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."

So how many photos
does a gal have to take
of her backside

before she finally decides
that enough is enough?

I mean honestly --
all I wanted was to show
that the reason
​for the long narrow tapestry
​with the endless slits--

--was nothing more
than a desire to wear this skirt
(photo below)
without the bunchiness
​of a belt.
And now  I can!
Yet for some reason,
though it feels great on the inside,
my inner model and inner photographer
were not communicating this morning,
and every photo of the outside
is badly lit,
out of focus,
has me posed in front of
the only distracting object
on an otherwise empty wall, 
or my hair is in the way. 
And each time I checked out the photos
and said to my model,
"fix the elastic on your braid!"
did she do it?
Nope.
​
Ah well.
​We all have our little skills.

At any rate,
the skirt is old favorite
that was designed, alas, 
in that sartorially awkward moment
when retail clothing companies decided
that a "waist band" should sit
somewhere below one's belly button,
yet I've always loved it'
so awkward photos aside,
 it is delightful to be able to wear it
​without tripping over the hem
and/or displaying an unnecessary
​amount of stomach.

Why it took me so long
to think of this solution
​I've no idea,
as the fit of this
otherwise heavenly garment
has been annoying me for years.

But I guess brains,
like cameras
do not always focus
on the thing
that in hindsight
one might have preferred.
And since ideas
have their own pace
​ and agenda,
I can only be happy 
that this one showed up at all.

As you can probably tell from the safety pins,
I just cut the tapestry from my loom yesterday.
and wove in the the ends before supper.
After a quick bath
(a thing I do with all wool weft tapestries,
especially if it is a thing I'm going to wear --
though now that I think of it,
I'm not sure I've ever
woven an 'accessory' before),
I squeezed it in a towel,
laid it flat to dry,
and by this morning 
it was ready for a nice steamy iron.

 I was pleased to remember
to weave slits/buttonholes at either end
so the suspenders (braces)
could also work 
with this pair of pants
(extra satisfying when structure and function work together),
and am always happy
when Tucking The Tails
keeps stray weft strands
from sticking out hither and yon
on either back or front.

 I'm not, however, entirely happy
with the bulges/folds of the tapestry fabric
above the tiny house center panel
where the front straps veer off to my shoulders
(clearly visible in the photo above),
and I believe next time I'd either 
weave two separate straps 
that literally cross in the back,
or make that center panel wider
so there was more of an H
and a shallower shoulder angle.

This last would also make
a useful design space--
room for an entire landscape perhaps,
or, as in many Coptic garments,
a face looking ever outwards
watching your back,
and noticing 
where you've been.  

So many ideas--
I want to try them all.
Woven words?
(Logger World is traditional 
though what a place for haiku...)

Or a person could use a backstrap loom
and a rigid heddle
to weave a long narrow strip
of needlepoint canvas
then embellish it
with.... anything at all. 

And what about
warp faced pick up?

Oh dear. Off I go.
Please--
save me from this idea storm
and try one or two yourself?
What better way
to show off your glorious work,
and saying what you have to say
than by wearing your heart
on your shoulders?

And now that I think of it
this 194 grams of milkweed fiber
​(and some willow as well),
are calling my name--
really loudly.
Perhaps they, too,
have a sartorial plan
 (not yet revealed),
that will allow them to travel
exciting places
like --
curbside pick up
at the grocery store.

Ok, so there I was,
contentedly packing weft
into a long, narrow
tapestry warp--
doing all I could to
'em-blue-en' the smoky skies
with my yarn--

(convinced that  by today
I'd be able to show you
a completed
long narrow tapestry object
​but obviously, not yet)--

--when what should appear on my phone
but a text to let me know
that the Milkweed seed harvest had begun
at Thorn Creek Native Seed Farm
 and if I wanted some stalks,
it would be a fine time to get them.

Driving is a thing I avoid
at the best of times,
so it took a moment or two
for my legs to remember
their clutch/gas pedal coordination
(my neighbors laughed
as I stuttered out of the driveway
in the wee, mossy pick-up),
but it doesn't take long
to recall even long-ignored skills.
Nor, indeed,
does it take more than a few blocks
to get out into the
weirdly beautiful Palouse hills.

Because the technique I've been using
works best when the stalks are quite fresh
 I've been at it for the better part of every day--

--and on Saturday
when, blissfully,
finally, gloriously,
it rained
(that's me walking home
from the Farmer's Market
soaked and content)--

It was perfect --
cool, damp, autumnal,
slow, abundant,
and very comfortable.

Here is what I'm doing:
After peeling the outer/inner bark
 (starting at the bottom
and using my palette knife to
​get things going),
I lay each out strip and,
starting somewhere in the middle,
gently scrape away the outer bark
​to reveal the white fibers beneath.
A shell works perfectly for this,
as does a palette knife.

Grabbing the green stuff ,
I slowly pull it away,
then repeat
in the other direction.

The outer bark generally has
shorter lengths of fiber
that didn't come with that first pull
so I do the same thing
with the ever shorter bits
until each strip is spent.

3 or 4 hours
and 10 or 15 stalks later,
I might have
15-ish  grams of fiber.

​Note: these photos show a particularly abundant stalk.
Each is different.

There is probably
another week's worth of stalks
in the  pile.
​And I'm glad.

For at this moment,
when individually and collectively
we are all trying to cope beyond coping,
and everything feels balanced on a knife point,
it feels more important than I can say
to take my entire life down a notch,
and practice ​the revolutionary life skill
of choosing to allow myself
(with no plan, intended use or purpose),
to be delighted, fulfilled, and soothed
by the act of gathering fiber,
a strand at at time.

I didn't mean to start this tapestry--
and when I did begin,
I wasn't thinking
​about the air.

Back then
(all of four days ago),
the wind was blowing 
in a different direction,
and I was merely amazed
to be working with wool at all --
​much less weaving
it into a long narrow tapestry
with absurdly elongated slits.
(My ubiquitous wool sweater
steadily takes shape
on spindle and knitting needles,
but that is for evenings and lunch breaks;
regular studio time
has not been 
wool-centric
​for a while).

​So the whole thing
came at me sideways.
I mean -- 
this is a cordage moment--
​right--
and even if I was to
weave a tapestry,
milkweed
(or maybe willow)
would be
the obvious choice.

These fibers, however,
have other fish to fry
(or wrists to encircle)
and are not interested
in adapting themselves
​to a weft faced form
at this time.

​"Well," thought I,
having already
(somewhat precipitously),
built a pipe loom
and wound
a continuous warp.
"what about
coffee filter yarn?"

Alas, no.
The coffee filters
did not care for
the freshly wound
wool/silk warp
(nor, methinks,
for playing second fiddle
to milkweed--
though that is 
mere speculation
for  while
they feel free to tell me
what to do,
these fibers tend to be
somewhat sketchy
when it comes to
​ explaining why).


(note--for more on continuous warps and how to wind them,
this blog post: Long Warp/Short Loom,  has info)

At any rate,
in the midst 
of my connundrum
(should I unwind that warp?)
some lovely, fine wool skeins
cleared  their collective throat
from their comfy place on a shelf.
This gathering of skeins --
my "purse spindle project"--
​is a graded color progression
of Merino, Cormo, Polworth fleeces
I carded a couple of years ago--
and ever since
have spun and plied on the go
 with my Jenkins Kuchulu
(the aforementioned purse spindle),
whenever my dear  friend Rochelle and I
have met for tea--
historically at a local coffee shop
and these days
(carefully distanced),
shouting enthusiastically
across her back yard.

And of course once I began,
it was clear that the fiber
usually does know best.
 I'd forgotten
how familiar
and forgiving 
wool can be--
pure pleasure--
which is a fine thing
​on a series
of icky days.

Soon enough
(no surprise
to you who know me
​though I had not planned it),
a little way up
​the color progression,
there appeared a tiny house:
encased in smoke
and with lights on during the day
as is the case right here--
​and in much of the rest
of the western half
​of the USA just now.

It's  horrible --
the fires I mean,
not the house.
​Even those of us
not in immediate danger 
of losing our homes to the flames,
know every dry leaf
​to be potential danger.
We long for rain
to clear enough air,
and ease the worry
about friends, family
and perfect strangers 
​in Oregon and California--
and wish we could
 open windows--
or go outside 
for an autumnal breath,
or even a walk.
On top of 
"everything" else,
it sometimes feels
like just too much.

Except, luckily,
though being 
somewhat crazy 
is absolutely "a thing"  these days,
working with magical
and opinionated materials
can help to turn
potential madness
into more of a
focused frenzy.
And when one can
share that frenzy,
and the utter
over-the-top-ness
​of bloody everything
with dear friends,
it is easier to remember
that up above 
the grey sock we're living in,
acres of blue sky
await.

So on we go,
up the warp
into the blue--
in all the ways,
soon.
​
Right?
(don't forget, my USA friends,
to order your absentee ballots soon!!!!)

And as we work our way along,
it's a fine thing
​ to have support--
from our compatriots
and from lovely books
like this  one
by Linda Ligon--
filled with stories
ideas, connection
and inspiration --
 a place where
tiny house tapestries
(blue skies and all),
might even
run into
​themselves. 

Wrap it
​
around a stick,

or a  rock,

or a shell.

Experiment with  knotless netting--

--handily worked with a needle--

Toss in a basket or box.

Bind a book--

--and keep it snug.

Arrange by value.

Weave a tapestry.

Study  history.

Call it warp--

and experiment with band-weaving.

Conduct longevity tests--

​

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

Since it'll probably be a whole week
till I next have a chance
​ to go on and on about Milkweed
(a whole week!!),
​what better way to begin
talking about  a few of
​the books I've been reading
than with ​a photo of cordage in progress
shading the pages---

especially since
one of the many great things
about making cordage
​(vs other methods of bast fiber yarn construction),
is that I can twist and read
at the same time.

Same goes for
spinning well prepared wool
with a familiar, lightweight spindle.

Indeed, 
reading and yarn making
are inextricably linked
in my odd little world.
Reading/knitting too,
though I don't seem to have  any photos
of that blissful activity--
even if I  have (and wear),
a great number
of  the not-very-complicated
but perfect-to-knit-while-not-looking
 garments, that result. 

How lovely, then,
to dive into Milkweed
with someone who has spent
far more time than I 
(at least so far),
exploring its mysteries. 
Aimee Lee's
Making Milkweed Paper
is actually a reference I've had for ages,
her work an unending inspiration.
Click the link with her name
and check out all her work.
The knitted books! The icons!
The Hanji dresses.
OH, be still my heart. 

And to slip from those
ethereal garments,
to Kate Fletcher's thoughtful 
and curious essays
 in Wild Dress--
is a mighty thing indeed.
Even better to be making a garment
while turning the pages.

Then again, 
if we're going to bring everything
back to the integral role
of woman the maker,
who can resist the engaging prose
of The Invisible Sex,
or ignore the pleasure
of wrapping my mind
around the elemental--
nay the central role--
of first cordage makers in pre-history--
probably female and mostly ignored by (male) archaeologists--
while ​physically twisting fibers myself.
Cuz some ways of being a human female
never change at all.
​I could hardly put it down.

I mean -- actual woven illustrations,
 exquisite drawings,
 wide ranging understanding,
rock solid information,
irresistible charm, and deep knowledge--
I am beyond proud
to know them
and really really glad
​to have this book.
The sections on preservation, conservation
and restoration are a gold mine indeed,
and I anticipate a few--
--erm--adjustments--
to the way I've been storing my work.
I love them so much.

Real Reviews!
Rebecca Mezoff
Elizabeth Buckley

When I've needed
to take a brief step back
from textiles
(hard to believe, but sometimes true),
I've been re-delighted
with the imaginary,
decidedly un-sentimental--
even pointy-- elven worlds
created by Sylvia Townsend Warner--
one of my all time favorite authors.
I'm so very happy
that some of her
hard-to-find work
has been recently republished
​by Hand Held Press.
​
Given half a chance,
I'd probably order
half a dozen other books
from this small publisher.
Indeed, I bet I eventually will.

But back to tapestry --
because seemingly
somehow
everything  eventually
returns to tapestry 
in some form other--
if only as  metaphor--
though not in this instance--
there is one more book
I want to mention --
at least one more that I now have
in my physical possession:
the magnificent
The Art Is The Cloth 
by Micala Sidore

Well, now I've almost worn out my mouse batteries
putting links into this post
so it must be time to quit.
Except that while I'm in the mode
 I want to add a short list
of wondrous  and soon-to-be-released
Tapestry/Textile books you can pre-order.
Once they are physically in my world
getting milkweed, coffee filters
​ and wool fibers caught between their pages
I'll talk about each one again,
but in case you like to do
​a big old book order all at once,
and then have them trickle in
like little unexpected treats
​for your future self,
here are a few you'll want to have on your list.



Books to Pre-Order:

​The Long Thread Special Issue  by Linda Ligon
(lucky me to be in this one too--and I can hardly WAIT to see the rest of it)
The Art of Tapestry Weaving by Rebecca Mezoff 
(This book -- I've had the privilege of reading early drafts -- a thorough and glorious resource--
just wait till I have more room to talk about this book!!!!!)
How To Weave A Navajo Rug and Other Lessons from Spider Woman 
by Lynda Teller Pete and Barbara Teller Ornelas.
(Two fifth generation Navajo weavers writing about their work and generously sharing techniques and family stories with us all--THE people from whom to learn stories, techniques and understanding.)

Books Mentioned in the Blog Post:
​
Wild Dress by Kate Fletcher
Making Milkweed Paper by Aimee Lee
The Invisible Sex by J.M. Adovasio, Olga Soffer & Jake Page
Anatomy Of A Tapestry by Jean Pierre Larochette and Yadin Larochette
Earth Materials by Sue Lawty​ 
Of Cats and Elfins and Kingdoms of Elfin by Sylvia Townsend Warner
The Art Is The Cloth  by Micala Sidore

So a funny thing happened.

Well not funny exactly --
more--
mind expanding?
I dunno. 
It was cool though--
at least-- 
eventually.
At first --
 not so much.

As you may recall,
last week on the blog post
I was blissing out about
my recent Milkweed immersion--
 feeling, I can now say,
 just a teensy bit smug.

"Yay! Look at me 
with my newly fashioned
minimalist distaff 
and cross arm spindle
making all kinds
of super nice yarn
out of Milkweed garden waste!
I love it soooo much.
It's almost like
Flax!"

Well, smug and thrilled.

At any rate,
practically the moment 
I pushed 'send' on the newsletter 
to let you know that the post was ready
(assuming you're on my mailing list),
I grabbed my beloved tools
and raced outside--

--only for the Milkweed
to... ah...
well, I'll let it
​speak for itself.

Just so you know,
it said
as my spindle fell to the ground
for the third time in a row, 
I'm not Flax.

"Huh?" said I--
picking up the spindle
​and checking for cracks.

Oh, I have nothing against the stuff --
it continued without pause.
It's great! 
Super strong -- soft-- agreeable--
a distant cousin of mine. 
Slightly more uniform
since you all have been
manipulating for centuries
(or maybe it, you),
to suit your belief
in efficiency and production.
I mean --
all those precise tools
with their satisfying names:
rippling combs, flax breaks, 
 scutching  knives, hackles and such,
that keep everyone in line.

It's just -- I'm not it. 

Now, I can see why 
you might think it reasonable
to think of me as such--
and maybe even believe
it is a compliment. 

​I mean --
I am a bast fiber 
and you have been 
doing your best
I'm sure,
what with your strick
and your combing
​and your carding of 'waste'--

Or are you capable
only
of listening to (and believing)
 the chatter
in your own big brain
(equally good, it seems
at making you feel like a total loser
and the cleverest of all),
 while hardly noticing
the odd bit of wisdom
a little plant
that is not flax,
might have?
​
Just saying. 

Something to consider. 

"Thanks," said I.
"I will--
​consider, that is."

"Ok," said I
dipping my fingers
in a dish of coolish water
and adding a long white  strand
to the ever-growing puddle 
​of cordage in my lap. 
​
"All right."