Why Make it When You Can Buy it
The Tradition of Living Beautifully, Issue #69
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In my late teens and twenties, I spent a lot of time at the sewing machine. I lingered for hours in the fabric store, looking through textiles and flipping through books of patterns to find ones that suited my style, excited at just the thought of what I could create. I reveled in the rewarding, deep satisfaction of wearing something I’d made. In those good ol’ days there was no Instagram, no YouTube, no Maker’s Movement, where artisans are celebrated (and paid!) for their handmade goods, where a young person can easily learn how to sew and make crafts by watching legions of people on a phone or television. I learned from my mother and aunt, from books, and from making a whole lot of mistakes. While I was surrounded by creative people—my mother knitted, sewed and made things like photo albums lined in fabric and lace, both she and my father gardened, and my siblings sketched and built bike ramps and the like—creativity was seen as an extracurricular activity. It was something you did after work. It couldn’t be your work.
I got teased more than praised for the things I made, as if self-creating something as vital as clothing was a throwback to a past we thought we’d abandoned. My mother, poor as she’d been growing up, had to sew her own clothes; buying them at the store was a mark of success, why was I going backwards? I liked to make dresses that looked like they were from the ‘50s and found a slightly bell-bottomy, bootcut pant pattern that I made again and again, and I guess these weren’t mainstream enough. Also, the amount of time I spent in the basement where the sewing machine and hot glue gun lived seemed strange. I should’ve been out at the dance club, or something, wearing more form fitting clothing, doing what young girls supposedly do, I guess.
One day, in my late 20’s, where the pressure to conform and “grow up,” which looked something like being more “normal,” seemed to close in on me, I looked at my sewing machine and literally said, Why would I make clothes when I can buy them. And I didn’t sew again for another couple decades.
I didn’t know at the time that I’d been swallowed by a societal ethos and lost myself in its message. I didn’t understand that so much of what we’re told revolves around convenience and consumption: We’re told to buy, even at the cost of ourselves and at the cost of doing things that make us happy. We’re told we don’t have time to make things, but we do have time to binge watch television shows. The messaging was become an adult and put youthful things, like creativity, in their proper place, because was all this crafting going to bring me success? Was it going to bring money and a nice house and a husband? Growing up meant buying—shiny, mass made, store-bought, packaged things. The things I made for myself weren’t enough. They were homespun, and as such, old world and provincial.
It was more than just sewing and crafts that I walked away from. I took jobs that didn’t suit me, dated men who didn’t suit me, but my hands were empty and all that seemed acceptable. I abandoned pieces of myself for some version of adulthood that was more palatable to others. All of this culminated with my work for the Governor of New York State, a political appointment that I naively thought would be more cultural than political. The pace was agonizing, especially for me, whose ideal pace is more Little House on the Prairie than House of Cards. My aim is to live surrounded by nature, and barely leave home. During those years, except for emails and speeches, I even stopped writing, something I’d kept doing even when crafts became a thing of the past. As the years went by, I felt sick in a way that’s hard to describe, as if the stuffing was being pulled out of me and thrown in different directions, none of which I wanted to go in. Yet I had gloss and a VIP badge that the world mightily praised. And, of course, lots of fancy, store-bought clothes.
Now don’t get me wrong, I still love some fancy, store-bought clothes, but I’ve become much more discerning about what I do purchase, opting to buy less but better, well made, organic, and intentional over fast fashion as often as possible. With the birth of my children, being and living as who I am became vital, not only because I want them to live in their own authenticity, but because I want to be surrounded—in my home, when looking at my children, in the activities we do and the way we eat and even find entertainment—by what truly resonates with me. The stakes just seem higher. What would it teach my kids if they were raised by a mother who abandoned the things that brought her joy? My time at the Governor’s office ended, and I stood at a crossroads. Who was I going to be? Finally, I chose myself.
When I was younger I liked to sew and create because I got a deep sense of pride and satisfaction from holding or wearing something I forged with my own hands. These days, as I’m more of a matron than a maiden, I also feel like I’m stepping into a legacy—a very long line of ancestry that held needles between its fingers, whether it was my mother who learned to sew to make a few pennies after school, or grandmothers who mended socks that cost too much to simply be discarded and replaced, legions of women before me have taken thread and a bit of time and created all manner of comforting household items, from quilts to linens to dresses. Now, when I sit at my sewing machine, when I imagine a quilt I’d like to make, I feel that I’m joining this tradition, and it, too, gives me a sense of joy and belonging. Try to feel that when you’re standing in aisle ten at Target, looking at the racks of plastic Christmas decor. The rush of purchasing new things is just that, a rush; it spikes like sugar and then crashes us back to where we began. Whereas creating is like a steady stream of energy gotten from nourishing food—it builds, sustains, enriches our spirits and our homes. It endures.
I don’t know that my children will care when they’re older that I made something for them, but they do now, especially my oldest, who gets very excited when he knows something I’ve been diligently working on is a gift for him. I know that things bought cheaply and quickly disappear with alacrity. I know that those things end up in garbage heaps as easily as they were purchased, but things made with our own hands have a much greater chance of lasting. Even if that’s not the case, even if our handmade gifts end up at estate sales with strangers, making things for my sons, here, now, is an expression of love. I pour love into what I’m creating, love and joy and prayers, and the end result is a kind of beauty that can’t be replicated by any mass-produced item. I like to think that when my children are watching me create, they’re learning that life is not about consuming and discarding, but about carving out our own vision through the gift of creativity.
Making things is a form of meditation. It’s a space we step into, outside of the rushing, the cacophony, where we work with the tools in our hands and out of nothing bring forth something; like prayer, it hovers in a different time frame than the to-do list. It makes us stop, consider, and access a deeper part of ourselves. I recently watched a short documentary about a group of women in Alabama of Gee’s Bend known for their quilting. They talked about how when they make quilts together, sewing them by hand in community, it’s a time to pray. They sing songs, talk and pray over their children, who are often under the quilt (which is stretched on a frame as the women hand sew above) and speak out loud their hopes and dreams for them. It’s a way to focus their minds and hearts on things more of the spirit.
We can still buy things, but we slow down the consumption when we stop and consider if we can make it ourselves instead. In that slowing there’s a pause, where we get to ask if we really need the thing in the first place, and then if we do, we make the commitment of time and energy to create it. I know life is busy, and many of us have hectic schedules, but I remember once hearing someone say that if you didn’t have ten minutes a day to meditate, you need thirty. And perhaps it’s the same with creativity, the less time you have for it, perhaps the more your life is in need of its gifts.
Thanks for being here with me, truly.
