"Where are you going?" the woman asks incredulously to the boy toddling around the library stacks. As with any disembodied voice, it speaks directly to me. Where am I going? A question to shadow the young, to patronize the grown. This past month I have been less than fully employed (dog sitting and dog walking do not quite ends meet make), and it has been a mess of feeling. It is a tangled path surely. This month has felt like two at least, time being an endless ribbon, long and leading over and under itself. But within this multitudinous month, I have found freedom. Though there is twice the worry when money has not been settled, whenever I have found myself in my home office without all the things that count as busy, I have begun to learn the steps of running a business full time. Its baseline melody. Its stirring of limbs.
I'll be honest, this time to myself and my projects has only confirmed something I've always suspected. I would thrive as a stay-at-home hubby/daddio. I like the trappings of domesticity. I like decorating and vacuuming. This month I installed some extra Christmas lights under the cabinets so that we can better see the dishes in the evening. I dusted off the boxes of my gold frame wall and installed it in my reading corner. I took my many many bags of clothes to donate--which have been accumulating for years, bags growing weed like under the bed, in between the bookcase and the wall, every nook and cranny filled with things simply holding onto space--and I DONATED THEM (for some reason this feels like one of the biggest victories). I re-organized my room/office, re-organized my paper cubby, re-organized my card stock, my supplies. I started reading a book on organizing my business finances and even opened a business checking account.
And all this organizing and cleaning and clearing out (keep in mind I work out of my bedroom) also afforded me a special gift. The gift of pausing. Of holding the things I've made, making sure not to lose touch with them. Not to forget that the making is the thing I love most dearly in the world. I looked through old alternate designs. Remembered the debate I had over whether or not to have a ranch fence on my winter correspondence card. I was so delighted with the fence; its boards a trail of tracks in the snow. I remembered the chemistry of creating. The thrill of not knowing what I was doing (I mean I still don't know, but then I REALLY didn't know). The satisfaction of taking an idea and turning it into a physical object.
The cabin, I had stayed at on a truly special trip with friends. The design a representation, from a photograph I took from the driveway, meant to help me remember how much I loved the icicles on the overhangs, the silhouette of the house, the way it was otherwise completely swallowed by snow, but for a brief band of treeline. I remember the happiness in my heart as I took that picture (though I had forgotten the maniacs in the snow), and it is really astounding that I turned that memory into a physical object, one of similar beauty. I transferred it to a computer, I tinkered with the lines, the framing, added a fence, subtracted a fence. I made it. I made it again. And finally I made 300 of them. And glued them, and cleaned them, and photographed them and packaged them, and sold them to people at craft shows and online. I did all that. And it's quite a journey.
A place for product updates, inspiration, behind the scenes stuff, and in general a place for mind meandering.