the wisdom of indigo

This past weekend, I spent an afternoon standing over a vat of indigo dye, turning my hands blue. I dyed napkins, scarves, a few random pieces of fabric, and, for reasons I still can't fully explain, my favorite linen dress. There was a moment before I dipped the dress into the dye when I thought, "This could be a terrible idea." Then I did it anyway.

Some of the pieces came out exactly as I hoped. Some looked completely different than I expected. A few unfolded into patterns I never could have planned if I'd tried.

The whole thing felt strangely freeing. Maybe because there wasn't a goal. Nobody was grading the results. Nobody needed anything from me. There was no outcome to optimize, no skill to master, no productivity angle hiding underneath it. I wasn't trying to turn it into a business idea or a future offering or something useful. I was just making things.

As I've gotten older, I've realized how much of my life revolves around purpose. Most of my work is meaningful to me, which is a gift. I care deeply about my family, my students, my studio, and the people I work with. But somewhere along the way, I've noticed a tendency to make everything count for something.

Even my hobbies.

It's annoying how hard it is to do something simply because it sounds enjoyable.

Standing there with blue-stained hands, waiting for fabric to oxidize, I found myself remembering what that feels like. When you first pull something from the dye, it doesn't look like the rich blue you expect. The color emerges slowly as it meets the air. Every time I unfolded a piece of fabric, there was a small moment of surprise because I genuinely didn't know what I was going to find. I think that's what I've been missing lately.

Not creativity exactly. Play.

The kind of play that isn't trying to become anything else or need a lesson attached to it. The kind that exists entirely for its own sake.