This is sort of a pleasure and a necessity.
A pleasure because there is certain kind of satisfaction in being able to take your to hands and create something tangible.
A necessity because this is a way to survive zombie apocalypse. Or Monsanto.
Long ago, your great-grandmother taught me to crochet. When I was a little girl. Just a basic stitch, but it was enough for me to make things. And no matter how long I go between slightly misshapen kerchiefs or half-assed attempts at blankets, my hands never forget how to do it. I can take yarn, and make it into something useable.
I’m going to figure out how to spin some yarn.
Your piano lessons are going well, and hopefully you will be able to make music. This, to me, is a mysterious process, as I do not understand how to read music. And I am sure that as the next Bill Gates, you will someday sit at a computer and make a spaceship pop out of it. That it its own magic. But it is different.
I’m talking here about the word “craft.”
There’s a stigma to that word. Most people find it old-fashioned. Frumpy. It doesn’t have to be. It’s only frumpy if you make it frumpy.
I have to be inspired by my materials. Beautiful fabric makes beautiful things. If the fabric is cheesy? Then the quilt will be cheesy. Soft, homespun yarn will make a stunning blanket. And I like modern stuff, so I make modern stuff.
The amazing thing is that I can sit with a pile of scraps and make a quilt - a wonderful, pretty and useful blanket.
Now I know what that sounds like, but trust me on this, homey … CHICKS LOVE A CRAFY MAN (ignore the Michael Bolton and read the comments … CHICKS LOVE THIS DUDE. He makes furniture and can totally renovate an apartment).
Don’t be a crafter. Be an artisan. Be ready for zombie apocalypse. Get chicks.
What could be better than that?