To Make

My Mom is a knitter. Not one of those hippy, trend knitters who knits because her favorite actress does, but someone who taught herself to knit at the age of 17 and never looked back. She makes the most gorgeous lace scarves and shawls, the warmest and softest throws, and these heirloom afghans that are as much artwork as blanket to cuddle under. Even as I live on the opposite side of the world from her, I daily wear the fingerliss mitts she made me under my jacket and gloves. She taught me how to knit when I was very young (a precaution against children pulling out her knitting because they were pretending to knit) but I never really got into it. I traded it in for bobbin lacing when I was older, though again, that’s something that I seem to pull out a few times a year.

I’ve always admired my Mom’s handiwork. I always will. Yet, I know that isn’t  me. I’m not a crafter, as much as I would sometimes like to be, though I am a huge admirer of the arts. Her love for handcrafting has made me someone who appreciates the work that people do put into it. It’s just not my thing to make.

What do I love to make? A warm dinner for my husband, cookies for friends, a special dessert that surprises people. I like to make my home cozy and personal, organized and polished. I like to make my husband happy. I like to help make little musicians and music lovers in all of my students. I like to make friends and build them up through encouragement and laughter.

Making things isn’t always about sitting down with some glue, construction paper, and glitter or some yarn and knitting needles. Sometimes it’s about investing time and love into a relationship or giving a piece of yourself to another person. I don’t ever want to limit myself by saying that I’m not a maker just because I’m not a crafter. The things I make might be less tangible, but that doesn’t mean that I didn’t put just as much work into making them as my mother did in knitting a lace shawl.

~The Countess~


About texancountess

I find myself in the calming roar of the sea, floating gently on the foam of the breaking waves. Blue. Green. Gray. The colors of the sea mark the boundaries of my soul. The tumbled glass finds its polish under the relentless pounding of the waves upon the shore. Thus am I. Rough transitioning to polish, refinement ever a process, finding my niche in the storms of life.
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