I have a little two-ball snowman sitting on my desk right now. It has permanent marker eyes (its right one is nearly gone–just a smudge leaving it winking at me in some Tim Burtonesque way), mouth, nose and buttons. Its head and body are misshapen chunks of fired clay painted white. This is one ugly snowman. But, on the bottom is carved “Scott – 1972″). I remember making this when I was seven. I would never depart with it now. I thank my mom for being a hoarder of all things her children made. What happens when I die? What story can I leave with this ugly thing–I made this at school? It’s not even a story. It’s the feeling I have now for the thing. Why do I even have this feeling? Because it’s something I made? Because it’s old? Because my mom thought it would be something I would like to remember later in life? I don’t know, and I don’t know how to express that to those I might leave it for later.

Have you ever helped someone clean up a deceased person’s stuff? And think, “Why did they keep this crap?” Some people are true hoarders, keeping everything. But what about the personal mementos? I have a real hard time throwing away a dead person’s stuff because I feel guilty that I’m tossing something of meaning, of worth. Is that bizarre, or what?

Art–heavy topic…not sure I’m willing to bite that off at the moment.

I really like that dichotomy between “handed down” and “found,” and how the life got there.

I especially like that idea of finding something and giving it life simply through our thoughts, but also based on the crafter’s care in the crafting.

If something is handed down with a story, then the remembering of the story may add the life. If something is “found” and no story is attached, then the wondering of who made/created it may add the “life.” This may be especially true if the object is found to be made with care–signifying work of quality and art.

Just thinking out loud here.

Whatever man makes and makes it live
lives because of the life put into it.

Which seems at first glance obvious, but the question for me is, How does one put “life” into the things one makes? How do I imbue my writing or my woodwork or whatever I make, with life? How do I know when I have successfully put life into it?

Surely these are things to think about along with your thoughts.

I was also thinking about the “making” of tying flies, but thought I’d save that for another post along with another of Lawrence’s poems titled “Things Made by Iron.”