I loved making things as a child. Hours endlessly spent drawing, painting or sewing gifts for friends or family. but at some point I stopped. I have no idea whether it was an abrupt end, or whether there was a creeping output reduction as the enthusiasm and confidence of childhood flowed seemlessly into the choosing and buying of adulthood.
I hadn't had any empty time in years. Passtimes had to be productive, purposeful. They had to be making me fitter or improving my knowledge or skill. these were life rules governing my days that I hadn't known I had accumulated. I don't know when I had adopted them. Perhaps I had read an article in a magazine, perhaps I had watched too much morning TV in my teens or perhaps I had felt more keenly than I realised the weight of pressure to live up to a seemingly impossible standard set by others. Every day in the beforetime was managed. Specific start time here, absolute finish time there, short interval to get to the next thing; 'quick or I'll be late'. I had to concentrate really hard just to reach the required levels of dedication to complete the things I had signed up to. I didn't have time to think or to feel or to remember. In the early now-time I was pinned to a spot for the first time in my adult life and given no option but to soothe the panic wrought by the government mandated perpetually scheduled emptiness.
Remembering what it was to be a child without obligation or schedule, in my new found empty time I thought about the things I chose in my early years to do for pleasure. How these things had developed through connection and sharing with people I loved. I was curious. Would a needle feel the same in my adult hand as it had in my child's hand? What would be 'the point' of making? What would I be able to claim that I achieved? Why would I need to achieve (a thing)? Why do I need to achieve (a thing) - why can't I just make and enjoy the making?
I found at the back of a wardrobe a box of sewing things that I had lovingly, painfully pilfered from my Gran's house after her wake. The box and it's old, used contents I had buried along with my feelings of loss for the connection I had felt with her. We always made things together. Looking at what I had in front of me ideas started to come. I didn't know what I was going to make, but that was okay.