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."

11.8 grams--

a week's work.

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

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

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

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

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

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

agreed to work with me. 

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was hard to get started
 writing today.

Then just as I began
it suddenly seemed essential
to re-arrange the books by my side--

-- a distracting and compelling activity,
especially once I started noticing
 the color red.

Then it seemed a good idea
to wind a warp,
though it wasn't until
I opened my palette box--

--and pulled out a handful
of madder-dyed yarn
(rather than the soft grey
​I thought I was after),

that I realized
​I was in search of a little courage.

Something about
about my ppps of last week
seems to have struck a chord
(at least to judge by
most of your marvelous
and much appreciated comments),
and this morning I found myself
wondering/worrying
if expressing my overwhelming
(and often inarticulate) fury,
at the endless and malicious incitement
to violence of a certain person in power
(however brief my actual words),
meant something new was afoot
with how I present 
myself and my work
here on the blog.

A little think
​was definitely in order.

And while I was winding,
(because, now and again,
everyone needs the advice
 of a magical helper),
I consulted the frog,
who was kindly on hand to help.

(Note: frog front feet are called hands
 by the humans who write the posts at the top of a google search;
 what the frogs call them, I do not know).

Anyway, the frog
(who has been observing me
for many many years),
said:
"Sarah - as far as I,
a two-halved cast iron frog
who stores toothpicks in her belly
can tell,
you have devoted your life
to environmental and social justice
(even if you haven't known to call it that),
and I would bet that your readers
have probably noticed by now
how you feel,
and what you are trying to do,
which means regular overt reminders,
are probably neither useful nor effective--
nor even very interesting
as such discourse is not, actually,
a thing at which you excel--
except, of course,
when they simply burst out,
because, after all, mostly,
​you cannot help being you."

What the frog means by that last statement,
I think, is that sometimes
I am a bit too much
​ of a muchness,
even for myself
(if that makes sense)--

Happily for me,
most of this exuberance
gets absorbed into and by
the results of said idea storms,
increasingly caught into the marvelous
and unexpected materials I continue to find,
 that are endlessly pleasurable
to work with and gaze upon.

And that
is the part
​ I like most
​to share here. 

So my task going forward, then
is to keep practicing
letting my eyes unfocus
from the things
they have been trained to see
by the generations of  white colonizers
from whom I am descended
("this is not a plant, this is a weed--
the man who said so went to Harvard,
or maybe his father did,
or was it Princeton--
and though I can't remember what
 he actually is known for
I'm sure it was terribly important
and anyway you're related to him
so it would behoove you to listen"),
other humans and beings
who have been here all along
and whose true names 
I will probably never know
(what they call themselves, I mean)
sometimes allow me to catch a glimpse.

And the prickly things
I was told I needed to get rid of
and replace with something "attractive"
turn out to be useful and powerful
in ways I am only beginning to learn--
even as they have been fiercely themselves all along
with no need for, or interest in, my approval. 

So thank you frog.
And you, dear reader --
for supporting this work
however it manifests itself.
And for coming along --
--nay, for participating--
in this time we have together
to learn about and make things 
with all that is provided by
​this glorious and abundant
(if we are care-full and kind
and occasionally ferocious in its defense,
and remember to ask permission
before attempting to transform
anything or anyone
because we think we can 'improve' kin),
earth.

And now that I've spilled my guts
all over these pages,

I think I'll return to threading
and reclaimed the color red
​in all its lefty glory,
 as I can.​

How else but with two aprons,
 to pick ​rapidly ripening raspberries

and carry a garden watering timer
​(aka phone)

when neither your linen shirt
nor the  hand-me-over-unfinished-skirt
you're wearing underneath
​has a pocket?

Not that I couldn't remedy that.
A nice patch pocket on the skirt
would be the work of a moment.
​
And the shirt
is a continual work in progress--
the fact that it already has
a teensy tapestry pocket on one side
no reason to neglect the other.

It's just that I wear the shirt so often--
 like every day I'm not wearing
  the linsey-woolsey one--
that I just haven't gotten around to it.

Yes -- it's hard to tell from the drawing
that I'm wearing the linsey-woolsey shirt.
But it is  only short-sleeved shirt I have,
so not a tricky deduction.
Besides, it was just a few days ago.

Also, though I occasionally
bend the absolute truth in my comics
(for narrative clarity only),
I generally aim for sartorial veracity--
if only because I love my clothes
and am oddly attached
to the idea that  future me
might like to enjoy seeing them too
(while remembering what. weenie I am about shopping).

It also helps with the laundry.
("I seem to have worn Sarah-Dippity Skirts
in almost every drawing for this entire diary--
definitely time for a bath!")

But I digress.
Paper pockets
were the topic of the moment.
And they might actually be
a compelling experiment. 
Though the coffee filter yarn
is itself pretty fragile,
especially as singles
(I can't imagine using it for warp for instance),
it seems to stand up remarkably well
 tightly packed in a weft faced plain weave--
at least to the wear and tear 
of life as a diary cover--
growing soft, pliable,
and almost leather-like
​(if a little grubby),
with daily use.

And true shifu,
(woven from hand spun washi)
has been used for clothing for centuries,
so the idea is not totally outrageous --
except of course, that washi
(and the resulting kami-ito)
is often specifically made
for strength and longevity
while coffee filters are (usually)
single use items.
Though expected to withstand
 boiling water and soggy grounds, 
they are definitely not​
as intrinsically strong as washi.
But who knows?
In case you haven't noticed,
my life is a constant work in progress --
my chief delights arising from
​experiments with the materials at hand,
no matter the source.

And as we all learn daily,
you never know 
what is going to happen.

Indeed, I'm super excited
about watching the evolution 
of this diary I just made.
Not only do I get to play
with the wedge weave tapestry
I wove last May.
(2-ply vs the singles of the last one)--

​but I also got (and get) 
to see how the dog bane binding cordage
(made in the fall of 2018),
behaves with constant handling.
It's pretty rough right now,
but super strong
even if I did have to punch
​extra large holes in my signatures. 

Now what was this post supposed to be about?
No idea. 
Undoubtedly something
satisfying and insightful
that would rock all our worlds--
though nothing could equal
the roller coaster ride
of real life just now--
my mind growing, I hope,
as strong and flexible
and welcoming of change and possibility
 as dog bane cordage.
So a bit of paper-induced absurdity
never hurts alongside, say, things like
the recent groundbreaking
 Supreme Court Decision
that almost half of Oklahoma
falls within a Native American reservation!

So I'll just end with this photo--
because it makes me happy,
and is a good reminder
to enjoy the hidden richness
in even the simplest
of moments.

​ps. Tiny chair carved by Linda Ligon's grandfather in about 1915 --
and though this chair didn't start
Thrums Books , Long Thread Media,
and the once-upon-a-lifechanging  Interweave Press,
Linda did, and all three make (and have made)
the world a better place for textiles
and their makers.

pps. Squash plant--a volunteer,
​grown by itself from a bit of compost,
whose contributions to my world
are blossoming even as I type.

ppps.  Because it has to be said:
​Fuck Trump