E44 Section 1 Intro
Episode 44: Joy, Obsession, and the Art of Playing
There’s a kind of making that doesn’t ask anything of you.
It doesn’t demand a deadline, or promise a paycheck.
It simply invites you to play.
That’s what we’re talking about today — rediscovering the pure joy of creating, not for productivity or profit, but for the sheer pleasure of making something wonderful.
Creativity as devotion.
Obsession as reverence.
Permission… to play again.
Because somewhere between building a creative practice or business, keeping up with social media, and trying to “stay consistent,” a lot of creatives — myself included — have forgotten what that feels like.
But there’s a quiet shift happening right now — you can feel it in creative circles everywhere.
A slowing down. A dropping within.
A longing to return to the kind of making that fills you up instead of draining you.
If the previous episode - Episode 43 - was about creating the space to make, this one is about what fills that space — joy, curiosity, and the kind of beautiful obsession that keeps you coming back.
So grab your sketchbook, your cup of coffee, or sit at your favorite worktable — whatever reminds you of why you started — and let’s talk about what happens when we give ourselves permission to play again.
When I first fell in love with making, the world was buzzing about “easy care.”
Polyester double knits were everywhere—bulletproof, wrinkle-free, practically indestructible. Back then it felt modern and miraculous, kinda futuristic. And honestly? At the time, I didn’t know any different. I grew up thinking fabric was supposed to behave: no fuss, no ironing, no surprises.
Then college happened… and with it, a job at Showcase of Fine Fabrics.
That’s where I met silk, linen, and wool—not as ideas, but as living materials. I still remember the first time I pressed a linen seam and watched it take the press, crisp but soft at the edges. Or the way a piece of wool would respond to steam—like it was exhaling. And silk? Silk changed everything. The drape, the way light moved across it, how a narrow hem behaved if you were patient and gentle. I started to understand that fabric wasn’t just something you used; it was something you worked with.
Those Natural fibers asked more of me—time, attention, skill.
But in return, they gave something back: depth, breath, presence. Linen wrinkled… and softened into your life. Wool shaped to the body like it had a memory. Silk floated and glowed and reminded me that delicacy can still be strong. Those moments at the cutting table and the ironing board were small lessons in patience, care, and value.
And here’s where this connects to the present.
There’s a quiet move toward slow textiles—toward mending, toward choosing fewer but better materials, toward understanding where our fabric comes from and how it was made. It isn’t about rules or purity; it’s about noticing. Those natural fibers became, for me, a practice in noticing: the hand, the weave, the way a seam reacts, the way an item lives after the first wash. Imperfection turned into character. Maintenance turned into relationship.
It also shifted how I thought about making.
Instead of rushing the project to be “done,” I began to enjoy the parts in between—the pressing, the pinning, the slow curve of a bias seam coming together. Those steps stopped feeling like chores and started feeling like devotion. Not preciousness—devotion. The kind that brings you back to the table because something about the work is feeding you.
Have you ever felt that way? When was the last time you felt that?
Now, I didn’t abandon practical fabrics; I just learned to choose them on purpose.
Some days call for durability and easy care. Some days ask for breathability and beauty. Learning to read the fabric—what it wants to do, how it wants to hang—made me a better maker, and honestly, a kinder one. I wasn’t forcing the material to be something it wasn’t; I was partnering with it.
And if you’re listening to this thinking, “Okay, but I don’t have time for fussy,” I hear you.
Slow can be five minutes. Slow can be pressing as you go, and letting that be enough for today. It’s not about perfection; it’s about presence.
So, here’s a little invitation for you:
Think about what materials you’re drawn to lately—and what that says about the way you want to create. Are you craving something quick and steady right now? Or are you ready for a fabric that invites you to slow down and pay attention? There’s no right answer here. There’s just what your hands—and your heart—are asking for.
(beat)
And sometimes, when you fall for a fabric, you want to take the relationship one step deeper… to play, to experiment, to discover.
For me, that moment came with silk.
During my wedding-party era, I started dyeing my own silks — not because I had to, but because I couldn’t not do it. There’s something intoxicating about watching color meet fiber for the first time. It’s equal parts control and surrender — like you’re collaborating with the fabric instead of dictating to it.
I’d spend hours testing small snippets — jotting down ratios, adding just a drop more of one pigment or another, seeing how the light changed the hue as it dried. Those tiny tests felt like secret conversations between me and the material. And when I finally got the recipe right — that exact blush-rose shade or smoky lavender that lived only in my imagination — it was pure magic.
That was art in its truest sense. Not perfection, not production — just discovery.
It reminded me that the best kind of creativity often happens when we loosen our grip a little, when we stop trying to control every outcome.
And honestly, that’s something I see returning in the creative world today — this love of process over product.
Eco-dyeing with plants, cyanotype printing in the backyard sun, hand-stitching with visible thread — all those slow, tactile practices are making a comeback because people are craving the feeling of being in it again. It’s not about speed. It’s about presence. Which is making the handmade market even that much more important!
Play and obsession are cousins.
The more you allow yourself to explore — without needing a reason or a result — the more you start to recognize what’s uniquely yours. A signature color, a texture, a mark-making style — those are the fingerprints of your creative spirit. They only show up when you give yourself time to wander.
So here’s another thing to think about this week:
When was the last time you experimented purely for fun? Not for a deadline, not for a product, not for a post — just for the joy of seeing what happens?
Because sometimes, those are the moments that lead you right back to yourself.
And when I think about it, maybe that’s exactly what was happening to me all along.
Because I come by this love of fabric, fibers and making honestly.
My mother made most of her own clothes when I was growing up — and plenty of mine and my sisters’ too. We were a military family, always on the move, and the main shopping options were the Base Exchange or the Post Exchange. I don’t know if she sewed because she didn’t like what was there or because she had to make every dollar stretch — probably a bit of both. But she could take a few yards of fabric and somehow turn them into something that worked for all of us.
Both of my grandmothers were makers in their own ways. My dad’s mother was a quilter and an embroiderer — she made hundreds of quilts over the years and taught me how to embroider when I was little. My mom’s mother spent her time with crochet, knitting, and tatting. She also made rag rugs and the occasional garment when she needed to. Neither of them would have called themselves artists, but looking back, that’s exactly what they were — practical, creative women who knew how to make something out of nothing.
And somewhere in the middle of all that making came the dolls. The first few outfits our dolls ever had — beyond what they came dressed in — were made by my grandmothers. Little dresses, capes, and even crocheted hats. They were always making tiny dresses or bonnets out of scraps, and of course, I couldn’t resist joining in. Before long, I was cutting and sewing my own doll clothes.
I still have a box full of those little doll clothes tucked away somewhere. They’re not perfect — not even close — but they tell a story. They remind me that this pull toward fabric didn’t just appear out of nowhere. It’s been passed down, shaped by generations of women who made things with their hands.
And maybe that’s why I’ve always seen making as something worthwhile. It’s not just a hobby, and it’s not just a business. It’s a lineage — a way of saying, this is who we are, and this is what we love to do.
That sense of connection is probably what kept me going later, even as I moved deeper into my professional career, I never stopped chasing that feeling — the joy, the indulgence, the sparkle that came from creating something beautiful, just for the sake of it.
You know, if there were ever a phase of my life that could be called The Sparkle Years, this was it.
Those special occasion projects — the bridal gowns, the mother-of-the-bride dresses, the flower girls, and all the rhinestones and pearls that went with them — were pure indulgence. I was basically one order away from starting a 12-step program for myself. I loved those years.
Working with those fabrics was a joy all its own. Silk chiffon that slid through your fingers and beaded lace that could dull a needle in seconds — and I loved every bit of it. I geeked out on the difference in sewing techniques, the patience it took to make it all behave, and the sheer thrill of watching something come together that shimmered when it moved.
Even now, I still get that same rush when a package of fabric samples shows up at my door. It’s like Christmas morning. I stop whatever I’m doing, tear into it, and spread everything out like treasure — just like those old design-room tables I used to gather around.
But here’s one thing I eventually learned: indulgence has its limits. There’s a fine line between loving the sparkle and drowning in it. Back then, I had to learn how to balance the obsession with practicality — sometimes choosing polyester satin and doing my own beading when the budget demanded it or deciding that one exquisite piece was enough instead of three.
That lesson carried into my own wardrobe, too. I adore linen and wear a lot of it. But if a blouse comes in three colors, my first instinct is still to want all three. I’ve had to train myself to pause and say, “Yes, it’s beautiful — but do I actually need it? Does that color even look good on me?” Just because it’s 100 percent pure linen doesn’t mean it has to come home with me.
It’s the gentle art of choosing wisely — learning when to splurge, when to substitute, and when to simply admire something without needing to own it. That balance took me years to master, and truthfully, I still have moments where I fail spectacularly.
But here’s the fun part: I no longer see it as failure. It’s all part of the creative rhythm — the ebb and flow between indulgence and restraint, between passion and practicality. Sometimes we need the sparkle, and sometimes we need the structure that keeps us from getting buried in it.
And maybe that’s the real magic of obsession — learning how to channel it so it fuels your creativity instead of consuming it.
Maybe that’s the real heart of it — learning to let your obsession become something sacred instead of something shameful.
Because if you love what you do, if you find yourself completely lost in the process — that’s not a flaw. That’s devotion.
I’ll admit it — I’ve always been a little obsessive about the classics: silk, linen, and wool. They each have their own personality, their own quirks, and they’ve taught me as much about patience as they have about sewing. Linen, for example — people either love it or hate it. It wrinkles, it softens, it lives a little more each time you wear it. And that’s exactly what I adore about it. It’s honest. It shows its life.
The more I’ve worked with those natural fibers, the more I’ve realized they’re a lot like creativity itself. They need care, attention, and grace. They aren’t perfect — but that’s what makes them beautiful.
And maybe that’s the invitation for all of us: to see our own creative obsessions that way — not as something to control or correct, but as something to honor. Because when we’re truly immersed in our craft — whether it’s stitching, sketching, weaving, or writing — it becomes a kind of meditation. A form of prayer. A way of paying attention to the world.
So if you’re a little obsessed with your materials, or your tools, or your process… maybe that’s not something to fix. Maybe it’s your way of saying, this matters.
That the work itself is an act of care — a quiet devotion to beauty, detail, and the joy of making something by hand.
And in a world that moves so fast, maybe that kind of joyful obsession is exactly what we need — not less of it, but more.
We’ve wandered through a lot of creative territory today — from silk and sequins to family stories and linen that wrinkles on purpose.
But underneath it all, there’s one simple truth: creativity thrives when we make room for joy.
Not someday. Not when the space is perfect or the fabric is organized. Right now, right where you are - in our hands, in our homes, in the small spaces we’ve made for it.
So, before we finish, I’ve got a few small ways to help you find that spark again — right there in your own creative space.
First, a texture meditation.
Close your eyes and run your hand over your favorite fabric or material. Really notice it — the weave, the weight, the sound it makes when you move it. What memories or emotions come up? Where does it take you? Those small sensory moments can reconnect you to why you started creating in the first place.
Next, a little color indulgence.
Pull out a few fabrics, threads, or papers in your favorite colors — or maybe in a color you haven’t used in a while — and play with combinations. See what feels fresh or unexpected. Notice how different colors make you feel. Sometimes, joy shows up in the tiniest palette shift — a new hue, a softer tone, a color that suddenly feels like you again.
And finally, a little permission to pause.
No to-do list. No next project. No reason to pull out the sewing machine.
Just take five minutes — maybe with a cup of coffee — and sit somewhere you can see your creative world.
The stack of fabrics. The half-finished project. The tools you’ve collected over the years.
Look at them like you would a museum exhibit of your own making.
That’s all. You’ve already built something beautiful — even if it’s just the space where your ideas live.
You don’t need to overhaul your creative life to reconnect with joy. You just need to start paying attention again — to the colors, the textures, the little things that make your hands and heart light up.
Because that’s where it all begins — those tiny sparks of play that remind us creativity doesn’t always have to be productive to be powerful.
So this week, I hope you play. Touch the fabric, mix the paint, rearrange your tools, or try something you haven’t done in a while. Let yourself fall in love with the process again — with no expectation, no rules, and no guilt.
Your art is not wrong.
It doesn’t have to be trendy, or fast, or flawless to matter.
You just need to find your people — and trust that there are people out there who love the kind of beauty you bring into the world.
Joy is the thread that keeps us making.
And obsession? That’s just joy with a little extra sparkle.
Because that’s what keeps your creativity alive — not perfection, not productivity, but joy.
And next time, we’re going fabric shopping — in Italy, no less.
I’ll share some of my favorite textile adventures abroad, and what I learned about craftsmanship, culture, and creativity from seeing fabric through a completely different lens.
Until then… play a little. Obsess a little. And remember — it’s all part of the art.
