In October 2017,
I had an idea for a skirt.
My thought was to combine
shaped, hand knit panels
with my myriad backstrap experiments
to build a flexible and fitted garment. 

It was just an experiment.
​
Definitely a one-off.

Though not usually short ones--
or at least I haven't since the early 1970s
when my mother and grandmother tsk tsked 
over my desire to share more adolescent leg
than they thought fitting or attractive.

But attractive is as attractive does
(whatever that really means),
and anyway, the skirts are fun at any age--
to make and to wear.

The simple structure makes fitting a breeze--
the unbeatable texture of specially selected (or spun) yarn,
the underlying energy of hand woven cloth,
the built-in stretchiness of  hand knit panels
all work together to to make each skirt
as comfy as plain leggings--
and as long or short as I want
(​or fabric length will allow).

note: my skirts are mostly short because I made them 
using existing color and weave experiments
designed, warped and woven
with no thought to future leg coverage.

Anyway,
I've long wanted to share the idea
and fully intended to have these instructions done
shortly after the concept showed up.
Backstrap Dialogues,
(the instructional story zine that led to
the cloth that led to Sarah-Dippity),
was freshly out in the world
and somehow I imagined
that after a 56 page comic,
 a straightforward skirt guide
​ would take a mere few weeks!
​Sigh.

​But finally, after writing and re-writing,
drawing and re-drawing,
and overriding a firm decision
to shelve it permanently,
​(shows what I know),
I am beyond pleased
that Phineas reminded me
about the underlying joy
of the garments themselves--
(well, he bullied me just a bit,
​ as only a squirrel can do,
insisting that other weavers and knitters 
might well want
to cover their butts
​with their own magnificent cloth).

So HERE IT IS, 
freshly loaded into my web store:
a 16 page downloadable PDF guide
​ to using your cloth (hand woven or otherwise),
and your yarn (knit at a gauge that suits your hands and taste),
to make a garment that fits your body,
your life and your style. 

And to help celebrate the joy of hand woven cloth,
hard copies of Backstrap Dialogues
are now on sale for $13 
(I love prime numbers)
with free shipping.

Endless thanks to Phineas, for spurring me on,
and my ever patient reader/testers,
for all their support.

Yesterday,
my drawing comrade and I
​ were talking about that feeling you get
when you are making
or designing
or working with
the 'right' thing.

It's the feeling you might already have
with long term projects
where decisions have been made
and inherent pleasure already built in
so (at least for the time being),
there is nothing to do
but enjoy the doing. 

enjoying the general direction,
not quite sure what you're doing,
but aware
(or at least hoping),
that pretty soon
there will be more information--
about material
 texture
color 
or even medium
that will shift things,
​ this way
or that. 

It's important, at least for me,
to stay loose when walking this path --
to not analyze every step--
(it's usually too foggy for that anyway), 
but rather to feel,
to listen,
to notice nuances--

alert and hopefully awake
(though sometimes not)
​to the way that ideas,
processes,
hands,
feet,
eyes,
​mixed metaphors
and materials
​respond to one another.

Eventually,
​if you keep walking
(for minutes, hours, weeks, months).
you find yourself in that magical reciprocal relationship
where the stuff you are making
is also making you.

I'm in the foggy part right now. 
Full of hope and possibility.
Honing my nerve endings.
Meandering with intent. 

It's interesting, 
​clearly compelling,
​a teensy bit unnerving.

But so what?
There is much to be learned
even when I stumble.

Speaking of learning,
and to end on a practical note,
I've been doing some glycerine experiments. 
Jillayne brought the idea to my attention.
and Sue mentioned it again in the comments a couple of weeks ago.

The point is to soak dry plant material in a glycerine solution
which keeps it permanently flexible even when dry again. 
The point, for me, is to have cordage that doesn't need soaking before weaving
and which can be made into things that won't crack when bent.
Some internet sources talk about soaking the stems of fresh plants in the glycerine solution and letting the plant draw it up into the leaves and flowers,
but so far I've only worked with  dry material --
​both cordage and leaves -- to good effect. 

We'll learn more if lots of us try.
Anyone up for some experiments?

Tiny Tapestry Books.

Who knew?

Not me.

But perhaps the tapestries did.

Woven side by side last July

they refused to be parted.

Scraps of  Washi
​and Reeves Lightweight printing paper.

Sometimes it is a little unsettling.
​
But ultimately,
I cannot resist.

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. 

To blend, or not to blend -- that is the question.

At least it was the question a few weeks ago, 
when, all of a sudden (isn't always like that?)
this marvelous collection of 
Polworth, Cormo, Merino, Debouillet and, I think, Targhee.
from the Ortmann's  flock in Wolf Point, Montana,
​demanded attention. 

(These eastern Montana range sheep cope with extreme weather and wild winter winds, 
by growing amazingly soft, dense fleece--and the Ortmann's have bred for color.
 I'd put in a link if I could find a website...Nancy???)

But back to blending.
I didn't have a plan at first--
just a strong desire to work with the fleece--
and with only a few hand fulls of each value,
 teasing and carding each separately 
seemed a good starting point. 

While I was at it, 
(and since I didn't know how I wanted to proceed)
I also carded the few ounces of 
light brown something-or-other --
(not quite as fine but lovely and bouncy)
that a friend had given me a few weeks before.

Also, why not add to the pile
by turning some white fleece 
(Targhee/Debouillet also from the Ortmanns)
​a kind of periwinkle blue?
​I had an indigo pot going after all.

And as I dyed and carded
an idea began to  form --
a new kind of idea,
an idea that,​ once acted upon,
could not be undone.
Was it worth the risk?

Since Discretion is the better part of valor
and caution preferable to rash bravery (sometimes anyway),
I reserved a small selection of all the greys, 
blended one batt of the periwinkle with white
(to create another value range),
and set the whole works aside as a separate project
before doing anything drastic with the bulk of the batts.

But what did those batts want?
​Once upon a time,
I would have spun each 
into its own yarn
for weaving into tapestry.
This was, indeed, why I wanted
​the collection of fleece in the first place,
for value has always been elemental to my tapestry practice

But ideas change,
and between spring and fall
this new (or maybe very old) idea--
charming, complicated and irresistible--
had wormed its way in.
What I now wanted was: 
-fine, bouncy, heathery purple/grey yarn 
-to weave on my backstrap loom,
-into yards of warm, flexible fabric
-with an easy drape,
-that I could stitch into next winter's jacket.
Really? 
Well yeah -- really.

But clothing?  Sheesh.
I haven't woven cloth for clothing
since... well...
since  I wove my wedding dress fabric in 1989.

Well, maybe it's time.
And it's not like I'd have have to
buy, or even borrow,  a loom.

And thank goodness I wrote the comic!

Not only did I rely on it
​to make sure I wound my warp correctly,
but I also needed the tale
of  Luminist and Storymaker,
to remind me that trusting the yarn is a thing--
even if it is a messy thing,
with no clear outcome. 

Right now, 
the spindle awaits. 
​And oh golly, is this stuff nice to spin. 

​It was a big deal to learn about computers then--
something my professors thought no one in their right mind would do unless forced,
(nearly as essential as the endocrine interactions of newly pregnant ewes),
and I have to admit that without the nudge,
I would never have done it. 
Spreadsheets? Computers?  Bah.

I took the class because I was interested
in sheep, wool, and yarn,
and also because I was hoping
​ to become a Veterinarian--
a path I didn't ultimately pursue.
(Though I did not mind shoving up arm up a cow's rectum
while lying on a frosty, windy hillside,
I did mind that such calls would keep me
from knitting and spinning
as much as I might like).

But Back to Lotus 1, 2, 3.
Yarn-centric nerd that I was even then,
I designed a knitting calculation spreadsheet
that would shift the stitch numbers from
those for the gauge given in a pattern
to stitch numbers for the gauge chosen by a knitter
for the yarn she had (ideally hand spun).

My professors thought it most original. 
I thought it pretty basic and silly--
a thing I could have done with pencil and paper in half the time.  
But I was a diligent student
out for the A's I needed to get into Vet school,
so didn't say so.

A couple of years (and many science classes later),
I strayed to a different end of campus,
wandering into a room
on the third floor of the home economics building,
where light streamed through big windows
and fell upon row up on row of floor looms
and all thoughts of veterinarianism flew away.

I quit calculus,
​learned to warp,
and devoted myself
​ to a grid of a different sort.

Time passed, as it does.

I wove -- quite a bit.
Lotus 1, 2, 3, went out of fashion.
Fonts became a thing. 
Spreadsheet programs began to be called  'apps.' 
Lives were devoted to creating them.
Other lives were devoted changing them.
Soon these apps
were filled with bells and whistles
many as silly as my spreadsheet
but which force us,
on an almost daily basis,
 to relearn things we thought we already knew,
or devote  hours, days, weeks
to finding that one little thing that has to be clicked
to accomplish the thing we did yesterday
with no trouble at all.
Bah.

As far as I know
endocrine paths of pregnant ewes
remains much as it always has.
We love our computers
and rely on them,
but the blankety-blank learning curve
never seems to flatten out.

Over under, over, over, over under. 

There are skills to be learned, of course--
tension, selvedge control, warping techniques,
how to spin grocery receipts into yarn--
and these can feel momentous
if you've never done them,
the learning curve very steep.

I'm actually all in favor of learning stuff.
Indeed,  learning hard stuff
is what we humans do best,
and for many of us
person to person learning
is still easiest -- 
using arms and hands and voices

Once upon at time,
(even before computer text was green)
we might  have lived in the same village.
where we could slowly and easily
share weaving thoughts
as we spun our yarn 
and picked pebbles out of our bean seed.
We could wave our arms around
and describe that slick little maneuver
for getting the warp tension just so,
(or how to save a file to dropbox),
then show you after lunch.

It's the thing Elizabeth Wayland Barber
called "the courtyard sisterhood"
in her life changing book
Women's Work: The First 20,000 years

Sometimes we still get to do that
but with weavers separated, rare
and all over the world,
we now rely on  our marvelous
confusing, confounding,
 and ever-changing devices
to write blogs,
to shoot video 
to create WEBINARS,
in an attempt to mimic 
what we once accepted as normal.

They are miraculous, these devices.
After all, here I sit,
​ writing to you this very morning
while my laundry dries outside
 and my tea gets cold--
and it is almost like being together.

The trouble is that sometimes
the devices don't work as planned,
and those of us who know a lot about weaving,
are thrilled to BITS to ponder
esoteric, yarn-centric questions,
and to share what we know the best we can,
while you cook supper,
do not always have the latest
​digital technical minutiae 
at our fingertips. ​

Luckily, thanks to another techno-miracle
THERE is a recording of the whole thing,
waving arms and all.
that anyone can watch.
(Indeed, if you do, you will soon see
that I have some learning to do
when it comes to my interaction with the screen
for I seem to make a habit of
pointing at something amazing
as though you are next to me,
which it feels like you are
when, in truth,
all you get
is my finger jabbing your nose).
​
I don't know if it feels different, not being live,
but it is there,
and you can pause us at will.
​And one of these days, we'll try again.

This Four Selvedge Warping business
 is just so thrilling,
so useful in myriad ways,
that, learning curves and all,
we're going to keep talking about it. 

We have The Fringeless Class
to explain all the details,
(Rebecca, the most patient of teachers,
is brilliant at finding just those tricky bits
that need a tiny, slow motion video to make them clear
as anyone who has taken her other tapestry classes knows).

And we now have the free Webinar
 to share more of the possibilities
when enthusiasm boils over.

I find myself curiously restless this morning --
even tongue-tied. 

I'll be sitting here in my studio,
right about where I'm sitting  now
(though I'll have to do a little re-arranging
to avoid screen glare and so on),
and I wonder
if my working messes (un-styled),
are fit for company.
Probably not. 
But then, so what?

It's tapestry we're going to be talking about,
and Rebecca and I have such love and enthusiasm for  this medium --
 are so entranced by all that it can do,
that sharing work in progress is half the point, right?
We had such a fantastic  time
creating and filming the Fringeless Class,
that I'm really looking forward
​to this spontaneous conversation.
Indeed, it thrills me to bits to think of you joining us. 
(It's free and everything -- I think I"m supposed to say that)

But of course, 
as Mrs. Ariadne Oliver said to Hercule Poirot,
"You never know what is going to happen"
when doing a live chat on the interwebs--
and that makes everything extra thrilling.

It also makes everything slightly odd---
at least in these days before we start--
because  I'm talking a great deal about  this talk,
​ (or at least writing about it on various platforms),
yet not actually doing it.

Of course that is  the nature of plans --
travels and parties and events 
​and certainly tapestries--
never turn out as a gal imagines.

And who would want that anyway? 
The reality of the moment is the point. 
But I"m overflowing ideas
of things you might want to hear about
(not least these cuffs/ bangles and bracelets I've been making),
even as I know that some fabulous question
you're burning to have answered
will change everything!

So perhaps it would be best 
to stop second guessing you
(much less myself)
and to go back to the loom,
 nestle  another green oval,
amidst the warm charcoal fuzz of  shetland yarn,
and see if  this cuff can be released from the loom
to wear on Thursday.

See you then!

ps -- If you are interested in hearing our conversation,
(or asking a question ahead of time)
but can't make it  to the actual webinar,
it will be recorded,
If you register, 
the 'bonuses' will still be available.
At least I think that is how it works!

pps -- I've had quite a time with faulty links and such
in the last couple of days,
​so if for some reason the other links don't work
you can get to the registration page via Rebecca's BLOG
​and click the big black button about half way down.