Somewhere along the line, Greek folks developed a word to describe the process of making: poiein. That is the etymology of the word poetry. I always say that I am a poet because my grandfather was a carpenter. I often recount the stories of him teaching me how to build a go-kart out of repurposed scrap wood and shopping carts that lined our neighborhood. I am a maker in this way because he was a maker. In the summer, to escape my head, I use my hands in any way possible. 

One summer, I found an old solid oak dining table with missing legs and decided to revive it, salvaging legs from another table and painting chairs found at a garage sale. Like finding an old idea for a poem or line or title–dusting it off and making it new or at least shiny and polished again. We still use the table today and the polyurethane hasn't worn off yet. 

Another summer, when my family and I needed side tables for our backyard, I decided to build them with leftover 2x4s. Like the days of my childhood, I channeled my grandfather who used to point his hand to something neglected or forgotten and I would fetch it before he made it new. He would cast his arm like a wand or a staff, ushering something out of nothing and making a believer or a poet out of me. 

My oldest daughter’s middle name is “Poet” (it was her mom’s idea) and she's a maker just like me. An artist that reveles in being able to use her hands to make something out of the void. This past July, we decided to test the strength of popsicle sticks by building a bridge. After showing her videos on the basics of engineering and which shapes would accommodate the most weight, we decided to build a standard truss bridge and it ended up holding over fifty pounds. It probably would have held more if we weren't afraid of potentially breaking it. After we finished, she said “dad, I had no idea what we were gonna do when you brung home those popsicle sticks.” I think of this as a full-circle moment. A place where magic happens. When there was once nothing, not even an idea or conception, now a structure capable of holding the weight of her entire body. 

My current work in progress wouldn't come to fruition until I began writing longhand in pocket sized notebooks and I imagine there is an anthropological means to this desire to fill the page before revising it. A way to think about building a story or a narrative in its truest and messiest form–the same way the pile of popsicle sticks lay on the table before we made it into something capable of carrying the weight of a child. The notebooks are the raw materials needed to begin to fill the void or build something out of nothing. 

I fashion summers the same way I fashion any other part of my writing practice. Figuring out what to make of the blank page–the void. Being inspired or disturbed or confused by something and deciding to build until it makes sense. During the school year, a computer is the tool, perhaps an office or a desk. In the summer, all I need is my hands and a bit of sunshine.