Let it be fun

when you're "bad" at the craft

What I'm about to say comes from love. I mean no disrespect to my mother. I love my mother. Her heart is in the right place. She means well.

But she cannot crochet for her life.

She's bad.

Like. Really really really terrible at crocheting.

She's tried to improve. Many times. And every time the result is...off.

We've all been recipients of her misshapen blankets and attempts at a scarf that became a...fun accessory for a doll. None of us quite understood why she kept doing it. And we weren't sure if she knew how bad her creations were.

My mother a woman of tremendous talent which is why it was even more confusing that she choses to crochet despite the disastrous and comical outcomes of her efforts.

When she showed me the latest valiant attempt at a piece of clothing she crocheted, it was crooked and warped and I finally asked, "Mom, why do you keep crocheting things? This is awful." (I wasn't being mean! We were laughing about it together. She had no clue why the straight line she was attempting...curved.)

Her answer, in earnest: She wanted us to have something made by her own hands.

*Queue water works*

When it comes to art, passion, creativity, and this whole genre of doing things you enjoy, there's a lotta chatter about talent. Talent and pleasure. And here was an angle I hadn't considered: meaning.

When I look back at the things my mother made with her hands for me, none of it I can touch. She made dinner, she made carpool, she made my pony tail, she made playdates, she made my schedule, my doctor's appointments, my swim lessons, my soccer games, but she didn't make things I could hold in my hands.

Not that that was something lacking, but what a beautiful thing to add.

I remember a few years back when a customer said her Big Creative Dream Project was to write letters to her son. It had been on her to do list for (whispers) eight years and she hadn't gotten around to it (so she said). She signed up for one of my programs (this was pre-Brainstorm Road) hoping it would be the impetus she needed to get moving.

The problem, it turned out, wasn't time. It wasn't effort, desire, willpower, or energy, either.

It was expectation.

So much time had passed, she had so much to say, so much wisdom to impart, so many stories to share - it became too important. Sitting down at her desk, she'd freeze. The words couldn't do all of it justice. So she just...didn't. And years and years and YEARS went by.

The thing holding her back was the crushing weight of her own expectations.

My mom let her work be "bad." She really didn't care to get better because it wasn't about crocheting for her. She wasn't that interested in the craft, she was interested in doing something that gave her joy, and that she could share.

Letting it be what it was - fun, silly, adorable - was the thing that allowed her to finish.

Ironically, that's what made it perfect.

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