The Things We Make
I went to Costco with Mandy recently. I never go. I don’t like places like that, and I’m lucky she’s willing to do the shopping there.
But I wanted to look for coconut water and bone broth. I’m particular about ingredients, and it seemed easier to go with her, see what they had, and find a few things we could put on the list for next time.
I picked up a container, turned it around, and read the ingredients. Then I put it back. I picked up another and did the same.
We kept walking. Through the food, past the clothing. Everywhere I looked, there was something else we could bring home.
Somewhere along the way, I began to feel a heaviness in my gut. I stayed with it as we moved through the store.
I’ve spent much of my life looking for things I can buy once. I want to find a pair of jeans and wear them for years. I want to keep using the same matcha bowl. When something I’ve lived with for years breaks, I’m sad to see it go.
And if I can’t find something I like that I think will last, I often make it. Our entryway bench, the bathroom cabinet, the bookshelf in our living room. The coat rack and shelving at the Ravenswood studio.
At certain points, I’ve been obsessed with making things. I once imagined making everything in our home, from the dishes to the art on the walls. Even the home itself. I hadn’t thought much about how much I would miss having other people’s work around me. These days, when I buy something, I want to feel that someone cared about making it.
I have a wooden box my grandfather carved when he was an early teenager. There’s a rough grizzly bear and pine trees burned into the top. I can see how hard he tried, what he cared enough about to put there.
The box is still holding up, after being opened and closed a million times to retrieve the many treasures that have been stored inside over the years. I have something he made at an age long before I knew him. I can look at the bear and the trees and spend a little time with that boy.
Walking through Costco, I found myself thinking about Finn and Haakon. There’s so much available to them already. Things to buy, things to watch, things to listen to. I understand the pleasure of finding something you want and bringing it home, or sitting down and letting a story carry you away.
But I want them to know the experience of making something, too. To have a thought, try it, and discover what happens when they give it a shape.
When Finn was about a year and a half old, I started getting up earlier in the morning. I wanted time to meditate and write before the day began.
He started waking up earlier, too.
I moved my mornings earlier again. Eventually, it seemed that whenever I woke up, he woke up. I would sit on my meditation mat in the living room, and he would come crawl into my lap.
Afterward, he watched me write. Eventually, I bought him a journal and a pen of his own. He filled the pages with marks that looked like lines of complex calligraphy.
Over time, the marks became airplanes, helicopters, and storm clouds. He began forming words and sentences.
He still uses the same journal.
These days, both boys are interested in the music I make at home. They have instruments of their own, but no way to record what they play. In my little studio, they were especially interested in the microphone.
When Mandy is working late and I’m home with them, I often invite them into whatever I’m doing. One evening, we went into the studio.
Before we started, I told them, “When we use my equipment, we have to take it seriously.”
They began by singing into the microphone.
Then I asked, “What if we played something underneath it?”
We found a sound they liked on the synthesizer, and I showed them which keys to touch. We recorded a part, then picked another sound to layer with it.
I helped with the chords and the equipment. They chose the sounds, where the parts belonged, and how long the song would be. Haakon decided it should be about going to bed.
He sang about brushing your teeth and putting on your pajamas. Then he sang, “And make sure you go pee.”
Finn burst out laughing.
Then he caught himself. He stopped and looked at me.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“I thought I was going to be in trouble.”
“No, no, no, no. Your laughter is beautiful.”
We kept that take.
Later, thinking about the recording, I wondered whether I could finish it and put it on Spotify. I explained what that meant and asked whether they wanted me to do it.
They were excited. They could share their song with their friends.
I want them to have things they’ve made that they can return to over the years. Their recordings can accumulate. Their choices, abilities, interests, and voices will change. They’ll be able to hear where they began.
Someday, someone else might cherish one of those early recordings the way I cherish my grandfather’s box.