It's not uncommon for me to come home from craft camp and experience some inner turmoil.
Too many late nights, too much excitement, too much good food. So much freedom and creative work*. So little duty and responsibility.
Coming home can be a rude shock. Regular Sunday night blues compounded by loads of unpacking, dirty laundry and a little confrontation with
what happened while you were away. It can be a lot to deal with when you are exhausted and full to the brim with stuff that happened elsewhere.
Full up with other people's stories and creativity. With their cooking and ideas and jokes and laughter. With their sdnesses and complications. With reflections that company brings. Visions of myself reflected back by others, different views of myself.
The things you missed out on sharing, the things that didn't get done, the things that didn't get done the way you wanted them to be. It can be confronting both to have been missed, and not to have been missed - to have given over the reigns to be free and to have your place in the domestic heirarchy passed over.
On the upside there's usually (in my house at least) a warm meal waiting on return, some very excited family members throwing themselves at me with declarations of undying love, and much admiration of the outcomes of my labours. The admiration is often directly proportional to the presents quotient, but it's admiration nevertheless.
Monday morning heading off to work can feel positively surreal, such is the contrast to that other life. It can make your head spin, and open up a great big space for confused emotions and disharmony. Could it be that if I'd made different choices that all of life might be more like craft camp? Is that even what I want?
My work colleagues have come to recognise the first Monday back - a few were waiting to see the coat (they'd seen the fabric and buttons stashed under my desk when I bought it), and instantly spotted both the new skirt and shirt. Compliments were in abundant supply and had me feeling totally up myself (like I hadn't been ever since getting dressed in all that handmade clobber). I was a total show off.
This time Monday also coincided with onset of an evil sore throat and chest cold (they waiting room for an appointment with asthma), and the departure of the bloke for work in the opposite corner of the continent. He's due back Friday but was already broadcasting the likelihood of blowing that timeline before he'd even left (something about hitting rock when digging foundations). Let's just hope he makes it back before he's due to go again in three weeks time for his big two week build.
All this coming and going, it's pretty much a way of life for us but it never feels normal to me. Whether I'm the one coming and going, or the one staying behind I don't think I deal with it all with the kind of ease I'd like. I don't sleep so well - when I'm away or when I'm at home solo parenting - and I find it hard to bridge the over there and here. Add in sickness and really, I'm pretty much useless right now.
Useless except on the organising the next one front. My brain may have gone AWOL and I might be feeling a little like I'm in the spin cycle of the washing machine but the one point on the horizon that's firmly fixed is doing it all again.
*It's easy to forget that creating
is work. It feels like a privilege to have a weekend away to indulge my hobby and I feel like I should be nothing but grateful. But people who make things in factories and workplaces get paid to do it because it is work, a lot of it is tedious and hard and requires effort and focus and stamina to do well. This was in high relief for me this weekend because making my coat, which I love and am proud of, took two full days of solid work to make. From the cutting out of four meters of wool and six meters of lining, miles of sewing and fitting and matching and top stitching right down to the hand stitched bound buttonholes and cuffs I had to push myself to keep going and to do things right. More than once I was heard to utter swear words and complain about hating doing it - the buttonholes alone nearly tipped me over the edge - and while I'm happy with the outcome and all, I can't in all honesty say it was fun to make. Craft camp is not a relaxing get away in the sitting by the fire and watching telly sense (despite the resolutions I make before each and every camp to take it easier) and when I come home I am paradoxically refreshed from the break and overwhelmed by the exhaustion of what has taken place and what awaits me to be done. Much the same as if I travel for work - rare these days but once a common occurrence - and much the same as it is for D. I know he comes home with his tanks on empty just when we all want him to be ready to give us everything we've missed in his absence. And while this is just a footnote to this post I'm thinking maybe it's actually the point.
