Making Things

I have decided that when I never make any thing, I feel useless and stagnant. It seems as though my entire life is devoted to cleaning things that other people have made. Just think about it. A few days ago I made some whole wheat bread. I discovered that I could use a bread machine to mix up the dough and then I could roll it out flat and make a facsimile of my grandmother's Finnish flat bread. She used to bake hers on the floor of the old wood/coal stove so mine never replicates hers in either taste nor texture. It is barely o.k.

But making something, doesn't mean food. I mean objects out of cloth or wood, even paper would count. I have always wanted to make stepping stones from concrete, never have. Or carve a rock. I am not much good with tools as I have so little hand strength. So my life is lived away by cleaning the things that other people make.

I am certain that I broke a bone in my hand a couple of days ago; I was cleaning as usual. As I was pushing a couch off of a rug I heard a sharp snap in my right hand and ever since have experienced some swelling, discoloration, and pain. It hasn't affected the use of my fingers for which I am thankful. If I get careless, I am reminded that everything isn't quite right in my hand.

It is probably a miracle that we don't break bones in our hands more often, considering how much we do with them. Obviously I am not going to be making anything of consequence anytime soon.