I want to learn about fermentation. Its benefits, how to do it myself, what foods combine nicely and how my little family’s gut health will prosper from it.
I want to learn how to weave, braid and sew. How to make patterns and incorporate patches seamlessly. How to embroider on old poplin dresses.
I want to learn how to bake with edible flowers, preferably after plucking them from my small garden. Spend mornings planning dinner, and dessert. Get creative with the flower arrangement; on top of the pastries, pressed in dough; on the table, resting in the vase I got in that trip to Greece.
I want to learn how to treat wounds on my own. Build my intuitive senses.
I want to learn how to transform a piece of clay into the fruit bowls my family will reach out for, on their way to school and work. Or a piece of wood into the bench I’d sit on in the afternoon waiting for their return. A pile of books next to me, mugs of tea I never finish, sheep skin underneath my feet.
I want to learn calligraphy; collect pens, nibs, ink and journals. Trying to perfect my penmanship.
I want to watercolor and draw.
Cook and feed.
Carve and mend.
Care and nurture.
Be and grow.
I want the freedom to learn all these things and the freedom these things will offer me once learned.