Today, I made another pouch. This time, a small potpourri pouch.
As I worked through the stitches, a memory surfaced. My mum once made one for me. I can’t remember exactly when, but I remember how it felt to receive it. Something handmade, something thoughtful, something quietly filled with care.
I lost it over the years.
For a moment, there was a small pang of regret. How easily we lose things we didn’t know we would one day value so deeply.
But today felt like something more than loss.
It felt like a return.
As I shaped this little pouch, I realised I wasn’t just making something new. I was, in some quiet way, recreating a piece of that memory. Not exactly the same, not meant to be, but connected.
The yarn in my hands, the slow forming of each stitch, the intention behind it. It made me pause and appreciate what my mum had given me back then. Not just the pouch, but the skill, the patience, the love for making things with my own hands.
Maybe the original is gone.
But what it stood for isn’t.
Today, I carry it forward.
I’m grateful for this memory that came back to me.
Grateful for the chance to recreate, not replace.
Grateful that something once lost can still live on in a different form.
And maybe that’s what making is about.
Not just creating things.
But holding on to what truly matters, in the only way we can.
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