Some people say the hearth is the heart of a house, and our cat would surely agree, but to me, the heart of our home lies in our crafts room. It has taken on many guises over the years as I have lugged bins of supplies from as early as 1990 from one place to the next.

If I look at the bins, I can trace time from one home or interest of mine to another, from one fascination or developmental stage to the next for G. Inside some of them you will find works in progress or works completed and stowed for safe keeping. We have a mini silver clay kiln in one bin, whittling tools in another (got badly cut, put them away), a wood burning tool set, many reeds for basket weaving, and several bins for felting and beading. Fabric wins for sheer quantity, it being my first form of therapy.

This is not to mention individual bins of stamps, stickers, craft paper for fancy, craft paper for kids. There’s one for felt, and one that holds the glue guns, pompoms, popsicle sticks, and other fun things to glue. Embroidery floss. Sewing gear. Trim and zippers. Dress patterns (not my forte). Die cuts and scissors with fun edges. Paints for window art. Colorful drawing ink, India ink, pencils, charcoals, Japanese calligraphy. Yarn is the winner for incomplete projects.

Ribbon! My first love from childhood—how could I have taken so long to mention this bin of treasures often re-purposed?

Wait. There’s more. A grommet-maker with multicolored grommets is housed with an alphabet stamper and metal sheeting. Mosaic materials. Batik, beeswax, henna ingredients. Paints: acrylic and watercolor. Crayons: Crayola, Waldorf and Cray-Pas.

Then there are bins that sum up a time or place: flower fairies, Cape crafts (when we were on location). Dolly dress-up games: bits of fabric with a die-cut wooden doll. And, be still my heart, the best of the baby clothes that G used for her dollies, the slings/baby carriers that she (and I) used, plus the costumes we made for her as seasons or interests allowed. (If you’re interested, visit https://whereiendandshebegins.com/2006/11/06/craft-basic-animal-costumes/ )

A few last bins at bottom levels include VHS and cassette tapes, old print photography and slides, and favorite cookbooks from the days of omnivore-ism.

Earlier today, I walked into this chilly space for a bit of premature-Spring cleaning. (It’s ten degrees outside, and this room is not well insulated.) I put on a scarf from the yarn bin—one of G’s first—too short for true function but very warm, so I found a hair clip to bind it closed. Proof positive of the magnetic quality of this space: I search for whatever I can find to keep warm rather than walk the ten paces to my bedroom for a sweater. When I’m here I want to stay, create, imagine, or even organize.

I love having a guest room, and I love having a crafts space. To me they’re signs of arrival at adulthood (along with a washer/dryer). A garage would be nice, but it’s expendable. We’re living without one right now which I guarantee is not ideal with all of this snow, but I wouldn’t trade it. True luxury is being able to have your sewing machine and ironing board at attention, ready at the flip of a switch. As well as extra bed to welcome a visitor.

As G has stepped out more and more into the world, her “art heart” as we used to call it is being satisfied in the ceramics studio. There is less excuse or demand for me to be creating something regularly. But I’ve discovered this lack undermines my essential nature. I have to urge myself to reconnect. Since this room is all set up, I easily can visit my 1970s Bernina and whip up a pillowcase or flannel covers for G’s and my electric heating pads. When I do, I feel vastly better. I often wonder why I didn’t think of it sooner to chase my blues away.

Today I found entropy had been left to its own devices thanks to G’s and my intermittent needs or bursts of creativity. A chair of things needed re-homing. As I worked to battle those itinerant laws of thermodynamics, I was in a reflective mood. A fabric G once used to be a wizard brushed up against another we used for her 6^th birthday party. To me, fabric has the same nostalgia-recall as an old tune on the radio or a whiff of a long-forgotten scent. It’s better than photography or scrapbooks in a way; my own private portal into the past.

My plan was to finish up in haste, get rid of some things that would clear the energy and no one would miss, and then move to the space downstairs.

But.

By the door, there is a frosted white glass container with the remnants of a pillar candle made by Capri Blue, scented Volcano. Far more lovely than its name, in fact, one of my favorites. I put it in the garbage, trying to ignore the remaining bit of unburnable delectable scent.

This lasts less than 10 seconds.

I reclaim the Volcano container and put it aside, heading over to the fifth stack of bins. Yarn goes on the floor, followed by craft paper/babysitting quality (see how this evolves over time?) and I reach for the candle making bin. I neglected to mention this one (there is much, perhaps surprisingly, I did not mention). Somewhere in the early 90s when we were scraping together a living, I wanted to recycle the dregs of candles and make fresh ones by melting and remolding. The contents of this bin contain bits of candle that are nearly as old.

I head downstairs immediately and start the double boiler. Soon the kitchen is sending aromas of melted Volcano upstairs, and a happy light goes on in my brain. As I place the wick in the mold, add the silicone release spray, and putty the base, I try to recall the last time I made a candle. Maybe seven years ago?

But the delight I feel makes my case far more eloquently than any words can do. I submit: this is why I carry these bins from house to house. I’m well aware that my life’s journey does not include curing cancer or settling affairs of state. But if you want to let your art heart fly, we have the just the place and the gear to play. All ages invited.