I belong to the tribe of makers (TOMs).
I make, therefore I am.
My mother and aunts made clothes in factories all over Melbourne making other people rich. My maternal grandmother made food for the Germans who occupied her village of Kaloneri in the mountains of northern Greece. She was the best cook in the village and they made her an offer she couldn’t refuse. My cousins in Greece made exquisite handcrafted items that would adorn their houses when they got married to men they barely knew (if only those glory boxes could speak). My father just made messes for other people to clean up.
My friend Gina makes photographs that make you cry. My friend Joi makes paintings of her beloved and naughty Oodlies that bring bring joy to one and all. My friend Carmel makes it possible for people to travel to her beloved Italy and eat her family’s food. My friend Stacey makes people’s lives better. My Instafriend Mel makes collages that Dali would have been proud of. My friend Yvette makes me laugh till a change of undergarments is required.
I am hopelessly enthralled with making and the people who must make stuff or die.
It doesn’t matter if it is making a crocheted vest, a cake, a garden or making mistakes. It all hijacks my attention till my tongue hangs out and drool gathers at of my mouth. I forget to breathe. I forget to eat (mostly). I forget to blink. It is in the making that I channel my tribe.
To the tribe of makers I curtsy in you general direction.
