279: making

Making: clearing out the refuse of autumn in the landscaped areas of the yard. Finding more tent caterpillars, finding out husband burned the last branch, thinking it was only eggs, glad the caterpillars had slipped out. This time, I take the branch the dozen blocks to the cemetery, thinking of how it's all dead there anyway, but how lush the trees are, a few snacks for these unburnt creatures.


Making: lettuce from last year, returning. Bitter to the taste. Asparagus sadly did not make it this year, harvest year. We will try again.


Making: black under my fingernails. This weekend, it was from the lead blocks, and on Monday, it was from the garden.


Making: I love the process of callouses. The one most reliable is that on my ring finger of my right hand and my thumb, from holding a pen. This callous developed when I was about seven or eight (I kept a diary, I wrote letters, I wrote stories) and hasn't diminished since. Hard bumps. I'm returning to the one on the forefinger of my left hand, from pushing the bamboo knitting needle through.



Making: hands covered in sticky bread dough, waiting to rise, the crunch of knife through crust. Jam, hoping to learn jam-making, summer.



Making: that swift turn of wrist that comes from knowing something, from repetition and the pleasure of regularity. The way making becomes an art, becomes a process, a series of movements that bring comfort.