I was never really great at anything even though I was willing to try. Actually I was pretty good at drawing as a child… I was obsessed with building layouts and blueprints to a strangely excessive level for a 4-year-old. But that’s another story for another day.
My sister could sew, she made good grades, socialized well, had a car at 15’ish while I didn’t get my first car until I was over 18.
While I was none of the above – but perceived everyone as having a skill, or a talent, or a gift – I got by pretty well pretending to display those qualities.
One day on the way home from school, I was probably in the 2nd or 3rd grade, I spotted a little golden mass of yarn on the sidewalk. It couldn’t have been more than 5 or 6 inches long, all curled into itself. I picked it up and started fiddling with it, and I kept fiddling with it, thinking if I could maneuver it just enough to make it into something resembling a sweater, then it would magically become one (I knew how to Dream Big at an early age.) But it never became anything other than the golden piece of yarn it was. Maybe it was that small but significant confidence I was feeling, that something in my hands could be transformed into something else, that later caused me to push hard to paint, to draw, to sew better, to somehow create something out of practically nothing.
Fast forward to my much older self: I’m a maker now. I make things out of other things and, in return, they make me happy. When others see my work, it appears to make them happy, too. Isn’t that what makes life so rich and expansive?