After almost two years of broom making, I thought making the jump from hand brooms to a full-sized handled sweeper would be relatively simple. I’ve practiced the skills, I’ve read the books and watched the tutorials by master broom makers. I was ready to go big, confident I’d nail it.

Rookie mistake.

Three false starts later, my arms and shoulders and neck were exhausted, my frustration was high, my arm was covered in itchy hives, and our dining room floor looked like a haystorm had blown through. I hadn’t soaked enough broomcorn, was cinching with all my might but still failing to get the outer layer to stay in place, yet also somehow working everything too tight. “Why don’t you take a break,” Keith said, as I contemplated launching the whole thing into the woods or lighting it all on fire and calling it a “ceremonial cleanse.”

After some piddling around the house and some more reading, I tackled it one more time. It took hours to finish, peppered with several more short breaks to rest my back and neck and hands. And here’s the thing: Somewhere between the frustration, the starting over, and a good snack, something else had crept in.

Focus. Patience. Quiet reverence for the work.

When the final knot was tied and the sweepers trimmed, and that danged broom stood upright – solid, scrappy, and fully realized – I didn’t just feel proud. I felt connected to the unknown hands who figured this out generations ago. Connected to my own stubborn, beginner self. Connected to the simple, human magic of making something useful out of raw material.

It wasn’t perfect. Didn’t need to be.

It was a broom, and you’d better believe I danced around with that broom and swept the whole dang floor right then, at ten o’clock at night. A beautiful broom – stitching a little wonky, hurl uneven in places, but overall springy and balanced and strong, and just so good at sweeping. It was also a key that unlocked something for me.

Craftsteading is about participating in the long, beautiful tradition of learning by doing, failing by trying, giving attention to the details, and creating things that carry a little bit of you in their fibers. Sweat, tears. Not blood, let’s hope. And joy. Delight. Appreciation.

Most times, sweeping the floor is just sweeping the floor.

And sometimes, it’s a little bit more.

What’s something you’ve made (or tried to make) that surprised you? I’d love to hear your story. (Drop a comment or send a note!)