Especially if I'm not quite sure what I am longing for.

Material?

Skill?

Information?

Adventure?

Baskets?

All of the above?

Well,  yes.

Having devoted an inordinate number
of hours, days, weeks and years 
to textile-based adventures,
it slowly becomes clear
that I am endlessly alert for--
and susceptible to--
those elusive moments
when material, story and manual skill come together. 

My winter plant identification skills are limited,
and botanical sources were not at hand,
so I did some experiments --
twisting it damp.
 twisting it dry,
removing the outer cuticle,
leaving it on.
I relish the lustre and strength of the fibers.
But they are also unexpectedly brittle,
and when I try to imagine them woven
into soft, flowing fabric, finer than linen,
 I cannot.

Consulting my internal store of fairy tales,
(so useful when Google is not available),
I wonder how swans who had once been young men
could possibly get fabric made of these fibers over their wings?
It would  be too stiff.
Strong to be sure, but stiff. 
​
"No," says the Fiber. "I am not nettle."

Home again, I consult a botanist friend,
who does not know what this plant is either,
at least from a photo of the stalks and my cordage samples.

But she hands me a book,
and some vague directions,
and a few days later on the banks of the Snake River
​among willow and teasel,
bramble and grass
I find  tall, hollow, dead stalks
with opposite branches and a distinctive reddish hue.

These sticks have no thorns or stings
and are definitely not nettle,
though they are apparently toxic to various animals,
 so, like nettle and thistle (my mystery fiber-producing plant), 
can be seen by some as an herbaceous 'pest'.

fiber that can be tided up in various ways--
none very well, by me, as yet
but well enough that eventually
I hold a small bundle ​of something I want to spin.

Mick Jagger is right.
 You Can't always get what you want.
But if you try sometime
you might find,
you get what you need.

I wanted nettle,
And maybe when I pick nettles for tea and supper
perhaps I'll harvest some of the fibers while green.
But for now,
I got thistle (like me, a non-native species), 
and dogbane (a thrilling local adventure-in-waiting),
some interesting cordage,
and useful experience. 
Treasure indeed. 

In early December,
the  sun vanishes over the rim of the canyon
at what seems an unconscionably early hour.

The hills are very steep
(we have had to dig flat spots to stand or walk),
which means  it also takes quite a while
for the sun make its way back
over the opposite hills
 in the morning.

​But getting up before the sun isn't too hard 
in these modern times,
thanks to a couple of old solar panels
(one light at time to preserve the batteries,
and a very warm old parka.

And since there is no internet, phone, radio or cell service
 the days,
if  short on natural light,
​are long on time.

These solo weeks
are always remarkable in some way --
if rarely easy.
Endless uphill and downhills can be hard on the legs.
And  I can almost guarantee 
that on the first day
I will be awash in what I've taken to calling
"transitional melancholy,"
a thing I cannot like but am learning to embrace
(or at least accept),
as an elemental if uncomfortable part
of shifting into a different gear.
"This was SUCH a bad idea,"
I mutter as I unpack the absurd pile of projects.

But the next morning (at least so far)
I can hardly wait to get up
light the fire,
and get started.

Sometimes, all I want to do is knit.
On other trips I've been glued to my loom,
or gathered lichen for wood cookstove dye experiments,
or carved magic wands from sticks.
There was one memorable one
when I was drawing a naked self portrait
(I was weaving a lot of nudes then, and not so prone to getting cold),
when an old friend knocked in the door
walked in and introduced me to his his brother, who I'd never met.
They had just walked across the canyon
​and were mostly interested in scrounging some lunch.

On my visit a couple of weeks ago,
​I became obsessed with:
trying to play my old recorder,
 drawing hourly (ish) comics.
and gathering  stuff 
(dead plants, coffee filters, grocery receipt),
to twist into cordage.
​
Oh yeah -- and playing the Cello suites by headlamp.
(Actually only the Allemande from the G major suite
which I play in D major on a baritone concertina,
​which I'm sure is exactly what Bach had in mind....).

One of the things I most love
about these solo visits to the canyon,
is getting to practice being how I am
when no one else is around.
With minimal outside input,
and no emotional labor,
(other than dealing with myself that is),
I can immerse myself utterly
in whatever takes my fancy--
really notice how it feels,
and remember that once upon a time
I was good at solitude.

It's awfully easy to get out of the habit of solitude -
way easier than to get back into it, at least for me.
And these days, even when seemingly alone,
our devices are usually there
to connect and distract.
And that's a wonderful thing.

Until, sometimes, it is just too much,
especially around this time of year
when everyone seems to be trying to sell something,
or ramp us up about how perfect things should be.
​
So it's nice to step away,
to gather weeds
and tunes--
to gather myself together. 

And then to write about it,
​ to you! 

You know how sometimes
an idea just flies into your head?

Often as not
such distractions show up
at awkward moments,
and they need to be filed away.
But not always.

This one came when I was sitting on the toilet --
the quintessential location for such notions--
and though I quickly relegated it to the 'later' category,
it demanded instant action.
What can you do?

Those of you familiar with 
four selvedge warping with a jig
and/or are in the Fringeless class,
will see what is going on here--
two sets of bars on one jig,
warp wound around both to different heights,
and supplemental warps to meet each section.

NOTE: having the middle set  of bars slightly smaller than the  top and bottom
 seemed like it'd  be a problem,
but tape kept the smaller central ones
from falling out of the holes during the initial winding,
and in the long run the size difference was helpful
as it made the box bottom
more proportional to the sides.


A structural problem I didn't foresee
might also be visible from the photo above:
 the outside warps of the bottom section are split 
because the bottom and top loops are offset,
so when weaving that bottom section
the edge warps are 'half loops'.
The selvedge warps on that bottom section
thus had a short, tight shed,
the extra short one on the right
needing special handling and a very small bobbin.

 I think this is an unavoidable issue overall,
but the right side could be as long as the left
if, when beginning to wind the last section
(the right wing as it were),
I brought the yarn down from the top
rather than up from the bottom.

On another structural note,
the photo above makes it look like
there is a lot of draw-in on the bottom section
but that is actually not the case.

The side warps just got a little scrunched
as my hands manipulated those funky edge bits,
and a few passes all the way across on the middle section
allowed all the warps to fall into alignment,
so the shed was its lovely
four selvedge/ supplemental warp self 
from there to the top. 

Split warp and spacing issues  solved,
the rest of the tapestry was a piece of cake.
(well, I still don't like the feel
of seine twine warp on my hands
but that is another story).

Knowing that each face of the box
would present as its own thing
gave me freedom to mess around --
a few lines here, 
some weird weft there,
the ubiquitous  house somewhere else. 
note: The two-ply ziplock bag yarn is a new favorite,
though its stretchiness required a gentle hand.

At the top of each facet
the warp loops are individually locked into place
as per the four selvedge system,
and when I released the whole thing from the loom,
I just needed to fold up the edges,

and sew the corners closed.

I love the peek-a-boo  nature of the plastic bag yarn.

But might it be worth weaving
a couple of solid strands across another such window
to make square/ rectangular panes?
Always something to try.

But there it is--
a five second idea,
days of interesting weaving,
 myriad possibilities for the future--
split warp issues and all.
Happily, having learned what I needed to know for now
(including how much I love the three dimensional structure),
I can now let the idea sit 
while I go prove a few other concepts
that are loudly demanding attention. 

If this form interests you,
I hope these vague instructions are enough
as it is all I have time to write just now.
You fringeless/ four selvedge friends
should be able to figure it out though, eh?

Or,
if you're hankering for 3-D fringeless tapestry, 
 the good old Bag-On-A-Box approach 
will achieve the exact same end
without having to sew the corners,
and all on the ultimate portable, recyclable loom.
​
Seasonal travel?
Gift boxes?
Wrapping paper for yarn and cordage?
Oh dear, oh dear...

It's time for a new comic diary.

Number 19 is almost full --
only a few blank pages at the back,
and they will probably be all mucked up
​with ink, paint, angst and ideas,
some time next week.

These moments of  transition
between the one I'm  about to start
about the one I'm about to finish
make me both proud and wistful:
proud that, despite myriad days in which there is nothing to say,
something usually, amazingly, still shows up;
 wistful in that once a book is put 'on the shelf
I rather miss the comics I've done.
(plus it's harder to flip back to check when I last washed the sheets).

​Not that every comic is precious,
​or even particularly good.
​They are just there.
And what is precious, at least to me,
is the simple usefulness
of seeing my thoughts
reflected back
​ in the moment
Golly, is that really how I feel?
I had no idea. 
and
Gee -- I had such a hard time learning that tune --
and now, finally, here it is under my fingers!
Or maybe not. 

At least I think it is--
though I'm not a particularly good book binder.
Adequate at best.
But truth to tell, 
my limited skills suit me down to the ground. 
The last thing I want
is for these diaries to feel precious
​ before I use them.
If they got too fancy, I might be intimidated. 
Accidentally tear a piece of paper the wrong direction?
Put it in somewhere.
Head off backpacking
with a single-signature sketchbook?
Stitch it in when I get home. 

I started this habit
in a Moleskine I got an an airport 
on the way to a teaching gig 
about which I had a lot of feelings,
(travel is not my thing).
For a long time, the practice
felt so fragile that I was loathe to do anything
(like use nicer paper)
that might cause me to pause,
so I stuck with the Moleskins till I had ten filled up. 

Draw something, anything,
was my  motto.
​So what if you only have three minutes.

These first drawings were in pencil, 
and for a long time I insisted that the pages
 have something else already on them --
lines, or dots or squares --
as though the drawings were mere accidents.
If I spent too much time on them
I feared I'd develop expectations,
freak out
and stop. 

But somehow I didn't.
And the practice evolved
until suddenly,
between one day 
and the next,
I added color.
This might have been because there were no lines on the pages,
or because my friend Jodi had just sent me
the worlds' most adorable handmade watercolor paint set.
​Or both.
Whatever the reason, I didn't dare to question it,
But within a few months, 
INK!
ZOUNDS! How brave.

But really, how long does it take
​to trust a new habit?

Jessica Abel recently wrote a wonderful blog post
about the power of Small Habits .
As a creature of habit myself
it resonated strongly, and made me so grateful
that somehow, over time, 
I've  managed to carve out bits of time
in which to add new things into my life.

Not all at once of course.
Indeed, NEVER all at once.
But slowly, gently,  in teensy bite sized portions.

Spinning Yarn, beginning in 1982 --
at 4 AM mind you, before barn-building began for the day
(or cooking for the hunters, or haying, or whatever).
Tapestry Weaving  in 1989
(an hour a day, max, while my infant slept),
Running in 1995
(again -- early morning ).
Four Selvedge Tapestry -- gosh, can't remember the year
but my kid was definitely in school for part, or most of the day.
Barefoot Running--2010
(my son sent a Youtube link, I was intrigued,
but made sure not a soul could see me take my shoes off that first time)
Comic Diary --November 2012
Color and INK -- October 2016
Color and Ink AND Coptic Sketchbook -- August 2017
(a baby habit still -- but the thicker pages fill up fast so it looks like a lot)

Geez. 36 years and that's all I've learned?
Well no.
We all learn stuff all the time--
sometimes to please other people,
sometimes to survive in the world, 
sometimes to write a blog post when the program has changed,
sometimes  because there will be a test
(after which one can often forget it completely). 

But 36 years of choosing  to learn things
that no one else gives a damn about?
That feels good.

It is just occurring to me as I write
that the things that have stuck
have involved a gentle sort of learning:
inner permission be curious--
to start small--
to keep it private --
to take whatever time it takes--
to figure out which techniques and processes suit me--
to stick with those for a while--
(what it is about that material or technique
that makes it compelling and/or pleasurable--
since they don't always go together)--
to refine skills over time as needed.

Really, if no one else gives a damn,
how you learn
​ is no one's business
but yours. 

At the end of the Webinar with Rebecca Mezoff, 
we were asked how a gal could make time for tapestry.
I blathered on then about something or other -
but what I meant to say,
was that the only way
to make something happen
(even when it is hard
​ and scary),
is to begin
whatever it is
in whatever way
​you can.
No fanfare needed.
Just curiosity.
​And Kindness. 

ps .  for more comic diary and sketchbook posts
check out the  sketchbook tab
on the archive list on the right
(or underneath this on a phone).

pps.  also, Anne Lamott,  Bird by Bird.