laborious gratification.

the process makes the pleasure.

Recently, while reclining on the couch for an approximate three minutes, James mentioned that the throw pillow next to him was “making him sneeze.” Perhaps, we surmised, because the pillow had picked up more than its share of dust while acting as a luge for our three-year-old. Was this behavior also responsible for the ever-growing number of holes in the pillow’s cover, including a fresh one, right across in the center? Signs pointed to yes, but our allotted time for adult conversation was over and we moved onto more pressing concerns, like which of our children had just cheated at Monopoly.

I forgot about the pillows until Monday morning, when I was looking for something to do that wasn’t what I was supposed to be doing. I decided then would be the right time to wash all the pillow covers in the name of preventing future spousal sneezing, but as I began stripping covers from cushions, it became clear that what little was left of the threadbare covers would never survive the industrial force of laundromat machines. Held to the light, the fabric was as close to translucent as once-heavyweight linen can be—gossamer pillow covers with gaping holes and more on the way. I’d patched and reinforced these covers countless times before, but seeing them in the literal light, I decided it was time to turn obvious rags into usable ones and to replace the covers entirely.

Rummaging through my basket of fabric scraps, I found squares of fabric cut from an old chambray shirt of James’s that had gone yellow under the arms. I found rectangles of pale blue linen I’d saved from a set of pillowcases that hung too-long for my liking off the ends of our pillows. Faye’s indigo shibori experiment, made two summers ago on one of the hottest days in recent memory, was tucked in a pile next to a colorful bandana given to me years ago by a dear friend. Sewn together, these bits and pieces could be turned into pillow cases.

The replacement covers wouldn’t appear immediately, though. In fact, they’d come into being somewhat laboriously over the course of a few hours and two days. If you’re thinking: “Who, pray tell, has that kind of time?” I understand. Especially when there’s an alternative. Through the miracle of technology and worldwide shipping routes, we can sit at our computers, propped, perhaps, against our quietly disintegrating throw pillows, and with a few clicks of the computer keyboard and untold dollars, place an order for new ones. We can add items to an online cart, get a little hit of dopamine when we click buy, and then we can get on with our busy lives until the day comes when our pillow covers are thrown unceremoniously on our stoops and we decide whether or not we’d like to keep them.

I want better for us. And I find that when I embrace the more laborious kind of gratification found in making something for myself, what I receive is not a single, fleeting hit of dopamine, but a slow drip of pleasure and satisfaction with long lingering side effects. There’s pleasure in the process, from start to finish. In choosing fabric scraps for four pillow cases, I cleared a little space in my office. A pleasure! I put materials to use that I already had. A pleasure! I spent zero dollars. A pleasure! I spent time getting out of my head and into my hands. A pleasure and a reprieve for my brain that no amount of online shopping could begin to touch. When I make something, there’s gratification in spotting a problem and identifying a solution, in selecting the materials, in every step taken that gets me closer to the finished product, and in every moment when I enjoy that product once it’s made. A veritable font of pleasure to be found in four pillow covers!

To be sure, there are very many compelling and carbon-related reasons for making things ourselves from what we already have. How many delivery trucks do we want driving around in our name? New York City streets are clogged with them already, filled to brimming with packages promised for next-day delivery. Particulate matter from diesel trucks chokes our air and, always, it’s the most disadvantaged folks who suffer the greatest consequences. But I think as important as the environmental impacts are the personal ones. What if we recognized and valued the inherent pleasure found in making things ourselves? When we balk at the time required to stitch our own scrappy pillow cases, we fail to account for the inherent pleasure gained from the same process.

To be very clear, my sewing skills are rudimentary at best, which is all they really need to be. One hardly need be a master sewist to make an envelope pillow cover. No matter the project, we can hone our skills and refine our craft if we want to, but I’ve found that the skill and know-how required for making things is far less important than the confidence and can-do-it-ness. So, here’s a wintry wish for all of us: May we each find a moment to bask in the pleasure of making something ourselves, wonky corners, ripped-out stitches, and misshapen bits included.

(Why yes, I did just write an entire book on this subject. Funny you should mention it! Should you need step-by-step instructions for a whole range of interwoven and piggy-backing projects to make yourself—including endlessly adaptable envelope pillow covers—I’ll shamelessly suggest that MAKING THINGS is the book for you. It’s available for pre-order wherever books are sold, and signed through Books Are Magic!)