And since hand/arm rest
IS the order of the day
I'm not even going to edit
or re-type  all the above nonsense 
but rather,
and against the better judgement
of my inner Storymaker
(who prefers things to be tidy--
or at least not to end so abruptly),
I'll hit Post
because really,
why not?

Lots of things happened in 2016 --
not least
that I  built 
my first backstrap loom.

Though probably not directly connected,
this elemental tool 
has helped to see me through
some of the other world-rocking
​ events and emotions of the last years--
the reverberations of which,
(as you might have noticed yourself...),
have yet to settle down.

For these years have
 asked-- nay, demanded 
so very much --
​not least
the development of
new levels of fortitude--

-- a massive amount of trust
in some absurdly fragile-appearing 
​threads of connection--

--and even some heart-expanding joy
when the  threads 
​actually hold.

So it is with a peculiar kind of curiosity
that I remembered, just now,
that it has been just over four years
since I first leaned back against 
my needlepoint strap--
and to spend some time thinking about
what has happened to me
​since then.

Of course it was tapestry
that started it--
the desire to begin weaving
with a single word
and follow it, letter by letter,
wherever the unfolding idea chose to go--
a deeply unsettling thing 
for a person given to weaving
from  carefully composed cartoons
(and thus even more worth pursuing).

The idea of plain plain weave, however
never crossed my mind.

Well, not until
the very second warp anyway.

And then --
well then I was a bit of a mess for a time.
A happy mess to be sure--
bounding back and forth
between delicious, weft-faced text
and luminous, drapy, open cloth--
yet also thoroughly confused
and bemused
by my new divided attention.

Luckily, I blogged about it at the time.
​(three 2016 posts: One, Two, Three),
then wrote  Backstrap Dialogues,
in order to dig even deeper
into what felt, in the moment
like uncertain direction.
"Who am I
to enjoy both of these?"

There were days, indeed,
when my head
felt as divided and divisive
as this country--
a place where "and" was not a thing--
my internal state
 as seemingly unreconcilable
(and sometimes downright cruel)
as the national mood.

Four years,
many many many yards of cloth
and more miles of yarn
than I can even begin to count later, 
much has changed--
​and much has not.

 As thrilled as ever
​by the breadth of possibility
inherent in the simple tools,
I now don't think twice about using
un-sized, super fine singles as warp.

And in endless, in-depth conversations,
Luminist and Storymaker--
though sometimes not as polite
as they might be--
have, over time,
come to realize how
interdependent they actually are,
and to make space for
techniques, ideas and materials
one or the other
might once have disdained 
(or, more truly, never even considered:
coffee filters? wedge weave? milkweed?
tapestry book covers? nettle baskets?).

Though not always been a cakewalk 
(as you might imagine),
even my tradition-bound inner Storymaker
has begun to concede
that tales can be told in many ways--
narrative, light and local materials 
coexisting
in a single swathe of cloth.

And​ at least some of the time, 
​in a single human as well.
​
(Or heddle -- Margaret, with her sweet, bemused smile,
is pretty much up for anything--
the more untried, the better).

For I do so hope,
 along with the unmitigated joy,
brought by final ballot counts,
that civility, kindness
​and attempts at being helpful
might be possible 
in our government
and amongst ourselves.

Or, at the very least
that we can remember
that taking turns
is a thing.

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! 

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

​

As you probably can tell--
we're continuing to have
​ a great time.

At least I am.
Though I still know so little

Indeed, though I can, apparently
describe a few actions:
"here we did this
​and there we tried that"--

And really, how could I know
if the approach we took on such and such a day
​with a batch of last year's stalks
(very little of which I had time to process
back then when it was fresh)--

--will hold tomorrow
​when I have slowed down still more
and had my prejudices exposed
yet again
by this toughly gentle plant?

In these photos, for instance,
having combed and re-combed
for consistency,
I documented the careful separation 
of the fibers by length.
It seemed a good idea at the time,
for is't that how a person is supposed to learn--
documenting the evidence
for later perusal,
​critique and summation?
And isn't it essential to 
show my work?

Also, this is the process I used
with the batch of fresh stalks
​I wrote about here and here
and though I didn't outline each step
my categorizing brain
had already decided 
this was THE WAY TO DO IT.
​You can see the resulting skeins
neatly laid out below
​(and captioned!)

Except --
this life is not
 an algebra exam.
There is no paper to write,
no quiz.
 I'm not applying for a grant,
or, indeed, waiting for any power
to give their nod of approval
and tell me I am
(or am not)
doing viable work
in accordance with
some list of measurable criteria. 

(I don't even have to worry
about my permanent record
that loathsome childhood school threat--
"time to tow the line
as everything, from now on,
goes on your permanent record."
Does anyone else remember that?)

Now that I think about it though,
the milkweed itself
may well be taking note.
How else could some processes 
seem so utterly natural
​and others -- just a little off?
The strands, however,
speak directly to my hands,
and neither uses words,
so they generally  do their thing
without connecting 
to the recording device in my brain--

which may well be why
it took me ages to notice
that ​"grading" the fiber by length
made me feel kind of icky--
to understand that I was using the ruler
as a kind of 'goodness measure,"
 creating a hierarchy
where none needed to exist--
 imposing my internalized beliefs
and  accompanying judgements
about efficiency, control, and organization
onto a plant that will contentedly grow
by the side of a gravel road,
spaced as it wants to be spaced,
feeding butterflies
and producing amazing fiber---
 all of which is useful.

It's that idea
​that agriculture isn't a thing
unless the plants
are in rows. 
At any rate,
and for whatever reason,
when I had the good fortune
to get another 7 or so
fresh stalks of  Milkweed
from a friend's "garden waste pile,"
I decided to forgo the combing altogether.

And the medium sized lengths of fiber,
are twisting into cordage just beautifully,
complimenting the longer pieces
to make the whole
even smoother than it was before.

What  I'll do with the yarn --
when I'm done--
whenever that will be--
I've absolutely no idea.
 I know for sure today
is that the more time I spend with this fiber
and the slower we go,
the longer I want this part
to last. 

ps -- because there always seem to be
one or two (or four) more things to say:

1.
A lovely handmade book
about another milkweed relationship:
Poor (Wo)man's Asparagus
by Velma Bolyard

2.
The Nature of Things:
Essays of a Tapestry Weaver
by Tommye McClure Scanlin
will also be out this fall and though
I didn't realize it when listing books last week, 
it is also available for pre-order from your favorite bookseller.
Wonderfully inviting essays on Tommye's design process and tapestry life.

3.
Nettle Fiber Resources
For those of you who have access to Nettles rather than milkweed
Allan Brown shares many resources here and here
and
Sally Pointer has several Nettle Videos. Here's one. 
Of course nettles are not milkweed (as I keep finding out!),
any more than milkweed is flax, 
though apparently, nettle can handle some flax-like techniques!

4.
​And just because:
A marvelous blog by Tracy Hudson --
Thoughtful in all the ways I find satisfying

11.8 grams--

a week's work.

Or, more truly,
a week's pleasure--

day after day
of long white fibers
making themselves known
a strand at a time--

beautiful  bast
in a small clump
of Aphid-infested plants
my neighbor wanted gone.

For months --
nay,  years--
​I've been trying
to learn about local bast fibers--

Nettle, Dogbane, and Milkweed too--
reading the sparse literature--
 mostly about working with Nettles
(thank you Allan Brown for your work)--
watching the odd video
(thank you Sally Pointer),
and trying,
​with limited/mixed success,

to make friends 
with these glorious materials--
one of which,
this week,
for whatever reason,
​and rather against the odds,

agreed to work with me. 

Well, truth be told,
I'm grateful, too,
to all the people
who have worked with
​these plants for millennia,
as well as to all the plants
that have helped me,
in turn, to practice
and learn.

And really,
how not to also be pleased--
in the moment
and in retrospect--
by my former self
for her persistence
​and (sometimes painfully)
​ slow acquisition
of knowledge
skills,
​familiarity,
dexterity,
and
dare I say,
patience--

all of which have helped
​to make me available
for these beauties:
to the obvious long fibers,

to the 'leftover' medium length ones
that were ready to be re-combed,
drawn out into a form of top
wound on a  wrist (vs stick) distaff
​and made into lovely yarn themselves,

and to the shortest ones
which were just the right length
for a couple of easy-to-spin
​hand carded rolags
and allowed for
absolutely no waste at all --
barring the now composting
​scraped off outer green bits 
and the drying-for-kindling inner stalks.

How lucky ​can a gal get?
(says she to her future self,
lest she forget, sometime, 
how wondrous and generous
​ the world can be).



--and a sartorial post script--
You might well think my just-off-the-needles
Targhee/Debouillet/Cormo etc tank top is all I've worn this week.
And you might be right!
Also the blue pants. I have to say. Oh my word.
They come from MAIWA --first new pants in years and years.
A gift to my legs and butt, from me.
No promotion thing -- they have no idea-- I am just utterly in love.
Be warned -- there will be patched pants and long term mending
(as needed though none yet despite continual wear), in future blogs...

Like so many things,
​it began simply enough.
Our sidewalk was blocked--
the narrow passageway
between an exuberant grape 
and clump of coppiced willow 
had become a tunnel--
nay, an obstacle course--
and needed clearing.

Not that I'm not a fan
of mysterious, woodsy passages
along city sidewalks,
but to render ours impassible
to anyone in a wheelchair
pushing a stroller,
or getting from here to there
without the dreaded internal combustion engine,
is unconscionable.
​
So after a brief thanks for the enthusiasm
of this magical and self-sufficient shrub,
out came the secateurs,
and soon enough the bed
​of our ancient pickup
was full of leafy stalks.

Ordinarily, most of the willow shoots
get cut in mid-winter and live their second lives
as figurative willow sculptures 
or oversized shapes.
(they seem willing enough though there is no way to be sure).
The fruits of summer sidewalk brushing, however,
generally go straight to the community 
yard waste recycling  drop off--
at least once there is a full load
which can take all summer
​cuz who wants to drive?

Anyway, this time, as I dragged over
an armload of branches
​ I suddenly remembered
that basket weavers often gather
willow bark in the spring and summer.
Was it too late?
Nothing to lose by trying.
And OH!
Instant bliss!
The bark peeled off 
in elegant and satisfying sheets.

What to do with them?
First and easiest thing 
was to coil them up to set them aside,
then get back to the project at hand
in the studio. 
But-- what if I peeled off the outer bark?
Would that be hard?
Well no!
Indeed,  it was as delicious
as the initial peeling.
And when I scraped each willow wand
with the edge of a palette knife 
or handy oyster shell before peeling
(as per a  Sally Pointer bramble cordage video),
it got even better.

Then new options arose --
-leave in the wide sheets?
-split into narrow strips for cordage?
-twist now, or let dry and re-wet?  
​Why not try them all!
The air was so dry
the thin strips were almost crisp 
​in no time it all.
And the willow seemed willing enough --
indeed, the dance between
my hands,
the willow bark,
and the part of my brain
that loves more than anything
to have thrilling material adventures,
grew as sexy as a tango.

And this is where the inner capitalists showed up.
First:
"​This is NOT what you were planning to do today, Sarah."

Then:
"If this IS what you're doing,
because, duh, you've been out here all morning
without noticing how bloody hot it is getting,
how exactly are you going to make use of this
and is it related in any way to your goals
whatever they might be
because I sure can't tell
though as a distinctly non-essential worker
in times like these
it would behoove you 
​to justify your existence somehow."

"And in case you forgot, 
you have some excellent
and significantly faster projects
already underway
that are going to turn into
useful and important things
that might actually lead somewhere.
And dont' try to tell me 
you're going to write about this
on your blog because....."

And so on.
You probably get the picture.
No need to quote it all
because the point is that this time,
instead of rebelling against this voice,
or trusting that it has
 my best interests at heart
and is only trying to keep me safe
(as it insists),
I actively encouraged it. 
"Ooooh -- tell me more!"
I cooed, as green willowy curls
fell to the deck beside me.  
"Tell me ALL about 
 how I should conduct myself?"

And here's what it wanted me to do:
-make things that were faster (ie produce more stuff)
-make thing that would make money,
(whatever those might be),
-at the very least go watch more videos,
so if I had to do weird shit
I'd at least do them the right way
and at the same time
contribute myself as fodder
 for the attention economy
and maybe develop a craving
for an unnecessary plastic object
I never knew existed while I was about it
(perhaps a purpose built willow bark peeler...).

It's then that it became clear
that this voice was not really mine.
The tone was wrong
And so was the language.
Though my voice,
does want me to stick with projects,
it is generally because
it is immersion that I crave and adore,
passion that has proved to improve everything,
slowing down, opening up
and falling in love with the materials and work
that leads to the making of magical objects
that I'm thrilled and proud
to sell/share with other people.

Also, I knew perfectly well
that I would never, EVER use
​ spindle spinning and backstrap weaving
as weapons against myself,

How very very interesting, then.
And what a relief!

If it is not me
trying to 'sabotage myself'
I can carry on with glee
and curiosity--
learning more
 about materials, 
and about those pesky
​and very rude voices.
How else have they been
having their way with me?
I want to know!
And what fun to poke at my brain,
watch it go all scared and protective
and close up like a sea anemone,
then coax it open again
to let in a tide of fresh perspectives
​I never knew existed--

--thrilling ideas
with which our tricksy
and wildly unpredictable world
is now awash.
Ideas about 
kindness,
​equality
​(in pay as well as health care),
conviviality,
curiosity
community,
​connection
and maybe even
​cordage?

Darn it -- once again I went off on a tangent.
Thanks as ever for sticking with me --
and for all the marvelous marvelous encouragement
in the comments last week.
​You are the BEST!

Oh goody--
back to the blog
after a whirligig of a month.

Except -- 
this business of typing words--
​ I think I must be rusty.

(Listening to Rhiannon Giddens with Francesco Turrisi 
and here with Yo Yo Ma)

(Ki/Kin Pronouns from Robin Wall Kimmerer )

And oh yes,
a chemo holiday
​ is an amazing thing.

You know that feeling
when you've spun some yarn,
generated a few questions,
can't continue without answers,
and Wikipedia just won't cut it?

Of course you do.

​Technical and aesthetic inquiry
into physical materials
requires  experiment.
At least -- it does for me.

My brain will make stuff up--
and is not to be trusted.

My hands, however,
know what I like.

​Sometimes the process
goes like this:

Best to try several weft combinations--
--test my reactions.

Ugh. Not enough twist.
Oh right, I spun it from the fold
on the Charkha--
only way to cope with top.

I don't like top.
Or silk.
​
Spindles are better. 

And wool I prepare myself.

So fussy.

Oh look! Done already.
​Where do the days go?

I thought this was supposed to be slow cloth.

So here's a question.

When a bunch of ideas
all show up at once,
is there a hierarchy among them--
 materials, tools, technique(s)--
​and if so, what is it?

Do the demands of one idea--

just to take a random example),​

After all,
that's what I used last time.
And I'll pretty much always choose (assume)
hand ​over mill spun yarn for everything.

Well, when the only two ply hand spun flax in my stash
is so rough and uneven that I have three breaks
 before I've woven an inch--
a choice must be made.

First choice: a post-warping application
of a flour and water size.
This tamed the hairiness but didn't thin out the thick spots.
Second choice: enlarge the heddle holes --
not possible without the risk of going through the side walls
given my super simple tools and rough construction approach.
Third choice: change either warp or heddle.

 Now were the warp yarn the most important/exciting thing
I'd perhaps have re-threaded,
as I think it would have worked just fine
with a plastic heddle's larger, smoother holes.
And I did considered it-- briefly.
But the other ideas rebelled.
I wanted to use, or at least try, the firewood heddle.
And anyway, I needed its sett of 8 epi
​for another part of the puzzle.
So a new warp of ​mill spun linen
​ it would have to be.

And a doubled warp can be a very handy thing--
as readers of Tucking the Tails now know,
(perhaps also noticing how, in the photo below,
I combined the wrapped tail and double warp techniques
to begin the wedge weave square).

Oh right-- WEDGE WEAVE --
that was one of the other unignorable ideas
I wanted to mess around with,
 a prime mover in my  'need'
​for a new heddle with a sett of 8 epi.

Though I'd never done it before,
just hearing the words "wedge weave"
as part of the discussion on Change the Shed,
led me to try a sample on the last bit of warp
from the  book of light and color--
and then again, somewhat more deliberately,
 with a four selvedge warp on a pvc pipe loom.

This second photo
(of the clean back of the four selvedge tapestry
as it is being released from the supplemental warps),
was supposed to be a demonstration
of the joys of Tucking the Tails
(if not four selvedge tapestry weaving as well),
but I forgot to put it in the post.

Too busy, I think, geeking out
about the weird and wonderful pleasure
 of a somewhat slanted weave structure--
and the love at first pick
between wedge weave 
and plied coffee filter paper yarn.

Unfortunately,
the two weaving samples
had used up all my plied paper.
No biggie to make some more--
except then came another idea.
What about plying the singles paper 
with some singles hand spun linen?
Would it create a wonderful yarn with linen strength
and the delicious hand of the coffee filters?
Or would I be doing a disservice to them both?
And, in the aforementioned
hierarchy of ideas, 
was that a question to ask, 
or a thing try? 
Try, of course.
At the very least, if I hated it
I'd get to cross the idea off my list.

In module 4 of her Tapestry Design Class
Rebecca Mezoff explores
the reciprocal relationship
between loom structure and design.
In module 5 (which just opened),
she talks about the interactions 
between design and materials.
​Who, or what, is in charge?
What choices do we have?
Wherein lies control?
And is control even a desirable thing?
How much adventure feels right
or is even possible given the grid of warp and weft?
How much subtle delight can a person stand?

It's fascinating stuff.
Except--that there are never any definitive answers,
at least for me,
beyond the ones I am experiencing
and the choices I am making in the moment, 
as this color, this warp, this tension, this sett,
this light, this position, this way of opening the shed,
this hand motion, this mug at my side, this bobbin,
this skill set that I have, this level of strength in my hands today,
this funny heddle notch where my thumb fits so perfectly,
all come together, randomly or no,
to help me make whatever on earth it is
that I am making today.

So that's all I know for sure.
And may the questions keep coming.