In the past week, I have made possibly 300 cookies. Possibly less, but most probably more. Since moving to Boston, I have made a skirt out of feathers, knitted a jellyfish, bleached & dyed & refashioned a pair of old dark wash flares into a pair of pale pink skinny jeans, made my own hand & laundry soap, created two wedding and one baby card, made many loaves of bread and at least one batch of bagels, and deconstructed a silk blouse. I don't know what else I've done, but my hands have been busy.
I suppose you could say I've been taking advantage of my schedule, of the fact that I work from home and have the option of putting work aside for a few minutes to stitch a hem, or make someone a wedding gift. It's like the work-at-home's solution to Facebook, though I have that too. Don't tell me you're actually working all eight hours in a work day. I'm just making use of my time.
But in many ways, my constant itch to be making things is only slightly more productive than getting frustrated when that person you knew in high school but were never friends with has a private profile. I still have a list of things I need to get done that I don't get done. The only difference is I have the satisfaction of having another list--of things I want to make--that I can keep crossing things off of. It's like a placebo effect or something.
I don't think it's working.
The general & subject test for the GRE loom over my head, as do 90+ pages of criticism to sort through & revise, and a jumble of words that somehow needs to convince a committee to have faith that I am smart and would bring something new to their academic table.
Patrick is reading a book on Buddhism, from which he reads quotations to me while I'm working, while I'm cooking, while I'm knitting jellyfish tentacle after tentacle. It's possible it's just rubbing off on me, but I'm working on living with more intention--and I'm not sure it would be a bad thing to have rubbed off on me, anyway.
I found a quotation from William Morris, a pre-Raphaelite poet, critic, & designer that Oscar Wilde was gaga for in the late 19th century:
Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful, or do not believe to be beautiful.
I'm sure he would approve of extending this axiom past things and into life in general. I'm sure he would also approve of my spending August blogging daily, but I'm only really trying to impress Chelsea with that one.