You know how sometimes
the path ahead
is clear and straight --
and then suddenly
 you find yourself
bare of foot
and knee deep
in snow-- 
 or wildflowers?

Happens pretty regularly for me, actually --
in life, in days, in projects.
Indeed what, really, is a plan?

This linsey woolsey cloth,
for instance,
was definitely destined
​to be another shirt.

And that red roll of cloth--
I was absolutely going to stitch it
to the yellow swathe.

As for this
 four selvedge tapestry--
had it ever  thought of itself
as anything but an independent entity--
much less considered that it would insist upon
being part of a blanket?

And what is with
​the pieced blanket thing anyway?

Linsey-woolsey,
​woolsey-woolsey
woolsey-tapestry
(and even a bit of silky-woolsey),
can't possibly all fit--

much less flow--
or glow--
as one.

Or ---can they?

Well, why not?

As already demonstrated
I'm pretty terrible
at predicting the outcome of things--

To which end
here at the end
and before I become further distracted
by light shining through plain weave
or make the mistake
of attempting to sum up this weirdest of years
​(which, of course, is still a month and a half from being over),
I'm going to close with a list
of things I don't want to forget to mention today: 


1. Fringeless,
the online Four Selvage Tapestry Class
I teach with Rebecca Mezoff ,
is 25% off, now through Fyber Monday (30 November)
with the code  FyberFringe 
(because it is WAY easier to for a tapestry
to be an integral parts of your blanket 
when there are no hems to worry about--
​just saying!)

2. Rebecca's List of  Fantastic new Tapestry Books
is on her blog and totally worth checking out.
Her reviews (linked in the post)
are thorough and compelling--
but then that is true of everything she does.
And---multiple tapestry books?  I mean!

3. A couple of new Natural Dye Resources
have come to my attention
(and I'm sure there are many more):
--Journeys in Natural Dying--
(color without leaving home)
and 
The Maiwa School of Textiles free Classes
(to be followed on 1 December with winter workshop offerings)


4. I'm totally in love with The Tatter Textile Library ,
an intersectional textile portal of goodness,
(with its own line up of compelling classes
and skilled makers),
as well as a spectacular new online journal,
TATTER,
which has engrossed me for the last few days--
each essay/maker profile/feature its own portal to a different kind of
 textile yumptiousness (if that is a word),
​ that I've  just begun to explore.

5.  As a present to myself
I've made the somewhat surprising
(and weirdly delicious) decision
 to stop blogging for the winter--
to give over this time
to other voices/ideas
and my inner Luminist. 

As you might imagine
the latter will take a little practice,
for my inner Storymaker loves to write this blog--
her hand-in-the-air compulsion
 to explain, describe and generally dominate my creative world
a driving force in much of what I do.

Nonetheless, 
and because I don't  know
what is going to happen,
I will attempt to enlist her aid
and (respectfully) request that for this time
she turn her interactive skills
to the important task
of making space
for whatever shows up--
and then refrain from talking about it.
We'll see how it goes...

(Truth be told, and realistically,
she already has a couple of things in the works
that should keep her decently occupied till spring
which may, or may not ease the way for the Luminist). 

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.

there is always tapestry.

And though Rebecca doesn't cover
these materials in her wonderful new book
The Art of Tapestry Weaving,
(officially launching today!)
she does provide instruction
on all  of the techniques I used.
(well, not the clamp and scrap wood support part,
but maybe I"ll talk about that
​some other day on this blog).

Today --

well today--

​all I knew for sure--

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

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."

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...

It's been a while
since I've woven on
a continuous warp,

​and had forgotten
​ how delightful
it can be
​to slowly swirl
​an emerging tapestry
​around the top and bottom beams

as the prickly plants
gradually emerge,
a letter at a time.
(The names I use for the plants, that is,
​since I do not know what they call themselves). 

The length of the thing
means there is time and space
to notice unexpected words,

It has also been fun,
just after writing
Tucking The Tails,
to find another place
where the practice
of working in the ends as I go
adds moments
of enchantment
to weaving:
getting to glimpse
the elegance
of letters in reverse
out of the corner of my eye--
to admire grace of their shapes-- 
to relish the confusion of
of thinking a 'd'
is a 'p'
and trying to figure out
what word I had
 inadvertently written.
​
And how not to delight
in the dignified nod
of two 'r's
(distantly socializing as now is normal)
as they pass by, 
one going up, one down?

I'm weaving the letters
with naturally dyed wool.
The colors were a surprise
as at first I thought 
I'd write all the words
with black and charcoal fleece,
and I really appreciate 
the indigo and madder,
weld and lobaria pulmonaria,
insisting that they, too
​ get to promote
 the loveliness
of some of the sharp things
in my world.

The two-ply used coffee filter yarn
also had its way with me,
​thank goodness.
For though it is almost
too thick for a sett of 8 epi
(and anything but smoothly even),
it is a pleasure to touch,
to tap into place,
​to think about,
to make,
and to photograph. 

Using the two fibers together
does take a little getting used to--
 the extreme difference
in how each packs into place
 a little disconcerting
especially when I'm trying to count passes--
but I'm getting pretty good at eye-balling
how much the wool will pack down
in relation to the paper,
and the juxtaposition
of warm brown beads of coffee filter
against the smooth fuzz 
of fine spindle spun wool,
is a continual source of delight. 

Even if you're less
easily amused than I,
how not to adore
the exuberance
​of an 'e' coming to life?

I am hoping to fit
two more prickly things
onto the last few inches of the warp
and though am not quite sure there is room,
( the shed will be tiny no matter what
and I haven't even gotten to 
my list of local burrs),
I'm still going to try.

And luckily (hopefully)
I can soon put on another warp
for  apparently
my beloved PVC pipe loom
loves a good continuous one
as much as it loves four selvedge--
and there are so so many more
weirdly wonderful prickles
to investigate,
a letter at a time. 


ps. And in case you care about such specifics
 the warp is that merino/silk,
I wrote about back in May.
As you may recall
it didn't race my motor 
in the cloth samples I was weaving then,
but it does make a glorious warp
as I had hoped (3 ply for this tapestry),
​and I'm delighted that I have plenty more.

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.