So this happened this week--

​and also... this.

The two are linked in my mind in part
 because ​the unseasonable snow began to fall
just as I finished the willow vessel, 
the white stuff accumulating
as afternoon faded into evening--

--clustering and freezing
to the late-season leaves still clinging
to the fairy-tale-thick lilacs
that surround our house--
 lilacs so old and leggy and dense
that from May through October,
the house vanishes
behind blossoms and leaves--
leaves that relax the hot summer sun
and filter the dry dust of August--
​leaves and boughs that are unused
to such unexpected weight
so that later in the evening,
after the power went out,
the cracking  and crashing 
was loud, and worrisome.

Gosh 2020,
what else do you have in store--
a seven year apprenticeship to a blacksmith
to get the necessary iron shoes
for climbing a glass mountain?

But morning is wiser than evening,
and though the power (on again overnight)
popped off again with an impressive pre-dawn flash
as I shoveled the bits of sidewalk I could access
and contemplated the tangled mess everywhere else
 I saw, in the dim light,
that we had gotten off easy.

There was much to do, of course,
but it was still a Sarah-sized project,
something I could tackle
with shovel, loppers
 bow saw, a bit of persistence
and three pairs of wet mittens.

Indeed, by lunch time,
we could once again
use our front door,
and I even snatched a moment
​for a photo or two
when the light 
​was particularly lovely--
​grateful, that day, for a bit of a break
as well as a strong-enough back.

Nothing like a bit of willow-centric camaraderie, however,
to remind me that though the lilac
was on its way to some level of organization,
our friend the coppiced willow
was once again blocking the sidewalk

Sunday morning would do for that, however,
and I was glad of a night's sleep
for instead of just plunking it down
to lop into kindling at my leisure
as I assumed I would,
the pile of wands seemed to ask
 for a different fate.
​But what?

Too late for bark collection,
and too early for intricate sculpture
 the whips were nevertheless
sufficiently flexible, with care,
for four large, leafy hoops--
magic portals to who knows where,
now woven into the gaps
left in the lost lilacs.

It was simple enough  to do,
and also
absurdly cheering.

Today the sun is shining
and hunks of ice,
loosened by the slight increase in temperature
are thudding onto the roof of the house--
(some impressive bangs to be sure
as I have a metal roof ).

It is nice enough, actually, to take
 another load of lilac branches
to the yard waste recycling
after I've sent this to you--
but I think I will give the city a chance
to catch up with the impressive piles
I found there yesterday,
and instead, perhaps, investigate
the branches of Oregon Grape
crushed by falling lilac
​and currently waiting for that next load,
the under-bark  of which
looks enticing yellow--

And -- oh joy--it has been used
as a dye source
by the First Nations People
of the Mid Columbia River region.
How compelling is that?
​Perhaps next time
the plants in my life
are hit hard by the vagaries
of the seasons and our
ever-shifting climate,
I'll be able to loop  light
with strands of golden yellow.
​Only time will tell.

ps. I may be a little late with the blog  next week,
for, internet willing,
I hope to spend most of the morning
at Rebecca Mezoff's  Book launch
I'm so thrilled about this book--
and not just because I was fortunate enough
to  get to write the forward!
It really is a marvel, from cover to cover.
You can learn more about the book itself
in this little trailer,
and also join the enthusiastic throng
at either (or both) of the zoom events--
on November third and seventh
 accessible at the link above.
And though Rebecca was not thrilled
that her launch is on election day,
tapestry seems a far better place 
to put one's energy
than watching results trickle in. 

Indeed, I look forward to celebrating
Rebecca's marvelous ability
to shed light onto
the making of woven tapestry  
more than I can say. 
Maybe you'll be there too! 

When I was 12 or 13
I learned to sew clothing.
It was a bribe from my mother--
"If you do such-and-such
without complaining any more
you can also take that class
at the fabric store."

Naturally, I totally went for it.
I mean, I was longing to sew properly:
​
--to master zippers and waist bands,
 the matching of plaids,
the smooth fitting of sleeves and facings,
the interpretation and adjustment of patterns

--to have real projects
and a proper reason
to  work with the sewing machine

--to understand the fabric itself
and know intuitively
​how to make the perfect choices

​--to make the garments of my dreams

As for the other half of the bribe--
(the thing I was being bribed to do),
well, I was a kid and well used to
enduring things I disliked
 while looking attentive
 and absorbing the necessary
 to regurgitate later
​in an acceptable form--
all while truly focusing 
on the pile of possibility
waiting at home
on the card table
by the sewing machine.

It is a useful skill--
pretending to be attentive I mean--
if not nearly as useful,
as the one that came
from the sewing class.

I say  "the one" 
because though I went on to make
many many garments over 
the next few years,'
my sewing skills
never grew beyond the serviceable.
Indeed, though I continue to
make, wear and mend 
a large portion of my current wardrobe,
the shaping of my favorite fitting garments
is accomplished with knitting needles
rather than darts.
And matching plaids?
Maybe in my next life.
(And really, who but a thirteen year old
would think that she could
totally understand sewing
after six lessons 
in which she made
one lopsided
if beloved
​ skirt?)

And as a reader of this blog,
you'll know well
that true understanding of cloth
is as elusive for me as ever --
​thank goodness.

 is noticing:

--the light on my laundry
--that empty winter squash shell
(baked and scooped)
sitting by the compost bucket
--the rhythm of the first half
of this sentence (if not the second),
--the glint of a strand of fiber
lifting from a drooping stalk
--the gut-settling satisfaction
of said strand twisting
 almost of its own accord
then settling into a warp
--the awkward feel (and lovely look)
of untwisted willow bark.

It's not just noticing though.
There are the added bits
of noticing that I noticed--
then noticing what I noticed--
and then believing it all--
that make this useful.

And that is was what I learned
from sewing class.

Actually, it wasn't  in class
that  all that noticing occurred.
In class I was concentrating 
(​of course).
The noticing happened
when I was at home
alone
​with the materials.

There I stood by the card table,
(still wearing my scratchy
pink and grey herringbone school uniform
with the matching pilled pink polyester shirt,
falling down blue cabled knee socks,
and thick, brown leather shoes
with the slitted flaps to cover the laces),
my hand on that pile of possibility:
-- slightly rough
blue cotton cloth,
-- pattern pieces carefully cut
(notches and everything),
with the crinkly paper
still pinned in place
-- unsullied spool
of coordinating thread
--empty bobbin 
--sharp, new, orange-handled
Fiskars sewing shears,
my first private pair
which no one else
(on pain of who knew what)
was allowed to touch
FOR ANY REASON WHATSOEVER--

​and I thought:

Bombarded as I was then
(with adult's ideas
of what I should do),
and as we now are
(with images and ideas 
and material dissatisfaction),
noticing remains, I think,
a hard skill worth honing --
even if following the results 
sometimes get me in a lot of bother,
not least, sitting out in the cold woodshed
for days --nay weeks--
scraping away at stemmy stalks
all for a few grams of fiber
for I don't know what.

And today,
instead of writing a sensible and useful critique
of my milkweed tapestry experiment
to go with the photos 
I couldn't resist taking this morning
​because the light was so lovely, 
I've ended up following
a wild hare across the moor
and into the past
and now I'm going to spend
the rest of the afternoon
trying to remember
what those shoes with the flaps are called
(do you know?)

Good Morning my friends.
I'd like to introduce you
​ to Margaret.

And Margaret,
these are my 
​blog-reading friends
​who live all over the world.

"Hej!"

​Margaret flew from Sweden
in a small flat envelope
and arrived in my studio
two weeks ago today.
What joy
to have her here.

My Swedish is limited
to the word "titta"
(learned long ago
in Brooklyn, New York
from my Swedish-speaking
childhood best friend Karin),
but luckily, Margaret is multi-lingual
and as I putter around--
dying things blue
or releasing white strands
from the unexpected
truck-load of milkweed
that arrived not long after she did--
we've had a lovely time
getting to know each other.

There is naturally
much to discuss and learn,
and one of the most delightful
things we've discovered
is that while we're both
huge fans of contemplation,
what we  like best
is doing.

Actually, Margaret
was basing her preference
on observation
as before Sunday,
she had never actually
woven anything before.
But I was totally with her
when she finally declared:
"There is nothing I'd like more 
than to actually feel
some real strands of yarn
swishing through my skirt." 

And it turned out 
that while I had been assuming
we'd begin with
a linen warp-faced band
in the best Swedish tradition
(for which she had, after all
been hand carved
by the amazing Kerstin Neumüller)--

--Margaret, 
​ with her delicate sett
of 11-ish ends per inch,
was all in favor 
of a balanced weave
with hand spun wool.

New arrival that she is,
​I gave way at once.

"Houndstooth?" I asked,
a little nervously,
(wanting both to get
our working relationship
off to a good start--
and even more
for her to like the actual process
as much as she hoped).

"Well of course," she replied, 
slightly shocked that I didn't know
that the oldest houndstooth cloth
that has yet been found,
The Gerum Cloak,
was uncovered in a Swedish peat bog,
and has been dated
​from between 360 and 100 BCE.
"That is my dream."

"Oh my goodness!," said I
intrigued as can be
and also totally flattened
by the seeming coincidence
for I thought my houndstooth idea
came, not subliminally from Sweden,
but rather from the fabulous jacket
worn by Kate Grenyer,
artistic director of Dovecot Studios
in Edinburgh, Scotland.
as seen in this wonderful video
about the incomparable Archie Brennan
and the upcoming exhibition of his work
(about which more on another day
because one can never say enough
about the influence of Archie
though I did want to include the link today.)

"Easy Peasy," said she,
translating colloquialisms
with the confidence
of an international traveller
and imparting secret wisdom
with the casual air of one who knows.
"A loop of stiff thread--
waxed linen, or even fishing line--
pushed through, looped around,
and slipped back, will do it."

Happily, she refrained
from saying, "Duh,"
though perhaps was whispering
the Swedish equivalent in her mind.
​
​And of course it worked perfectly.

So off we went 
and a few hours later,
far too soon for either of us,
this first experiment was done--
the process so pleasurable
that despite a brief discussion
about the efficacy of trying
a warp faced band
 to increase our knowledge base,
 we're now on our second length
of balanced houndstooth,
the only change on this one 
that it has 17 rather than 16 ends,
Margaret having objected
to the open edge hole
created when,
from warp-winding habit,
I made an even number.

And what's not to love
​about a prime number?
​
What, indeed
is not to adore
about having an opinionated
and hardworking heddle friend
​in my life?

So this is where you find us
on this rainy, windy day,
(rain that I hope is quenching
fires all over the west),
quietly opening and closing sheds
of grey and white,
sure that whatever
the future holds,
it will include
my new weaving companion.

Thanks Margaret.
I'm SO glad you are here.
​
And Thank YOU Kerstin,
for your inspiration
and general magic.

Here are some more Kerstin Nuemüller links:
1. Her charming and thoroughly useful books
(translated into myriad languages so type her name into the search bar of  your local bookseller wherever you are)
2. Dear Carving Diary
 Instagram site devoted to her heddle carving
3. Main Instagram Account
(as above) with photos of heddles and more

​

Though not a truth
universally acknowledged--

So blue
is the thing
​that happens.

Now a few phrases back
(somewhere in the midst
of a lengthy parenthetical aside),
I used the word whim,
as though flax, milkweed,
willow, walnut and wool
are full of caprice,
individually and collectively
leading me ​this way and that--

-- a cohort of cheeky puppeteers
tugging at my hand
​and heart strings,
as I,
the marionette,
dance to their tune.

And it might well be so.
The materials don't feel
even remotely passive,
and I have no idea
where this is all heading--
or why, suddenly
(in the midst of other plans),
everything needed to be blue.

it feels past time
to acknowledge--
or even more,
​ to relish--
the reciprocal nature
of these things that I do--
that we all do--

and to put​ whatever
knowledge and skills
I have gathered
(ever noticing
​ to my delight and chagrin,
how very little I actually know),
in service to
this cooperative venture.
​
So, blue it was.
​And now?

"Now,"
says the Praying Mantis,
"you can go away
and make some more cordage
with those busy busy hands of yours
while I return
to admiring the view."