I read this this morning and immediately thought, "Yes."
"Making things that have meaning gives me purpose and stirs up positive feelings about my place in this world."
See, the itch to create - to make touchable, holdable things - has been present my whole life. But as a child, and then as a young adult, I assumed that because I couldn't draw, I wasn't an artist.
And as an adult, I've assumed that if a new creative endeavor feels initially challenging, that it's time to move on, that this isn't my 'gift' because I have to learn how to do it.
The other day, on yet another Holy Trip To The Library, I gathered books on embroidery and knitting, on cooking and writing and holiness.
I have so many, many things to learn.
We soon leave for two weeks of ocean-side house-and-pup-sitting, and I've decided that it'll be the perfect time to begin learning new things.
I have a knitting bag selected from our grossly over-stocked collection of canvas shopping bags (it reads "The only boss I listen to is Springsteen."), and will bring along supplies for beginner embroidery, too.
I've envisioned myself sitting on a breezy beach on a low, striped beach chair. The children playing in the sand just above the water line, scurrying here and there, lost in their day, in their minds, together.
I've imagined flipping through books, actually learning how to do the thing I'm learning to do, understanding it, creating new and fresh pathways in my brain.
I can see myself, years from now, making sweaters in requested colors, knitting my heart into their sleeves, my intention into their scarves.
Making tangible, holdable love, for me and for them.