snowflakes

snip snip

Last night I invited my three preschool/toddlers to join me in making paper snowflakes. I was informed pretty quickly in the process that the singular goal of snowflakes was severely stifling to their creativity. One decided to make a snowman, another to rip paper and glue it back together as an ornament, and the 2-year-old, well… need I say more?

Still, I counted the evening as a success. We consumed far too much sugar and butter in the festive, and therefore acceptable, form of cookies and listened to a quiet soul jazz advent playlist sent by my music-savvy friend, intermittently interrupted by squeaky children’s scissors and rustling paper.

I hadn’t cut out a snowflake in years. Somehow, my bustling refuses to sit still long enough for a “pointless” activity (as compared with the never-ending piles of laundry or dishes or projects). Yet, the joy of making folds and cuts and then discovering the geometric design as it unfolds was simple joy at its finest. What have I been missing all these years? I started to analyze my cuts, experimenting with how to make a particular design, squeaking with joy when successful.

As I snipped away, however, I realized one stark consistency. The more I cut away, the more intricate and beautiful the snowflake.

…

I’ve been wrestling a bit recently with goals and plans and failures and change. This isn’t a new thing. Each time I press “print” on a crisp, white, detailed lifeplan, I run to the printer only to find holes and slices. Doors close, plans shatter, obstacles appear. Do you experience this too?

Last night, as I unfolded my final creation, a real beauty, I wondered if maybe the maker isn’t done cutting away bits of me.

Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash