Craft is how we shape the spaces we live in. It’s interior projects, reimagined found objects, handmade wreaths, and the small details that make a home feel lived‑in and loved. This is where we experiment, make, mend, and create — not for perfection, but for the pleasure of bringing something thoughtful into the world.
Crafting the Unlikely: A Winter Wreath Philosophy
There’s a kind of magic in taking something ordinary — a simple brown grapevine wreath from Michael’s or a faux pine frame that catches your eye — and turning it into something unexpected. For years, Rick and I have had a quiet tradition of wandering through craft stores in December, wreath frame in hand, waiting for inspiration to strike. Sometimes it happened in the floral aisle at Michael’s. Other times, we’d look at each other, shrug, and head straight to HomeGoods, where the real adventure began.
We’d walk the aisles asking the kinds of questions only holiday crafting can inspire. Could we mount an 18‑inch nutcracker onto a wreath? Would this oversized bird actually work if we glued it just right? What if the scale is wrong — or maybe that’s exactly why it works? Those trips became their own kind of ritual, a creative treasure hunt where the rules didn’t matter and the unexpected was always welcome.
This year, we didn’t make a wreath — but we did find ourselves back at HomeGoods, searching for new holiday décor. And being there reminded us of all those past seasons, walking around with a wreath frame tucked under an arm, waiting for that year’s spark. It’s funny how creativity works: sometimes you’re making, sometimes you’re gathering, sometimes you’re simply remembering the joy of the hunt.
In years past, the wreaths themselves became small acts of creative defiance. A pair of oversized decorative birds perched on a grapevine frame, glittering beads tucked into their beaks with the help of a glue gun. Calla lilies meant for a floral arrangement, grouped and bent into a graceful Hogarth S curve. A bundle of wheat pressed in a straight line against the circle of the wreath, turning contrast into structure. And of course, the nutcracker — the one meant for a mantel — somehow becoming the centerpiece of a wreath because we decided it could.
That’s the heart of this kind of making: letting juxtaposition do the work. Letting size, shape, and texture argue with each other until they find harmony. Letting the wreath become a canvas for thought — not just decoration, but a story about curiosity, instinct, and the joy of bringing the unlikely together.
Maybe that’s the real craft of winter: trusting your eye, trusting the moment, and letting inspiration find you — whether it’s in the aisles of Michael’s, the shelves of HomeGoods, or the quiet memory of seasons past.