This summer I found a desk by the dumpster. It was battered. There was dried super glue in a drawer with a hook stuck to it. The varnish was scratched. There were missing handles. Several splintered edges. But it was solid wood. In an age of particle board and plywood, the real stuff is too good to pass up. I hauled it into my jeep and up to the guest room where it stayed untouched for a lot longer than I intended.
I spent many evenings and weekends this fall with an electric sander in hand. Carefully stripping the old. Making the surface smooth. Never too much at a time. Working in fifteen minute increments so my neighbors downstairs wouldn’t hate me.
Reclaimed. Repurposed. Restored.
Over the weekend, I paint my nails a favorite hue. Funnily enough, it almost matches that desk.
I ink truths in Sharpie.
I go for a run. The first one in ages. Everything pounds: my feet on the pavement, the music in my ears, my heart in my chest, the words in my head.
“We are born makers. We move what we are learning from our heads to our hearts through our hands. ” Brene Brown
The dishes pile up in the sink. There’s laundry to put away. The kitchen floor’s needed mopped for a month…
But it can wait.
I get my hands flecked with acrylics. I play with colors and textures. Loose ideas that need practiced before they can really take shape.
Sleeping at Last plays in the background. Lyrics become prayer:
make my messes matter
make this chaos count
In me. In us. In these strange days.
Yet you, Lord, are our Father.
We are the clay, you are the potter;
we are all the work of your hand.