In the peace and calm of morning, I listen to Esther on audiobook, and knit. This yarn that I spun, wooly and bright, is turning into a vest for a young hobbit want-to-be for Christmas. This vest may last longer than me, or it may be worn out or moth-eaten or lost long before I die. It is fragile, almost as fragile as my own life.
Some people say that another vest would do, one cut from acrylic felt perhaps, with plastic buttons instead of the brassy metal buttons, embossed with rampant lions, that I will sew onto this. And it would. It would serve the purpose. The boy would be delighted, his imagination would be free as ever, my love would still come through. Then what is the value of this labor of my hands? What difference does it make?
What difference does it make, this sketch of leaf or face or cobweb?
The cost of making art is high. It is our precious hours that we spill into it, our very lives. For what?
Some would say, for nothing of value. Or nothing much. That there is not much room for art in the life of a busy mother, that duty calls her to other tasks, to the repetitive but loving tasks of making a home, to tending of her children, with their souls of eternal worth. To reaching out with hospitality.
And yet... into my very soul it seems has been put this desire to make, to express, to reflect on the beauties and agonies of this life. Not everyone has the desire.... for some the arts are but a dreary occupation. But not for me. I am a woman compelled in her soul to make, to form these fragile threads that compass my life about and bring me a certain balm. And perhaps you are the same.... in which case, you may enjoy following my trains of thought as I work through the role of art in our lives, and share the works of my hands.
Some people say that another vest would do, one cut from acrylic felt perhaps, with plastic buttons instead of the brassy metal buttons, embossed with rampant lions, that I will sew onto this. And it would. It would serve the purpose. The boy would be delighted, his imagination would be free as ever, my love would still come through. Then what is the value of this labor of my hands? What difference does it make?
What difference does it make, this sketch of leaf or face or cobweb?
The cost of making art is high. It is our precious hours that we spill into it, our very lives. For what?
Some would say, for nothing of value. Or nothing much. That there is not much room for art in the life of a busy mother, that duty calls her to other tasks, to the repetitive but loving tasks of making a home, to tending of her children, with their souls of eternal worth. To reaching out with hospitality.
And yet... into my very soul it seems has been put this desire to make, to express, to reflect on the beauties and agonies of this life. Not everyone has the desire.... for some the arts are but a dreary occupation. But not for me. I am a woman compelled in her soul to make, to form these fragile threads that compass my life about and bring me a certain balm. And perhaps you are the same.... in which case, you may enjoy following my trains of thought as I work through the role of art in our lives, and share the works of my hands.
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