I have taken on a new hobby--I am learning to make wire jewelry, mostly bracelets. I am probably focusing on bracelets because they're small, and because I like them. At this early stage in the wire-bending experiment, I am using cheap stuff--an entire spool of 20# wire runs about $1.50 at a sloppy little craft store in town--this shop has dusty wooden floors made with wide rough-hewn planks that creak with each step, and more scary doll baby parts than I ever imagined were manufactured.
My latest creation is a fun coiled silver thing with a small block bead hanging at the hook. I fashioned each coil just last evening and then took them out to my patio to hammer them on the stone for some additional funk. I was so pleased with the thing, that I have been wearing it all day, stopping to admire it between book covers that I have been struggling to design.
This afternoon, I dropped my #2 daughter off at the park for tennis and headed off to the grocery store to forage for dinner. I stopped first at the bathroom just inside the front door. After the usual private event, I tucked my shirt back into my favorite denim capri-short-whatevers and then heard a "chink." I turned to see my new swirly hammered-on-stone creation resting at the bottom of the bowl. What could I do but flush? I wanted to laugh outloud but I was afraid of startling the woman in the next stall.
Onto the produce isle for some asparagus, minus the bangle.
Anne Lamott wrote once that her prayers in the morning have the feel of "whatever," and her prayers in the evening have the feel of "oh well." Here's to Anne. And another shot at making some wire crap.