But what is it for?

…a very good question & a somewhat rambling answer

…messing around with found poems...

I’m exploring so many creative ideas these days — in bite-sized attempts. And guess what? I’m not fabulous at any of the things I’m trying. I’ve had to send my Inner Perfectionist out of the room, because she was getting a little tense over the imperfection. She’s taking a long nap, and I’m happy doing what I’m doing.

Of course, not being super good at anything right now carries with it a certain degree of frustration. And I suppose, if I would just settle on one activity and stick to it, day after day, week after week, I would eventually develop some expertise.

But I wouldn’t be having nearly as much fun.

Today is Day 57 (or so) of my #100dayproject. I’m keeping up with my initial idea of making a small zine or tiny book-ish object each day. My project has developed a sub-project, because the little book-ish objects need something to go on the inside, and I’ve discovered that I love creating the “innards” of the tiny books. Lately, I’ve been making found poems and binding them into the booklet covers. Or, if the book-ish object has pockets, I fill the pockets with little quotes and tiny bits of encouragement. Every activity is related, and every day is different. I find this delightful.

A few weeks ago, I added slow stitching to the creative mix. In my life, I’ve never embroidered a single sampler, but I do know how to thread a needle. I have a sister-in-law who quilts and has sent me a packet of fun fabric scraps. And, I’ve discovered that when my anxiety is spinning up and I’m feeling fragmented and jangly, attaching colorful bits of torn cloth to a strip of muslin with a simple running stitch is very soothing. (And who doesn’t need soothing these days?) As the needle goes in and out, my heart rate slows. I breathe more easily. I am content.

But what is it for? What do I intend to do when this cloth collage is finished? Am I making a book cover? A purse? A quilt? What’s it for?

It’s for me.

It’s for the moment. For the grounding and centering. For the satisfaction of seeing my stitches becoming a bit more even than they were yesterday. For pure pleasure of doing something with no product in mind.

We live in such a results-oriented, product-demanding world. We’re taught to judge our worth (and the worth of others) by the quality of what we produce… how rapidly and efficiently and cost-effectively and spectacularly we can make something that’s useful. There’s so much pressure to be good, better, best. To have Some Thing to show for our efforts. Even better if it makes money.

It’s exhausting.

I feel a teensy bit like a rebel, making things for the pleasure of simply creating. Occasionally, yes, it turns out that the book-ish object or the found poem wants to be created for a specific person… and that is wonderful. But dwelling in the process, with zero thought of product turns out to be wonderful, too.