Things That Sparkle

I peaked over and I could still see her. My eyes followed her fingers as she examined the tiny leaves, berries and shimmery ribbon that adorned the festive decoration. She pushed up the tiny glasses that sat perched on her nose as she held the ornament up to the light.

What was she looking for? What could possibly merit this kind of scrutiny?

I had no idea. I quickly returned the dozens of the same festive decoration to their bins. Clearly, I was not qualified to be here. My shoulders slumped in resignation.

But I could not give up. I could not relinquish my dream of being a master of homemade festive decor without at least giving it one last shot.

I quickly made another pass down the floral aisle, patiently waiting for inspiration to smack me in the head with an idea that would make even The Martha green with envy.

I passed rows and rows of beads, ribbons, baskets and wreaths waiting to be trimmed by the knowing and articulate hands of a professional. Miniature trees, plain and ordinary, would soon be magnificent displays of holiday charm.

I started to get excited as tiny seeds of an idea began to form . . .

That's when I saw THEM. Two women. They joyfully bantered as they dramatically discussed their plans for a foam cone, some moss and a basket full pine cones and bows. I listened intently as they pilfered through the basket. Everything looked the same to me, but clearly each item held such a distinct difference that in my creative ignorance I failed to notice. I didn't get it. I had no vision.

I'm an idiot. A Martha wannabe without an ounce of talent.

As the critical gaze of one woman (the one with the snowman sweater and matching snowflake earrings--probably all handmade) fell to me, I quickly pretended to talk to J about the pretty angels that hung from the ceiling. At least I think they were angels.

I suddenly became self conscious of my attire (sweatshirt and jeans), my empty basket (save the empty raisin box) and the obvious fact that I did not belong amongst this crowd of crafting geniuses.

I knew I had to get the heck outta there. And fast . . . before the very last flake of my illusionary creativity melted like a sad, pitiful old snowman in the sun (you're lovin' my seasonal metaphors, aren't you?).

I gave my very best shot.

I failed.

Off to the dollar store where I was sure to find some decals for the windows and a few cheesy baskets I could fill with some fake fruit. Maybe I'd spray paint them with gold paint. Woo. Hoo.

As I made my way to toward the exit, I noticed something. Something that filled my heart with an ever-increasing comfort. And joy.

There were other women slowly perusing the aisles and tucked amongst the grapevine wreathes, that had an all too familiar look in their eyes. They tried to hide it, pulling out foam circles, empty pots and berry garland.

They were clueless.

Just like me.

Their eyes shifted as a Martha would begin her casual, yet craftily confident stroll down the aisle. I saw the women pull their shoulders back as if to say, "I belong here, even if I have no idea what I'm doing. So, push on, Martha."

OK. So maybe I was imagining all of this.

But it didn't matter.

I was inspired.

I took a big breath, refilled J's Cheerio's cup, and headed back into the fray.

Ribbons, berries, strange things that sparkle . . . here I come.