I'm Taking The Bus To Happiness

On a ranch, nestled in the trees, a small school bus sits on the desert floor. Retired from its fleet, it shuttles children no longer; instead it transports me.

In this bus, this is where I thrive. This is the place I create and relax. The bus has become my studio, and it's where I make sense of my world. In the bus I can reconcile the chaos of the outside with the maelstrom that comes with creating. As a queer, ADHD, single mom, these moments where I can shut out the outside world, these are the moments that I crave. Shutting out the world so I can make anything I can imagine. I use the space to make for myself, and to film videos so I can teach others. I’ve often found myself in the role of educator; with the scouts, as a camp counselor, a teacher, in a teaching co-op, and as a homeschool teacher. Now I try to reach anyone, anywhere - to bring them happiness, peace, and creativity.

When I am creating, I am everything I’ve ever survived, and everything I dream to be. I’m an artist. I’m a sewist, an illustrator, a graphic designer, a quilter, a sculptor, a costume maker, a seamstress, a youtuber, and a creator. My past, my struggles, they aren’t who I am, but what I’ve survived. My father taught me that “nightmares are proof you survived.” I take my pain, some old, some new. I infuse it with the light that comes from the places I’ve seen, the people who’ve inspired me, and the good that comes from the world. I create for myself. To tell stories, to teach. I create for my daughter, to show her she has a voice.

As I walk around my bus, I see drawers that hold veritable rainbows of fabrics and notions. Paints and tools stand ready on surfaces, and my sewing machine sits contentedly by a window. My worktable, a kitchen table that moved around with us during my childhood, sits bearing every dent, scratch, and stain from being constantly transplanted around the world. As I lay my tools and materials out on its surface, I wonder if I show my wear as transparently as it does. Quilts hang on the walls, blocking out the sun while blanketing me with history and tradition. Projects in progress: a quilted coat, embroidered blocks waiting to be patchworked, tiny dolls with miniature lives, thermoplastics and wool, all wait for me. This is the space I control.

There are the frantic bursts of energy, where the project takes over. Tools and I dance together. There’s chaos, but it’s finally my chaos.

In the quiet moments, between the sounds of the ranch and the gusts of wind that rattle my bus, I hear the sounds of my tools coming alive in my hands. The sewing machine purrs, pens scratch, paint splats and water sloshes. But the sound that connects all my disparate mediums is the smooth metallic glide of my scissors. Two focused blades make quick work of the tasks at hand.

They are as versatile as I am, jumping from soft fibers to hard plastics. They snip tiny embroidery threads and supple leather. When I lay cables and wires for filming, my scissors are there to cut zip ties. Though, never the same pair that I use for fabric; there are generations of sewists that have taught me the parables of the “good fabric scissor.” So I hang multiples of the twin-bladed-tool on my workbench.

When my young daughter joins me in the bus, we work in parallel. She learns at my side, but also takes the lead on her own work. I aim to teach her not only the techniques and crafts that I know, but to unleash her passion. Learning to liberate her ideas and cope with her struggles through art and crafting. I know I can’t prepare her for everything, but I'm giving her the tools she needs to cope.

Because that’s what I’m creating. My space. My peace. My future. My happiness.