My family has a long tradition of creating handmade gifts for each other. No matter how beautiful or wonky the final product is, you better believe that gift will be proudly displayed on a countertop, bookshelf, wall, or table. Every time I visit my aunt or grandmother’s house, I find myself staring at a piece that I made when I was ten or fourteen years old.
Among them, a kiln-fired Bald Eagle made in my patriotic era (when art class in elementary school would try to teach historical lessons), a misshapen bunny rabbit, its ears pointing in two directions, and a slightly more distinguished clay-and-wire flower sculpture.
The thing is, I really enjoy making Christmas gifts for my family. I look forward to that annual trip to Michaels, seeing the store filled with Christmas decorations, paints, wood pieces, yarn, clay, and everything else that the inside of my brain looks like. The creative nerd in me relishes trips to Michaels and loves putting in hours to create these gifts, a feeling that is both relaxing and productive. Making gifts for others is also a labor of love—the ways in which I can express my appreciation and gratitude to others go far beyond words.
How else would I thank my family for everything that they have done for me?
I wonder what I could make that might distinguish it from all the other clay figurines lying on my aunt’s bookshelf, in the land of Christmas gifts of the past.
So even though I’m away from home, I get to work on this year’s gifts. I wet my hands with a mixture of clay and water, watching the terracotta dry on my skin, turning to a muddy gray color.
I wonder what I could make that might distinguish it from all the other clay figurines lying on my aunt’s bookshelf, in the land of Christmas gifts of the past.
As I glue pieces of garland together, sticking my fingers together slightly, I think about the time my grandmother picked me up after my first car accident, when I was slightly traumatized and depressed, and let me sleep over at her house; the warmth of her bed was so comforting. As the hot glue lightly burns my fingertips, I think about how my aunt checks in on me and helped me move into my first apartment, assembling furniture and cleaning at the same time. As I stain my favorite blouse with a drop of hot pink paint, I think about how my sister cooks me food, just because, and especially when she knows I am stressed.
Making these things results in gifts not just for my family but also for me—in the process of shaping and weaving and decorating I get to reflect on all the ways my family has shaped and loved me.
I realize that in some ways it doesn’t really matter what the final homemade gift looks like, whether it’s an uneven painting of my dog Rosie and me, or if it’s a mosaic, creating a picture out of millions of tiny squares. Making these things results in gifts not just for my family but also for me—in the process of shaping and weaving and decorating I get to reflect on all the ways my family has shaped and loved me.
This is our tradition, homemade gifts, because this is our family—homemade love. Every brush stroke, paint stain, and piece of clay stuck underneath my fingernails is an “I love you,” and a “thank you for everything.”
