On Tuesday, I finished my second bird coaster; these are pieced with fabric and patched by hand, then sewn together with a square of felt between two sides, like a sandwich. One side is embroidered with a bird, in this case drawn by Chris. It’s a series of steps and requires organization. I need to heat up the iron and get my hems tacked down and pinned—that kind of thing.

Now, what with the five news feeds I’m following to tend to the sporting match our political arena has become, I’m finding it hard to stay focused, which is the whole point of the exercise—to stay focused.

Last week, my bird turned into a walrus. This week, I met my quota by Tuesday and it was a bona fide bird. I ironed the finished product and set it on the table the night before to remind myself to photograph it in the morning, but in the morning it was gone.

None of this is interesting except my response to it: my heart started to pound and I felt like crying, like over spilled milk. I had to ask myself: why this sad, outsized reaction to a lost little bird? It felt like the lost bird was a metaphor for all the forgotten and failed projects in my life.

In the New York Times, I read an article called The Year of Conquering Negative Thinking, in which it says, "notice that you are in a negative cycle and own it." Tell yourself (in my case), "I am obsessing about a lost bird."

So I assembled myself to face my disappointment, but then Chris conveniently came into the room and I was able to blame him for losing my coaster. After all, he had moved my stuff to work on a holiday card at the same table where I had left it!

After some tense hunting in every bag, in every room in the apartment, in every waste bin and even in the refrigerator, I found it on the floor near my backpack where it had innocently fallen.

This is just to say that pretty photos of handmade things never tell the whole story behind the physical, mental and emotional anguish that accompanies even the smallest act of creation.