I'm glad that I didn't hoard this pretty paper all for myself, like I was contemplating after I brought it home.
I'm glad that instead I spent the better part of the weekend making a mess of our kitchen table with my kids and we laughed and talked and created. Together.
It would have been too easy to hide this treasure away, the crafty version of the secret tub of ice cream in the back of the freezer. (Confess, mamas. You know the ice cream I'm talking about.)
Mine, mine, mine.
A perfect, pristine, fancy pack of paper.
Just for me.
If I had it would still be that. A perfect, pristine, fancy pack of paper.
Unused. Waiting.
Waiting for what, I'm not sure.
So I shared.
Like I expect them to do so often.
I shared that pretty paper without any need to control the outcome or to remind them to cut from the corners or to take just enough.
Allowing.
Accepting.
Embracing.
And because of that choice I was able to share in the joy of their process and find my own opportunity to create.
With the best crafting partners I could imagine.
Presence.
Joy.
Creation.
It was a crafty free-for all.
A full weekend of goodness, imaginations on fire.
For the cost of one pack of paper.
I kept my new fabric for myself, yes. But the paper I shared with an open heart.
Decoupaged cigar boxes, birthday cards, bookmarks, collages.
Only once did I catch myself staring big-eyed as a print I had my sights set on was lovingly cut with gusto by small scissors held in small hands.
And then I exhaled.
And smiled.
Because there was enough.
Always enough.
An abundance.
Of pretty paper, of special things kept just for me, of time together, and of the simple, quiet, messy joy of making.
Oh, yes. I'm so glad I didn't keep it all to myself.
