There's something about homegrown things - homegrown music, homegrown writing, homemade bread - that always makes me smile. It's personal and quirky and real. It's the stuff you sit up at night and write at your kitchen table. It's the pie you take to the potluck made from your grandmother's recipe.
Homegrown. Canned tomatoes, knitted hats, a poem in a battered journal. Sitting down at a piano and picking out the tune yourself, instead of listening to slick, impersonal music made in a studio.
Homegrown things aren't perfect, and that's OK. The bookshelf I built in my twenties has a few crooked nails; it doesn't look, on close inspection, much like the cheap, faceless furniture in some big box store. But it's sturdy, and after all these years of use the shelves are still straight and strong.
When I make a hat, knitting it with my own two hands, I can watch it take form like a small, humble birth. It has, somehow, a heart. In this chilly world, it warms me just to hold it. I can give it away and say, "I made this for you,", or wear it myself and be warmed again.
In a way, too, making things myself is a small defiance. In a world where everything around me and everything I wear and eat is from somewhere else, who am I? In all those things made by the hands of underpaid workers far overseas, where are my hands? When I fashion something myself, turn off the music and whistle a tune, or even just arrange a room so it's just the way I like it, I put a little of myself into my life. I call my name out into the universe, and maybe, in a small way, it hears me.
So last Sunday I lugged my guitar to a little park in town for an open stage. I had a new song I've been writing, and it was time for our local group that meets four times a year. There are usually maybe a dozen of us that take a turn, bringing up our poems or our music to share.
Most of us know each other well - we've been meeting for more than thirty years! But even after all those years, every time is different.
This time a new group showed up with a bass fiddle and two ukuleles, and a farmer with a raspy voice played old-time music on his banjo and told some bad jokes. Some folks sang golden oldies or played tunes on an electronic piano. Seasoned writers came up and shared work from their latest book, and one or two nervous first-timers cleared their throats and croaked out a poem.
Some of us are always nervous, and others stride up and sail through their time. Still, we want to share what we've made, even if it's not perfect. And every time someone takes time to come up to you afterwards and say something nice so you can walk away smiling.
It's my turn. I take my guitar out of my case, pull out that new song and walk up to the mic. I'm still not sure about that last verse - shoot, I'm not even sure I remember the tune anymore!
It won't be perfect, but that's OK. I'll sing it anyway, and send a little warmth out into this chilly world of ours.
Love it!
very good