Craft and Community
In 2006 I took on a class of 6 year olds at the Hereford Waldorf School. I was 28 years old. Towards the end of that first year I was asked by a colleague if I would be interested in teaching on a Craft Camp. I protested that I wasn't qualified to do so and I was instantly excited by the idea.
Nineteen years later I have missed a few but been there nearly every year since holding space for some of the younger members of the camp. I was there teaching my workshop whilst breastfeeding my three month old twins. The camp had become such an important part of my life that I could not bear the thought of losing my place within it just when I had given birth to my own children who might benefit from it.
I came late to motherhood and I had spent many years wistfully watching parents, naively not noticing their exhaustion and wondering if one day, I too would be able to bring my own children.
It was that first year when I met my future sister-in-law who was to later introduce me to my future husband and father of my children. Himself a leather worker.
This year I went with my six year old boys. With two other boys at the camp we formed our little tribe. Held by the bigger tribe. The circle of around 150 people and around 15 different workshops housed in tents and yurts and tarpaulins around a field and woodland.
After a challenging first night and day when my introverted self wanted to bolt to the peace and calm of the woodland. I settled into one of my several homes on this planet.
I felt seen and held. Myself and the children in my care were welcomed wherever we went. We made our base in the woods which became a cool haven in the heat of the midday sun. And in our canvas bell tent with a little darker den inside. And from these cosy spaces we wandered out into the wider camp, sometimes together, sometimes separately and always safe and welcomed.
Every tutor, every adult on the camp had something valuable to share with the children. I felt so privileged to be walking around with them, the cherished next generation.
For years I have felt inferior to the crafts people because I never chose a craft or a craft never chose me. I dabbled in different crafts. And so I teach the children a bit about the craft of wood, of willow and rush, of leather, of wool, of metal, of clay. Plant, animal, mineral. I have learnt something, over the years, about the craft of holding the space for children to learn and explore and watch and listen.
The value of working with our hands and the gentle connection and bonding that comes through that is invaluable. As is the sharing of food and fireside chats and stories told. The natural world, the natural materials holding us all as ancestors, as teachers.
The challenges that arise throughout the week are many and varied and they too are our teachers, of course. This year my son cut himself whilst whittling with a sharp knife (a risky and very important skill). I realised my limits. I have capably bound many cuts of my own an other children in my life. When it came to my own son I felt shaky. I called for help. Immediately there was a man, I hardly knew and immediately trusted, holding my son's hand above his head whilst another young man I had known when he was a child, finding the necessary first aid bandages etc. Whilst I did what I most wanted and needed to do, I held my son and stroked his hair, soothing him.
The camp is entering new phase, the elders are stepping into their eldership, the young people are taking on responsibilities for what they know is important, and those of us in between and settling still deeper into a sense of belonging to a tribe.