No matter how much I concentrate, I’m not good at origami. It seems to require a secret level of precision inaccessible to me. My results, when compared to the pictures, appear to have been achieved by a nine-year-old. Even when I practice.
I am now in possession of two about-to-be-recycled rectangular boxes. The first one was a test run, made out of computer paper with printing on one side. The second is heavier, made from craft paper, and it looks worse. None of the angles are right angles. There is probably a name for a rectangle with bloating problems, but I don’t happen to know it.
My plan for the perfect box I wanted to make was to keep some of my writing supplies in it. I am now attacking the problem from a different angle and covering the ugly box I have been using with craft paper in preparation for attacking it with collage.
None of which is particularly important except that I’m developing a tolerance for my own failure. I’m sure that it doesn’t matter in the Big Picture if I am competent at origami. It does matter that I tried to solve a problem one way and then another.
And now I get to play with glue.