I have browsed the blogosphere and seen how some talented people make lovely quilts, manufacture their own laundry soap, knit, crochet, scrap-book, carve or whittle, paint or sketch, and I feel terribly inadequate. I have come to the conclusion that I am crafting-impaired.
While some look at pine cones, driftwood, and seashells and see all sorts of beautiful possibilities, I look at the same items and I see pine cones, driftwood, and seashells. Campfire fodder comes to mind, and maybe the opportunity to hear the ocean, but that’s where my creative imagination begins and ends.
It’s not for lack of trying. I did sew some in my 30’s, but I think it was of necessity. I lived in a rural area, had few opportunities to go clothes shopping—no mall nearby and the time was pre-internet. As a result, if I wanted a new dress or whatever, it was up to me to stitch one up! Once my children were in school and I went back to the workplace, the desire to sew disappeared for lack of time and energy.
I did learn to crochet. I worked for months and made an afghan that was six feet long and eight inches wide. It was not very effective protecting me from the chill of winter. I guess I could have planted one foot on the end of it and wrapped it ‘round and ‘round me! I could have called it an afwrap! Or maybe a scarfghan!
Obviously, there is a crimp in my chromosomes; a gap in my genes; a defect in my DNA. Admitting imperfection is, at best, awkward. And now the cyber-world knows! I am doomed to ignominy on the internet.