I must write at least ten essays a day. All up in this head of mine.
I write them on my morning run. In the shower. While I am driving. Sometimes in the super market. When I am sewing, when I am cooking, when I am cleaning. Basically if I am breathing I am writing.
There are lots of words and punctuation. Tons of periods and commas. A few question marks.
Sometimes its about me. or mister witt. or the kids. Sometimes its about the world or money or faith or lack of faith.
Somehow. The pen never seems to hit the paper.
I wrote this essay weeks ago. In a moment of searching. I had not found the courage to post it until I read this essay today, by fearless warrior writer Glennon Melton. So whatever. Maybe I will be a writer for a minute today … and this is what I might look like when I think about that.
I have no idea what my value is. What my worth is. What I bring to the table and what I should expect in return for it.
This can spawn a conversation that could be held regarding many things, over many moons. I will avoid discussing how I see my worth as a person, wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend, or even stranger you may pass on the street… for time sake really. I shall simply hone in on what my contemplative mind is currently enwrapped.
Artist. Maker. Job. Money.
Story goes :: An artist, of any sort really, who creates and sells their wares, might meet an interested party and say, “come look, see what I have made! Isn’t it wonderful? Yes, I think so too.” Then they might go on to say, “well, I put quite a bit of time into this and I do think it is magnificent. I will sell it to you for x amount of a lot of dollars, and that my friend will be a bargain!”
And they will sell it. And they will get what they ask for it. because they know their worth.
Now. I will make something. I might be approached by a potential customer and it goes something more like this … “Hello. yes, I did make that. And “yea, it’s okay. There a few stitches that are not in line. And I might make it a bit bigger next time. I guess you can buy one. I’ll give it to you for like 20 bucks … or maybe you should just have it. Yea, just take it. It’s not worth that much anyway … I have only been sewing for like twenty years and searched like mad for that material and stayed up all night making it just so … go on, take it. “
The critical point above, for me, is the statement :: because they know their worth. What I want to know is HOW and/or WHERE in the hell did they find it?? I would travel, far and wide, looking under rocks and up on rooftops for it. I would hike mountains and swim oceans ( and I hate the ocean) just for glimpse at how they harness that power.
But alas, like just about every. thing. else. I already know where it is.
The lamest place ever.
inside myself. >>insert eye roll-gag reflex-hand to forehead motion here <<
It’s lame because that is where it always is. And it can be so tiresome to look there. With all the self doubt and what if’s in the way. I think I’d rather stick 1000 needles in my eye then go back in there.
But as I muddle thru the internal rubbish, in search for self worth through Making, I have realized this :: it is a journey. and a long one at that. and even though it seems to have been excruciating at times, even now, today… all of it has brought me to a surprisingly happy place. And after fifteen + years as a Maker I have finally decided that I do, in fact, belong.
2014 has brought me this :: my beloved waxed canvas. delicate linens. rad zippers. and gusto. I plan to ride this momentous wave one creation at a time, one sale at a time, one I-found-my-worth-moment at a time.
Shit’s good people. Plain and simple. & I love you all … xo.
I also started drinking iced tea … Maybe self worth is secretly in iced tea?