boxing lessons

It’s not exactly a miracle—

—but I’m still amazed and delighted that this flappy object—

—actually did—

—fold up into a box.

And a mighty fine box it is: square corners, straight-ish sides. Just what a person wants in a rectangular cuboid object—an open-topped hexahedron if you will.

What I didn’t expect was personality.

What happened was that almost the moment I cut the last thread of its stitching I felt the weight of expectation fall into its depths¹ and began to gather materials for the first thing I’d make to put into it. The new idea was compelling (of course), and filled with exciting unknowns. I couldn’t wait to get to it. Plus everything needs to prove its purpose a.s.a.p. don’t cha know, so the sooner I found out if the thing I was going to put into the box would work, the sooner the box itself would know its destiny and knowing where you’re headed is considered to be so very important so———

I’m busy with light and air, called the box from the sunny spot where it perched, interrupting my busy thoughts and plans. This, being right here right now, is all I need. Call it a job if you will.

I was startled. Embarrassed. “But I thought, you know, that I’d….”

Yeah. Not now. At least not yet. Please don’t rush me.

Definitely chastened. “I’m so sorry. How rude…”

S’all right. Anyway your plans for my future float away though the holes in my sides so don’t matter a bit. I just thought you might want to remember that you put them there. Also to realize you’re no longer in charge. Avoids disappointment later.

Well yes. I do remember. About the slits anyway. I definitely wove them on purpose. How silly to forget my hope that light and air would always be its friends, regardless of some imaginary future box-specific profession.² What was I thinking?

It’s not as though self-confident airy objects haven’t entered my life before. Indeed it’s pretty clear from looking around my house and studio (the opinions of my practical and expectation-burdened younger selves notwithstanding),³ that to be light of spirit—

— functional of countenance —

—and have a clear sense of self—

—are fine fine things. Indeed, I could learn a thing or two from all my airy friends.

Luckily I already believe madly in the pleasures of being outside, so that’s a start.

Even when it’s too blustery—

— or slippery—

— or otherwise unpleasant or impossible to be outside—

—I am inexorably drawn to an indoor spot where even on cloudy day the light is amazing— a place where Beryl can keep an eye on the Rabbits and Squirrels and the wild westerly winds won’t blow away the last strands of winter retted milkweed.⁴

So yes, like my light-filled friends I know how to relish the atmosphere. At the same time you might notice that even as I leaped gracefully across that wee branch of Paradise Creek, I also managed to shift from reveling in being to talking about savoring the ways I find to keep doing.

Well I noticed it anyway. And why not? I love making things—might even say that I most relaxedly relish the world through actively interacting with the delectable materials it holds.⁵ Doing (someone could say if they weren’t terrified of ending sentences much less paragraphs with prepositions), is where the pleasure is at.

And it is. Oh yes. It is.

And yet, as my young selves so kindly remind me, there are ways and there are ways—and if I were to have an old lady goal it would be to combine the two: to truly give priority to the actively, pleasurably haptic⁶ —

—but only if that activity, no matter what it is, is as good as being a box.

I wonder if I can?

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1. It’s an insidious thing, these expectations about the future—the need to know, either for ourselves or for others, what is going to happen next: “now that you have vertical walls you can…” or “now that you’ve graduated from college what are you…” or “now that the kids are XX age, you could…” In other words: “now that this worry/task/time/pleasure is over/fixed/taken care of/done, what new thing can you worry about and then take care of and finish…” It’s almost hilarious, indeed, to feel it on behalf of the useful box I’ve just woven out of used coffee filters. I can only trust that those coffee filters wouldn’t really have rather gone peacefully to rest in the compost.

2. Wonderfully and weirdly, Jane Brocket just wrote about the beauty of practical domestic objects with holes in them in her Substack Yarnstorm. In this post (Where the Light Gets In), she says: “Holes are useful, weird, strange, funny, surreal, real, conceptual,” and then goes on to write about all kinds of deliciously hole-ridden objects (some practical some not), from Barbara Hepworth sculpture to Beatles songs.

3. I have been delighted and grateful to my younger selves for showing up together in my comics recently. So much to remember, embrace and let go of. Thanks gals.

4. Well I suppose some of that is because of our poll results: Functional Tapestry made with Random Materials I Happen to Find. But luckily the box itself is taking care of that. How is it that the things I make know so much more than I do?

5. The Gusset exists in part because I like the feeling of my fingers on the keys of this computer. If it didn’t? Well, maybe there would only be images. And most likely these ridiculous footnotes would never see the light of day.

6. I have no idea if this phrase makes any sense or not, but I’m going to let it stand..