Post-shower dresser scrambling prompted the rediscovery of this amazing creation, my wedding purse.
My mom made this by hand, which still stuns me. I was fortunate to inherit a little of her capability in this realm, but nothing to this degree.
While visiting Gargunnock House with friends over Christmas, I got into a little chat with some fellow crafters, and in it I described one of the earliest Mom-projects I can remember. She sewed these adorable Christmas ornaments that were puffy stars and bells and trees with little sculpted faces in the middle of them. My description doesn’t do it justice, and I don’t have any of our ornaments here so I can’t take a photo.
It made me happy and proud and also intensely nostalgic for home at Christmas all at once.
Christmas was difficult on a few levels, some of them obvious — our first away from the people and places with whom we have grown accustomed to spending the holiday — and some of them not. One of the less obvious difficulties that I am still trying to address is feeling like I am a terrible conversationalist. I mentioned the chat earlier as if it was some effortless thing, and it definitely became easier as it went along, but to start I second-guessed everything I said. Everything. And there were cultural references I simply do not have yet, which required explanations. I am so used to being the explainer and not the explainee.
I swallow my pride and elbow my stubbornness in the ribs on a daily basis.
It will get easier, and to make it easier I have to forgive myself a little awkwardness while being less comfortable in my new home. Someday I will be nostalgic for this, too, I remind myself. This is one of the most beautiful aspects of memory: it forgives, if you let it.