January 16, 2022

There was a week one summer, when two different women gave me the last of their apple harvests. Another handed over several bunches of kale, and a few more gave me tips on who to find in town to help with hemming some pants.

This fall, I discovered a coworker of who mine can basically sew in her sleep. She’s mended and tailored my clothes between shifts better than any small business storefront shop.

One Friday night in winter, my family gathered around the table and shared exciting events from the kids’ market at school. One showed me a hat she bought that someone’s mama had whipped together the night before.

I am signed up for a painting class next week and everyone who knows me has snickered sweetly at the thought. There is an entire collection of my artwork the kids have kept for a rainy day. We still can’t figure out if my drawing of a horse was actually a dog or a bus.

Here’s the thing: I’ve gardened and taken sewing classes and attempted to knit and paint. These things simply don’t come easily to me, nor do they hold my attention long enough to want to become an expert. I am, however, really good at putting together an outfit and planning a trip and keeping a few houseplants alive and being a nurse. I am learning to love my lane. I’m also getting comfortable enough at driving in it to look over and honk and wave at the women in the other ones. They’re doing great, too.