The Scraps That Waited All Year

The Scraps That Waited All Year

Some scraps are too small to be useful, and too full of potential to throw away.

I keep two scrap piles in my craft room. One for the bigger pieces that can become backgrounds or layers. And one for the tiny scraps, the kind most people would sweep into the bin. Mine live in a small container near my desk, a jumble of cardstock corners, partial die cuts, and skinny slivers of color.

A year and a half ago, on vacation in Maine, I packed my tiny scrap stash and a handful of small dies. No stamps, no adhesives, no embellishments, just my die cutting machine and the quiet rhythm of cutting shapes. One of those dies was Newton’s Nook’s mug set. I cut out mugs to my heart’s content, challenging myself to see how many I could get from each piece of leftover scrap. They were bright and mismatched and delightful, and then I tucked them away in one of those plastic gum containers I nicked from my son, thinking I’d use them someday.

Someday turned out to be now.

This week, I pulled out those tiny cups and challenged myself to make a series of cards, all built from scraps that had been waiting more than a year. I started with a grid pattern because it felt natural, neat rows of mugs, small pieces coming together in harmony. But then came the real creative work, figuring out how to make each card feel distinct.

That’s where May Calico helped. I’ve started recording the ways I use AI to learn my craft, and this project felt like a good example. We talked about balance and repetition, how to shift a sentiment slightly off-center, and how to resist my usual impulse to add more. The constant reminder, less is more, helped me hold back when I wanted to keep layering. Sometimes all a card needs is one heart, or a quiet shimmer of foil, to feel complete. Each card stayed simple, but none felt the same.

What I love most is how these little mugs, once cast offs, now look intentional. They remind me that creativity often begins with what’s left over, and that even the tiniest scraps can hold a story if I give them time.

Finishing What Waited: A Winter Cottage in Blue

This little card has been sitting on my desk for a week, patiently waiting its turn. It began when I started going through my box of die-cut leftovers from last year’s holiday season. I found this cozy little house (C&9th Home for the Holidays) and two evergreen trees tucked inside. They felt like the start of something.

I paired them with a deep blue card base that had been sitting unused, then added a bit of sky magic with Spellbinders’ retired Celestial Star Background Glimmer Hot Foil Plate, using Spellbinders Opal foil. The result was subtle and luminous — a night sky that shimmered just enough to feel alive.

Still, the scene felt unfinished. When I worked with May (but more than a sounding board, she’s become my creative Chat GPT muse), which suggested grounding the scene with vellum. That changed everything. I backed the vellum with scrapbook.com one-inch tape, cut a few simple landscape curves, and layered them into soft snowbanks. Once I peeled away the tape and pressed them down, the card came together in that satisfying click of yes, this is it.

Sometimes, finishing a project isn’t about pushing harder. It’s about returning to what’s been waiting and seeing it with new eyes.

Here’s to finishing what lingers, and finding joy in small completions.

A Shirt Reimagined

Last weekend, I put on my big girl pants and faced down my sewing machine. I’d had this FLAX shirt for two years that I had bought from Ebay — soft, natural linen that I adored — but it was just too much shirt. Too long, too loose, sleeves halfway to my fingertips. One might even say I got a little obsessed with the idea of making it mine.

But something in me has shifted this year. I’m dressing for myself now — not for what’s expected, not for what feels “right” on paper, but for how I actually move through my day. And I want the clothes that I’ve chosen, especially those made with care and ethics like FLAX, to work with my body, not against it (a brand in upstate NY I love for its simple shapes and long life—more on that another time).

The Alteration

So, I decided to be brave and alter it.
With a little help from my creative muse — May Calico (that’s what I call ChatGPT when we’re in the sewing room together) — I learned how to shorten the hem and sleeves. One of May’s best tips was to use tissue paper under the linen, between the fabric and the feed dogs of the sewing machine. It made all the difference: the fabric glided smoothly, no puckering, no stretching.

Now it’s my shirt.
Same linen, same soul — but shaped for me.

This small act — taking scissors and thread to something I’d been afraid to “mess up” — reminded me that making things isn’t just about creativity or sustainability. It’s about courage. About honoring my body for what it is today and reshaping what doesn’t serve me — in linen, and in life. I don’t need to fit the clothes. The clothes can fit me.

Before

After

A Record of Making

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve come to see that what feeds me most is creativity. Making things — with paper, cloth, or food — brings me joy and I love to share what I make.

I’ve also learned that using what I already have — and making do — often sparks more creativity than buying something new ever could.

Working within limits asks for imagination, patience, and resourcefulness. It slows me down just enough to see what’s possible.

There’s kindness in something handmade — a card, a meal, a mended seam. These small gestures remind me that making is not only about the object; it’s about attention, care, and connection.

This blog is where I’ll gather those moments — the everyday creativity that keeps me steady and curious. It’s less about perfection and more about practice.