book to remind me of all those stitches I’ve forgotten in the last few decades.

I could pull that stuff out of the attic. Put it in a pretty bag and put it next to the couch. Then, in the evening, when I’m ready to relax, it’s there, waiting for me.

It suddenly seems possible to find that enjoyment and satisfaction again.