There are times when I swear I am turning into my mother. Do you get that feeling ever? I say things that are in her likeness, like “be safe” when my husband leaves for work. I worry about the same things for my children that she worried about for me and my sibling. “Oh, you aren’t getting enough exercise outdoors.” And perhaps the most striking to me is that we are creatures who seek more and more of the same things.

My mom was always “way into healthy living.” I mean whole grains before this was “in-fashion.” Forgoing over the counter medications and turning to natural remedies. She preferred organic vegetables and raw milk on our table and didn’t use harsh cleaning products in our home or chemical-filled cosmetics.

Now that I have children, I too am seeking a similar healthier lifestyle for my household. I mop my floors with white vinegar and water. I choose put natural ingredients in our bodies and on our skin. And as the one who does most of the purchasing, I choose more green, sustainable, healthy products.

I haven’t always been so inclined to think about health and eco-sustainability. In my younger days, commercial and mass-popular was the way I went. This switch here is a slow process that requires a lot of effort for me, but we are making baby steps. I wonder if she felt the same.

I remember my mother doing her photography. She had one of those old-fashioned cameras with a beautiful wooden frame on a tripod, and you dip under the sheet cover to peek at the shot (which is up-side down.) She would take classes, trek out to weird locations to take her shots, like that old-fashioned coke machine abandoned in a near-by hay field, and then go back into her dark-room to develop. I never understood her passion until now. Perhaps my misunderstanding was in part because as a child model posing wasn’t that much fun, or very comfortable. I was prickly, cold, twisted, unbalanced, hot, full of sand, hay, or mosquito bites, and otherwise just uncomfortable. But the shots came out well.

Now that I sew, embroider, knit, applique, felt, and otherwise craft, I can understand why she loved so much creating something for only herself and her sanity. I feel accomplished, at peace, and proud, when I sit down at my sewing machine to whip up a few grocery totes, or a dress, or a new stuffed lovie for my children. I gain perspective on what is important in life and what I can let go of when I am knitting those stitches one at a time. And the looks on my children’s faces when they ask “is that for me mommy” and I nod “yes” just makes my heart swell up so.

Designing, constructing, and creating is something I have been doing since before I can remember. (I have pictures.) In elementary school, without knowing it, I did batik, candle making, natural fabric dying, clay sculpture, drawing, painting, block printing, silk screening, and so much more. Perhaps my mother picked my school because she knew how wonderful it felt to create something unique.

I am adopted so my mother and I share no genetic relationship. Is it just gene-pool luck we have come to love many of the same things, or is it a mother-daughter thing? Or perhaps something I learned from a very special, and accomplished, model of artistry?