I spend most of my awake time "making things." I build houses, paint, work with tile, wood, and stone, knit, write stories -- I am constantly reshaping my environment with whatever tools and materials I have available. I get a picture in my head of a wall that needs to be moved, a portrait that must be painted, a fireplace that is blank without a mosaic, sweaters my grandchildren must have, a garden that isn't there, but will soothe someone's soul when I build a wall, haul in bricks for a path, construct a gazebo and, oh yes, select plants that won't outgrow their allotted space, which they always do. Do I make all these things for you or for me? The world does not need what I make, but I do think the tiny space that is my part of the world is a bit more gently molded than it was before I went to work on it.