~:: On Making Things ::~

I wonder, sometimes, how many stupid things I say in a day. How many things that make total sense to me, but that can be, and will probably be, construed differently by the people I say them to? Considering the amount of words I can burn through in twelve hours, the chances are high that the number of gaffs is just as high.

After the Great Ornament Bash of 2015, as I was sending people back out into the wintry world (not my favorite part of the night), somebody – I don’t remember who – was kind of apologizing for the ornament she had made (which I recall thinking was silly, since it had been a totally great little piece of work). And I said this thing to her that has been haunting me since.

I said something like, “Pfff. Look at you. You’re not a maker. But you DO it anyway.” I saw her wince at the not-a-maker thing.  As though I’d said, “Look at your handicap, you poor thing,” which is not at all what I had meant. Far from it.

First of all, I’d said it because she is obviously something else – a singer, or a writer or mother, or teacher or genealogist or chef or seamstress or theologian – some other –er. I could tell you what, exactly, if I could remember who it was.

What I had meant was along the lines of: “You’re not fanatic about turning raw materials into ornaments. You’re not obsessed with bits of fabric and felt and glass and wood. You’re not haunted and driven to make silly little not-useful things. And yet you are willing to put your mind to this.”

This is what I mean when I say someone is a Maker:  most people I know have some kind of inner imperative. The thing that makes a person an “–er” is not just a discipline or a course of study or a job. Some sing because they can’t stay silent. Others play with strange, convoluted strings of equations because they can’t get any rest until they – solve them. Some choose to be with small children because they’re fascinated with human beings and the way they grow. Or they cook because the knife fits their hand and the flavors cry out for combination. They teach because they can’t help themselves. Or take pictures because they have to capture light and life.

I’m talking about something a little like being an addict, except a bit more productive.

I make things because I can’t stop making things. I’m not an artist. In the “arts and crafts” balance of the universe, I’m in the craft camp. Not that I’m a craftswoman – because I only make by the seat of my pants. Can’t even claim to be a designer. Because I’m not that, either. I’m a – is there a word for this? I run with a concept. Ideas send me off in directions, but they are rarely born in my own little head. But when I see something that – see, words? – Click. Grab me. Engage me. Make me hungry. Charm me. Challenge me. When that happens my hands feel hollow until a thing is formed against my palms. Little things. Mostly useless. Out of all kinds of media – wood, glass, wire, stone, bead, fabric, flame, paper, clay. Little things, mostly that have eyes. Or movement. Or character.

I have written characters. I live with characters. I love characters. And sometimes, I make them in three dimensions.

The point is, when I said, “You’re not a maker,” I meant – lucky you – you aren’t tormented until you make. And yet – she had made such a charming thing.  Probably because a Maker made her do it. I smile. By that sentence, I mean I made her do it for the party. But it also means that being a child of a creator allows us a certain ability to create out of ourselves – out of the materials I listed above, or out of brain chemistry, or out of the emotion in a room, or sound, movement, food, groups of people, growing things, information, time or spirit. So many media. So little time.

So the Makers – whose hands carve, bend, knit, fire, stitch, form – and make Christmas ornaments – are blessed by the Shapers of love, accord, joy, peace, community, food, future, sense, kingdoms. And sometimes one person can be all these things. And really, all of us are several –ers at one time.

The reason why I love making ornaments is that they are both little and big. They don’t function, but they carry with them, when they are real, great meaning. They tell something about what they commemorate – the birth of life, joy, salvation and exaltation. And they tell something about the heart and life of the maker. The best ones carry the maker inside of them – so that when an ornament goes home from the bash, the household that receives it also receives a token of the personality of the maker. A thing can show humor and/or great love for live things, for concepts, for detail, for the work the maker does, his patience, her wildness or strict attention to every line, the people and things and times beloved – even the colors and the concept are a little piece of the person who put them together.

My tree is hung with love. Love and humor and wonder – and hints about so many people I love.

In the end, there wasn’t enough room in the house for the quilts I made in my quilt period. I suppose there’s still room for a few more painted stools. I’m going to have to buy another Christmas tree – because the ornaments are like geology now – I can excavate our family’s history as I go through the boxes.

And I could never sell any of it. Not because I’m not totally satisfied with the quality I turn out – which I never am. But because each thing is too real to me to sell it. I grow too fond. I can’t even sell a real horse when I probably should. It’s why I should never breed puppies. I can only give loved things away. And that’s hard enough. (Not the YELLOW one – or that red one. I need to keep that one. Yeah, I know there are two, I mean both of them . . .)

I think I might be a little crazy, actually.

I’m going to post some of the projects I did last year in the next post. It’s more fun to post them when you make them, but they were secrets and could not be shared before the curtain went up.