It's always something with you, and it never really means anything.
When creative bones live in your body, they begin to itch when they need to be fed.
For about 7 years I didn't write. I left college to pursue hairdressing. It took up all of my creative well, blocking ideas for other ideas and urges. It also took up my time and energy on top of that.
But when I started hair school, my father insisted I do something else as well. I think he was scared of me failing, or something. But he pushed me into a jewelry making class with real fire and tools and ideas, albeit beginner.
I still have a ring I made, stuffed somewhere in a draw or pocket.
I got to take a film camera class at one point. I haven't touched a film camera since, but i got to use my mother's old one. I still have the picture of my cat, now gone, laying on the front steps of my childhood home. A picture I got to hand develop and transfer. I still have the photo of the first new baby on the street since me on the day she was brought home. She's 14 or 15 now, just starting high-school.
The family still has a copy of the photo I got to put in the small exhibit for that class.
My grandmother made quilts. Award winning ones. But the only one I care about having in my possession is the one she made for me.
She did pottery. She made baskets. She sewed and knitted and crocheted and baked and cooked and was a home maker.
My father did pottery. When it was finally time to clean out my grandparents house to sell it, I went out the day before closing. I stood in the basement with my father as he went through the pottery still kept there. He'd pick one up and turn it this way and that before telling me who made it. He or his mother, or some other interesting find along the way. He critiqued his own especially.
I wish I could have kept every mug he said had imperfections.
Hobbies are hard to justify in the world of capitalism especially but also like. Sometimes your bones itch. My dad took up fly tying for a while. He doesn't even fish that much. Even when I wasn't writing, my well was still being emptied by something. Some people have deeper wells, some have them that they just flow over.
I still bug my dad to take a pottery class again. Maybe I'll just take one with him, because the real reason hobbies scratch the itch is usually from the connections we make through them.
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