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! 

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. 

Yippeeee!

Well, right now I'm home in my studio,
but last week I was tromping through
a chunk of country that  was once my home--
or at least the place I lived from the age of nineteen
​ till I was nearly twenty-six.

I have to admit that I embarked on the trip
hoping to come to some big old conclusions.
You know --
stuff about the past and present,
about time and change,
about  life, the universe,
​the wilderness and everything.

But though my feet knew how to walk on the trail,
and the smells were familiar and lovely,
and I didn't get any blisters,
big conclusions were elusive.
Duh.

This Instagram Post
says most of what I know so far,
and perhaps more conclusions will show up in time.
Or not? 
​Who knows.

I do know it was a great trip.

Even in the rain.

​Or maybe especially in the rain?

And I also know
that plastic and wool
​make excellent  backcountry companions,

and that I am everlastingly grateful
to my motley collection of supplies,

and for the tiny miracles
of fire, friendship, feet and all.

is not what I imagined I would do.

Oh, it started off according to plan--
painting walls and scrubbing floors.

​But clearing out the stuff --
completely emptying my studio 
as per my dream drawing above--
and going on to create  a calming,
almost anonymous space
that wouldn't make my brain buzz
(the kind of space you might find
at an exclusive artist retreat center
in a glorious and exotic location
where wonderful new ideas cannot help but flow in
and where they serve you lunch in an attractive basket
​just when you're getting peckish),
 proved to be easier dreamed than done.

At home,
without the luxury of that imagined, anonymous space,
but WITH a powerful drive to find it,
(and with the joy of picking lunch in the garden
just when I'm getting peckish,
and having neither to update my CV nor pack supplies),
I actually had to confront myself
in the form of my stuff:
 towers of books,
endless teapots,
(I am not a collector but somehow have an absurd number),
pipe parts for looms,
baskets of toilet paper rolls,
frogs of many forms,
​random sticks....
​
And that proved fascinating.
At least to me.

Because it turns that the decisions made
while doing all this clearing out
are much the same as those  I make
when creating new work--
(the satisfying work, that is), 
which allows the whole process to be about NOTICING--
not just with my head, but with my whole body.
(even if sometimes it is about my head,
for who knew ancient and slightly rusty
 thinning scissors would be so full of possibility).

So that's what I've been doing:
 practicing noticing.​

​What does it feel like,
this funny skein at the bottom of a drawer,
this book at the back of a shelf,
 this color, this technique, this teapot, this material,  this image?

Like a lead weight on my shoulders,
heavy with
​ expectation.

Fluttery-- like wings.

Like I can't breathe.

ALIVE.

Like my Grandmother's frown of disapproval.

​Like Dancing.

Like sorrow.
​
Like Anger.
​
Like the center of the universe.

Like possibility.

​

It's practically a cliché these days --
the joys of clearing up, uncluttering, death cleaning,
the miserly counting of garbage bags of routed stuff,
the endless compelling discussions about issues of abundance and scarcity
(all which made me not want to do it
much less write about here cuz -- HUGE topic),
but all that aside...
I didn't actually have much to  toss. 
And it is useful to take stock--
 to ask questions.

What am I doing.
What do I like.
What do I think I like.
What do OTHER people think I like
(teapots and frogs apparently).
What do I think I like because other people think I like them.
What do I not stop doing despite the weight of judgment (internal and/or external).

You know. 
At least I bet dollars to donuts you know...

And if you're a regular reader,
or read the post before this one,
you also know these are things I was trying to do
 before my staycation.

But apparently I required
summer school remedial work.

And to show you how helpful it has been,
(since there was not a final exam),
I will say that at this very moment
it is lovely to notice
how great it feels
​ be back,
writing to you all,
and  poking at ideas
in this particular way.
​I'm so glad.
​
Happy September!

 Last night I noticed that I'm almost at the end of  Comic Diary #16.
YIPES!
Bone folder to the rescue.
​
For how would I make sense of my days
without Comic Sarah to give me perspective?

Though I"m in year 5 of this daily drawing practice
I've only  been making my own books for the last 10 months or so,
and I have to say that ​experimenting
​with paper, aspect ratio and binding methods
has added immeasurably to the whole business.

What I might have lost in consistency
(a lovely shelf with equal-sized Moleskines all lined up),
I've gained in the practice
of making time for crow quill, ink, watercolor,
of asking questions,
of trying to stay alert for answers. 

What role, I wondered a few months ago,
​ does aspect ratio 
play in the way I think about my days?

(Cleaning aside--which I"m also supposed to be doing today--
I'm having a little envy of my last spring self 
sitting in the sun...)

With a square, or nearly square area on the other hand,
I seem to leave more white space,
and am included to let a single image tell the tale of the day.

Paper, too,  has a huge influence --
do pencil marks and  watercolor sit on the surface
leaving time for me to adjust, erase,
and reshape then into a form that is particularly pleasing?

 Or is every mark drawn instantly into the fibers of the paper,
turning each day into a  palimpsest,
of me making my uncertain way?

There isn't a lot of it (one folio per four folio signature),
but I'm curious to see how the texture will mess with my mind.

Even more,
I'm thrilled to know
that Comic Sarah
is worth the experiment.

One of the great things about comics

 is that you can fit 
acres of knitting projects,
dozens of looms,
​tapestries galore,
​and mountains of angst, 
in a very small space.

Many thanks, all you lovely blog readers,
for your kind comments last week.
I love getting glimpses into your lives --
to hear what you're working on and discover how often there are parallels.
We makers are bonded by so many things,
most of us struggling to make sense of time and materials management.
From sorting  ideas,
to sorting laundry,
 how many projects can a person juggle in one wee, gynormous, life?

ps. A couple of questions answered:

1.  The book I was listening to is Eligible, yet another modern Pride and Prejudice homage.
Will check out Magpie Murders! Thanks for the suggestion Marilee.
I do so love books-- of all sorts.

2.  My six dyes:  Cochineal, Madder, Weld (all three with alum/tarter), Indigo, and Walnut. 
(Yes, that is five, but as you may have noticed I've been drifting back to my natural dye roots with  lichen experiments, and since I'm trying a variety, with new ones waiting patiently in line, ahem Marilyn,  the sixth dye is really more of a category and gets its own parenthetical aside).

3. While I won't subject you to my diary comics with every post,
I much appreciate the support for these bits of messy dailyness.
A graphic memoir-ish thing though -- golly, that'd be an undertaking.
Hmmmm.  Yipes.
Anyone else believe that the world needs more domestic and textile centric comics--
the ones about US-- the real  superheros?
Cuz we know how to make yarn.
And cloth (in myriad guises).
​And clothing.
Is that not a superpower?

Nancy and I have been running together
on the same three days
for..um...22 years? 23? More?
​Long enough that 
though I  know we first shed our shoes,
for a block or so,
in 2010,
the doing is just...what we do.

The rhythms of yarn-making are also so fully integrated 
that though I am trying to buy the odd skein these days
(there is such beautiful wool in the world, it's hard to resist),
yarn, to me, means handspun.

As for color --same six dyes have been doing the job 
for decades now -- and I don't see that changing any time soon either.

With such a habit driven life
​I've got to be super careful about introducing new things
(blogging, for instance),
because once I've carved out some dedicated time,
and trained myself for a bit,
before long
I can't not,
and the days  are a little shorter,
the weeks packed just a tiny bit tighter.

But having a structure 
even a somewhat fluid one,
provides underlying balance,
so  the things I want to do,
generally get done
​and it feels good.

Until they don't --and all at once there are  too many idea and no space in a day, or a week, for anything--  not only the things I already do but also the bliss of refreshing new things like learning tunes and getting better at drawing comics and writing up that pattern idea and making that thing for that special person and... and... and....
​
that bums me out.

If its all working -- there is no need for lists.

And if I'm living on lists --
​It could be time for a major reassessment.

​On the other hand,

It could just be time to step out of the structure entirely.
Knit something easy, listen to an audiobook (yet another Jane Austen knockoff),

And play a tune I already know,

​The first is called Growing Gills by Cartoonist Jessica Abel.
At it's most elemental it is a book about how to make creative work happen in the midst of myriad contradictory commitments-- and for those who feel neglectful of their tantalizing  but unrealized creative ideas, I imagine it would be most useful for this.

Making  stuff happen however, is not my particular problem--
making is my job,
starting, persisting and completing
my stock in trade.

What can be a problem,
(as per the imagery in the tapestry in last week's blog post),
 is making sure that I use that persistence
and my sometimes excessive enthusiasm,
to carry me, as the saying goes
to the top of the right mountain.
In other words, if I'm going to put the effort in,
why not be sure I'm putting it into something that is
1.  engaging in the moment,
2. worthy of the struggle through the 'Dark Forest' in the middle of its execution,
   and  3. rewarding/satisfying (at least in theory), once it is finished.
Seems obvious, but it is astonishing how often it is not.
To that end, though I'm not actually doing the exercises right now, it has been wonderful to give names to phenomena I've experienced and dealt with in a more nebulous fashion. 
Idea Debt
Open Loops,
the aforementioned Dark Forest,
and the reality of Dilemmas.

Indeed, I was reading the chapter on saying "No" so you can say "Yes"
 when an offer popped into my in box that would  have thoroughly (and almost happily), diverted me from a truly compelling but overgrown path that is beckoning off to the left.
There is a decent chance I'd eventually have remembered to say no without that chapter,
but I would have been wracked with indecision for a good deal longer. 

So if nothing else, Abel ideas will give me a context within which to examine said path -- so I don't take up my bow saw and  loppers unnecessarily. 

Abel discusses these ideas in depth on her website and in the kindle version of her book ,
which she is currently offering for free on Amazon to go along with her online book group (which I haven't joined either but still find interesting).
​  Not sure how long it will be available, but it is worth checking out if any of these ideas seem compelling.  Apparently she has a facebook page too, but as I do not partake of that realm of social media, I've not checked it out.   

The other book I'm thrilled with is Amy Twigger Holroyd's Folk Fashion
which I learned about from the compelling podcast
Mrs. M's Curiosity Cabinet. 
She (Mrs. M), is most satisfyingly thoughtful about myriad aspects of this yarnish/cloth-centric making world of ours, focusing particularly on material integrity (if that is the right phrase), which is something about which I am passionate.  So thank you Meg, for this and all the interesting thoughts and ideas to come.

But back to the book.
I've only just begun to read Folk Fashion,  but am fascinated by Holroyd's very readable and scholarly approach to topics I hold dear, and  look forward to delving deeply.
Again, I don't feel qualified to summarize, but already she has given me new definitions for some overused words (sustainable, folk, time, open ...),
and, surprisingly already helped me to notice that my passion for making and mending,
which began well before high school, is very much a part of fashion --
not a quiet way to avoid a mysterious and alien world I neither liked nor understood.

Indeed, as  I've recently realized, my reluctance to shop
has as much to do with an overwhelming surfeit of unsatisfactory choices,
as with my self-perceived lack of taste or ability to make said choices. 
In other words -- I DO know what I like,
I just rarely never see it in the commercial world.

This holds true, alas, both for stuff that goes on walls
and stuff that goes on bodies.

Give me a few clean fleeces though -- and shopping R us.

Somehow, this opens up everything!

This morning I made myself a new comic diary.
Back in January I wrote a little about my diary habit/ practice/ addiction;
 my hope, then, was that I'd  keep using watercolor in my (mostly) daily entries.
So far, this has not been a problem -- indeed adding the color has become one of my favorite parts.

What did become a problem was the  paper in the Moleskine notebooks.
Part of my early thinking about the diaries was that if I made them too fancy
I might expect myself to produce something 'good' every day, 
and that would be inhibiting.
So instead of books with 'drawing' paper (which I find a little slimy anyway),
I chose the ones with thin lined paper and, coincidentally, the most pages
so I didn't need a new one very often.
​This strategy worked very well until the inking/watercolor thing became habit
and I found myself with wrinkled paper, bleeding color and pages torn and taped after a too vigorous erasing of pencil lines.
Taping pages  is a hassle. 
And I do like water in my watercolor.

Finally, annoyed and  brave in equal measure,
I ordered a Moleskine with their 'special' watercolor paper (none in the local book store).
 Alas, however, when it finally arrived I was disconcerted to find that it was Landscape rather than portrait format. How had I missed that?
Now I had two things to get used to: new paper AND new layout.  Arrrghghghg.

My assumption was  that  I would like the  the paper
but not the stretched out format -- so linear.

As so often happens, however,
​what I think I'll like, I don't
and what I don't think I'll like, I do.
Who knew I could put my entire backyard on one two page spread?
But that notebook is almost full (a drawback to thick paper)
and I this morning I had to decide -- re-order or make one.

Happily, I had one piece of Arches 300 lb cold press in the basement
and though not a full sheet, it was exactly divisible by 3 1/2" and 11" (for a 3 1/2" x 5 1/2" book) 
​Such luck!
It's really nice paper, but I believe I'm now committed enough to this practice to just bliss out on the way the paint skips and dances across the bumps and settles with such richness into the holes.  The cold press is not terrific for inking (not like the hot press on the adjacent test page above), but right now it feels just right.
And if i don't like it -- well it'll probably be full in a couple of months (or less),
and I can revisit the question.

And in the meantime: score, tear, fold, score, tear, fold, score, tear, fold...

Such a treat to  get to work with my trusty paper tools: 
bone folder, beeswax,  linen thread, translucent ruler, and my super deluxe hole poker.

Happily, I do not have perfectionist tendencies in the book making realm.
Soon is better than perfect.

But no, that's not true.
Given my fussyness about paper and format,  I guess my perfectionist tendencies are reserved for the endless process of refining tools and processes that, however half-assed, are somehow perfect for me. 

I feel so fortunate to have these choices,
to be able to commit my angst to paper in a way that somehow helps to make it (the angst), less important, leaving me free to -- well, you know, save the world and stuff.

with watercolor and gouache.

My friend Jodi made the teensy travel paint sets.

Sharon, Vermont is not too bad.