I’ve done “crafts” for years. Collected them, really. Knitting, embroidery, quilt-piecing, soap-making, artisanal bread-baking. I’m not very good at any of them, but I understand them well enough to sound like I know what I’m talking about when I meet another crafter, which is all that really matters. Right?
You might craft for the challenge, for the superior quality of the results, for acquisition of skills, for creative expression, to be part of that crowd, or to be ready for the zombie apocalypse. Because when the shit hits the fan, everyone is going to need a crocheted tea-cosy.
Crafting has given me joy and comfort and I am glad that I have so many weapons against boredom to bring with me into old age.
But you know what crafting requires? Supplies. Fabric, needles, beads, yarn, yarn, yarn. I know I’m not alone and that my craft stash is modest compared to those of many of my fellow crafters, but I am lately overwhelmed by the sheer amount of stuff. Beautiful stuff that makes me wish my skills were greater than they are, but as it is, sits mocking in crammed, untidy drawers, waiting for someone with more time, better taste, greater inclination to do something fabulous with it.
Maybe it’s depression? They say depressed people no longer enjoy things they used to. I don’t think I’m depressed though. I think this is just the springtime talking to me and maybe greater health and vigor keeping me moving. It’s probably also middle-age and an unwillingness to live with clutter.
I’m struck lately with a deep, deep desire to get rid of everything. Trash it all. Start fresh, or don’t. I suddenly really want fewer feathers in my nest. I’ve got a laundry basket full of stuff for the mail and Goodwill, but I still have loads more pretties it is taking me longer to part with, as well as one or two long term projects I’m not ready to give up on. I need to keep something just in case I AM in the midst of a passing nervous breakdown and will regret the purging once I’m well again.