Once upon a time I seemed to have had more, well, time. I know this because there are things I used to do that I don't really do anymore because I don't have any time.
How does that work exactly?
For about six months I've been thinking about how I used to make baskets. I made a lot of baskets. I made so many baskets that I gave them away as gifts. Had I known my basket-making days would become rare then perhaps I wouldn't have so easily given away as many of my baskets.
That sounds a little selfish, doesn't it?
Last week I had Jake climb up into the spider-webby-attic above the garage and start searching for the box that had my weaving reeds stored in it. Because I have a friend who was having a birthday. And I wanted to make her a basket.
They were a jumbled mess. And there wasn't a whole lot of the right kind of reeds, but there was enough for a smallish basket.Yesterday I got started on remembering how to do this pleasant thing.
If I hadn't been working with a deadline, and didn't have other commitments yesterday, it would have been much more pleasant. Basket weaving is more of a mellow peace-love-dove-groovy-Tuesday kind of thing, not so much a git 'er dun kind of thing. If you know what I mean.
I worked on that basket yesterday and my fingers and hands started remembering how this was done and it made me happy.
This morning I finished it and then stained it in time to take it to our birthday lunch. I forgot to take a picture of the finished basket because I was in a rush to get to our lunch. Smelling like Golden Oak stain.I think there is a possibility I could get back into this little hobby.
I do love my baskets.
