I’ve got a thing for “old arts.” (No, I don’t know if that’s a real term, but I’m using it.)
I love doing things in their simplest, most original form. I feel somehow more connected with what I’m doing when my methods date way, way back.
That’s why I love making my bread by hand.
That’s why I love making anything by hand.
I know that there are fancy machines that can do most anything for me. The thing is, I want to be forced to take time to slow down and do things. I’d rather grind my wheat with an old-fashioned mill, knead bread dough with my bare hands, and drink my coffee from a french press.
And I love diapering my babies in prefolds and wool covers because it feels so simple and beautiful and uncomplicated.
In the years to come, as more children make their way into our family, I would love to uphold the value for doing things the old-fashioned way. I want my family to see the worth in such artful methods of doing life.
Sometimes I wonder if I’m naive to think that I can keep from using machines and appliances and other convenient methods. Maybe one day, I will buy a bread machine. I won’t pretend to know what things will look like many years from now.
But for now and for as long as I can manage it, I’d rather use my hands.