Craft

 “What’s your craft” she whispered to them all.

“I turn old clothes and rags into art,” the woman answered.

“I make postmodern sculptures out of repurposed hangers,” a girl said.

“I make ginger switchel, homemade soap, and love like a goddess,” reported a crone.

“I handmaid others’ emotions as they whirl into being; I soothe and validate them; I ready them for their passing beyond,” this said quietly, by a femme with small, beautiful eyes.

“I take care of people. I’m always there; I comfort effortlessly; I cook on auto-pilot, I show up and down, wherever I’m needed,” sang by a women wearing mauve.

I think about craft. I think about how we all have craft. I am captivated by tangible crafts. Things fall apart in my hands; I am unruly and disorganized. All of my attempts in art during school, including the snowmen, ended up impressionistic. So, I am beguiled by the ability to bring something physical into being. I have friends who paint, photograph, pickle, knit, bake, collage, repurpose, and arrange. Some of us have invisible crafts and talents. We bewitch, coax, validate, and love on the emotional journeys of others. We serve as the handmaidens to peoples’ psyche. This is nothing short of magic, as you’ll surely know if you’ve ever spent any time having a human mind. My crafts are similarly hidden. Because of this, I have a hard time seeing them as helpful, as craft.

Here it is: I have an invisible intensity that tethers me to the tendrils of everything. Perhaps it eludes explanation. I feel. I feel. I am turbulence, rocky terrain, and goosebumps. I no sooner arrive at a plateau of balance then I am swept off into what I feel or sense next. 

Maybe it’s helpful to feel the feelings or terrain in a room or forest. There are the moments of beauty, connection, and empathy. But in our culture and land, it feels like something to be ashamed of. I once had a lover who was hard and precise like a drill press. He interrogated me about my essence; it must have felt, to him, like walking a cat or shouting at a butterfly. To me, it felt like a precise death of myself. 

I have a craft. Look at it directly, and it isn’t there. Look at me directly, and I’ll disappear.

You could call it softness. That’s not quite right. It’s both soft and intense. It refuses to be plotted on a bell curve or cited in APA formatting.

It’s almost slippery, a quality that we might associate with CEOs or politicians, but which is really a beautiful idea. It’s a never ‘here’ or ‘there’ or ‘right’ or ‘wrong’ but the slide between. 

And above all, it’s nothing special. Crafts, creativity, expression: they are basic human rights and abilities. They aren’t relegated to the privileged or awarded to the skilled.

Being neither here nor there, I have a lot of space inside me. Sometimes, the space throbs with the energy I've absorbed from you. Other times, it’s the sweet, quiet resting spot in a forest, a bed of leaves recently warmed by a tired animal, filtered sunlight and clean air.