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.

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. 

The title seemed appropriate  first thing this morning. 

After all, I have been having a grand and interesting time
weaving walnut-dyed coffee filters and zip loc bags
into mountains, rivers, houses and meadows
and I was excited to tell you about it. 
Indeed, I've been taking pics all along the way,
both to remind myself of what I did when,
​and so I could share them here.

But a short while ago
after transferring said photos to my computer,
I discovered that Apple,
in its wisdom
(and endless desire to make our lives easier, don't cha know),
had,
without asking,
converted all my photos to some new
(and oh so efficient),
format
that Weebly,
my website/ blog builder
 cannot read.
(for some reason it left the photo two up as a jpg. Why?  Maybe because it was  out of focus?).

Turns out that delving into the bowels of my settings
I could turn this new feature off for future photos
(though of course the device urged me not to),
which is how I managed to take
the pics you see here.

But all of this has annoyed me more than I can say.
so I think
instead of downloading and learning
 some OTHER new app
that will allow me to transform all my other photos
(the ones they automatically changed),
back into a form I can use,
so I can do what I originally planned--
which was to wax poetic
about the delicate process
of making yarn
from annual reports
​ and coffee filters--
I will go back to the loom
and transform
 dead leaves
into sky. 

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.

I'm off and away
to the 100 acre wood--
or will be when you read this.
​
Just now though,
 I'm in full-on
list-crossing,
pile-making
lonely loom mode,
which is not my fave
(to put it mildly),
and yet seems, alas, to be
​ the nature of the beast.

I'm trying to suck it up though--
or at least--
to put it more pleasantly--
to be one with the angst,
which mostly seems to involve
attempting to stop second guessing every moment,
while still packing the things I might need
for mixing my metaphors
in hope that  the interesting idea I had last spring
will have enough nourishment
to bear the as yet unknown fruit
that it will.

​
Till then,
I hope you enjoy
 your opposable thumbs
in whatever way(s)
you like best
(which for me today
apparently means
​ drawing my hands
in such a way
that no thumbs
​ are visible).

Obsessions.
​They happen.

 I call this one "material inquiry"
when I want to impress myself --
or use the other elegant phrases
I tried to conjure last week--
but while in its midst,
this infatuation mostly feels like joy.​

Except,
 I am learning as I go
so my information has gaping holes 
about which I know nothing,
and the things I do know
are somewhat situation specific.

Water, for instance.
Here in Idaho it is very dry right now
so I've found it necessary to soak the dry leaves
before splitting or twisting them into cordage
to prevent the strands from breaking.

A tub of water for a few hours works pretty well,
as does rolling in a wet towel overnight,
depending on character of the material.
A good soaking rain is great
(we had one once),
as the brown leaves around the edges of 
iris and daylily plants can be twisted immediately. 

Freshly made cordage (everything still damp),
is easy to weave with.
It packs in best
when going through a small section
of the open shed before packing
(one or two warps at a time instead of five or six
or, heaven forbid,
traveling selvedge to selvedge before packing).

If the cordage has had time to dry, however, 
(about five seconds around here right now),
it needs to be soaked till pliable enough
​ to bend smoothly around the warp.

If, however, a gal happens to soak her cordage
for too long in extra warm water
(cuz...tea... hot water in the kettle...),
said cordage may become over-saturated
and this may lead:
first  --to lovely, easy weaving
second --to shrinkage as the cordage dries,

third --to undesired needle weaving
and a revision of her original vision 
if she happens to have woven other elements
over the too wet cordage
using techniques/ materials that do not
want to slide down the warp
at the same rate as the cordage.

and fourth-- to a bit of house wrecking
when trying to force things
in an attempt to avoid needle weaving
and vision adjustment
.
Luckily, I kinda like the wrecked house
and its new island location
so decided not to repair it.

Of course I (that mystery gal),
likes all of it enough
to try other aqueous experiments,
for instance tossing a couple of rings of cordage
into a linen scouring bath
(linen skeins and washing soda
simmered for an hour+).

Astonishingly,
the cordage did not fall apart.

What it did do was grow plumply darker (dying itself?)
and develop a new character.
Wet, it felt a bit like holding
a string of dark brown pearls
and was lovely to weave--
when damp but no longer wet, that is.
Some lessons stick.

One person said the photo above looked like woven coffee beans.

After drying completely though,
the pearl/ coffee bean effect went away.
The cordage stayed quite dark,
and didn't exactly shrink as a whole,
but the character of the individual strands 
ended up different from any cordage I've used so far,
wet or dry,
and the bit with which I didn't weave
went boing.

No chance to try weaving with this weird stuff yet,
but rest assured that soon enough 
​it'll be damp once again
to see how it behaves, both off and on a loom.

Finding things out is  addictive, don't you think?

Part of me wishes that I knew
what I don't yet know,
so I could figure out how
to learn whatever those things are
in an organized way.
​
But then again...
The mystery is better.

At least until I do learn a thing,
whereupon I'm sure to write about here
because
duh
I'm blabby that way
even when apparently speechless with delight.

SO FAR:
-dead leaves,
-stuff that's in the studio,
-weird results
-four selvedge tapestry,

-all of you.

What a plus to know
you're here with me.
​Thanks.

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!

So you might have noticed a slight shift 
in the colors I've been using in my comics
since -- oh-- maybe May. 

All I really wanted, at first,
was a slightly brighter green.
Spring had arrived, after all,
and though it often poured rain on Farmer's Market mornings,

the grass, the trees, the new lettuces, the tunes
seemed to call for something more exuberant than
the greyed green  of the indigo/yellow ochre combo
from my beloved limited palette of last winter.

Just a little bright yellow, I thought --
something like the weld  with which I dye wool.
And then a couple of weeks ago
as I was messing about with madder,
I remembered lakes.

Some of the best known historic lakes
​are actually made from my standard  natural dyes:
madder (alizarin crimson)
cochineal (carmine)
and--ta da--weld, 
​which apparently is the source one of Vermeer's favorite yellows.

With the help of  this site,
and some glorious photos,
I did a few rough experiments
the results of which have.... varied.
The madder turned out more orange than I imagined,
the cochineal leans toward purple rather than carmine,
and the weld is more than a little chalky.

But I still ended up with some photogenic pigment,

that blended easily with gum arabic and honey

and allows me to paint my 
 linen shift (a summer staple)
​ with some accuracy.

Also, the greens are definitely brighter.
Weld and indigo watercolors combine nicely on paper
as they do on yarn.

Palette-wise though, I am left in a bit of a muddle.
 For even as I enjoy the new colors,
they can be overwhelming
(particularly the cochineal)
and it would not surprise me a bit
​ if I narrow back down---

once berry season is over. 

A couple of days ago in the Fringeless class
someone asked: 
​"How do you do that cool picking-up-the-sheds thing?"

The class includes a number of weaving videos
including a rather long one
in which I weave most of the piece in the photo below--
chatting all the while about what I'm doing and why I'm doing it.
At least I talk about building shapes.

Apparently I don't talk much about 
what I'm actually doing to open the sheds
and pass the bobbins however,
so I thought I'd try to explain further here
in case those of you not taking the class might find it useful too.

As I may have mentioned before,
I adopted both techniques--
first  bobbins then finger picking--
after a decade or more of  butterflies, beater and treadles.
Once again, it was Archie Brennan who made it seem worth a try.
With a big pipe loom warped and ready
I committed to weaving the entire thing
 (Hang Up and Draw first tapestry on the linked page)
using only bobbins.
 I started with leashes as well
(long heddles you can grab and pull), 
but before long found myself finger picking both sheds
so haven't bothered with leashes or butterflies since. 

Anyway, yesterday I decided to try to film myself weaving.
Without Rebecca Mezoff and her
excellent eye and amazing camera
the following two videos are not the snazziest thing in the world,
but here they are nonethless:
1-over and back, over and back, at 'slowed down normal' speed
2-over and back in super slow motion
3- a rather wordy description of what I think I'm doing
(which may, or may not, be what I'm actually doing
but is the closest I can come)
4. Some assorted comic drawings which might help too

 EDIT!!!!!!!OH NO!  The videos vanished.  SOSOSOOS sorry 
I have no idea what happened but will try to figure out
or fine another video solution
They take HOURS to upload so it'll be a while I'm afraid.
After all my boasting and that marvelous feeling of doing something cool
Maybe words and comics are the best after all
​SIGH.
​

The Wordy Description
-Bobbin in right hand going both ways, always
-Shed picked with left hand going both ways

OPEN SHED
(in this case weft moving from left to right but not always)

LEFT HAND:
(always picking up the warps from left to right no matter which direction the weft is going)
-decides which warp to pick up first,
- slides up that warp towards the shed sticks where the opening is wider
-fingers slip behind three to five raised warps
-pull them open
RIGHT HAND:
-slips into shed just opened
-passes bobbin through the space behind the warp and back into the same hand
(bobbin now in front of the warp)
-pulls slightly on the weft while 
LEFT HAND:
-releases warp threads
-drops down to grab the end of the weft
-adjusts weft tension
(leaving enough weft in the shed to make a nice bubble)
-holds onto weft while
RIGHT HAND:
uses bobbin to tap weft into place.

PICK SHED
LEFT HAND:
(scooping up warps from left to right no matter which direction the weft is going)
-chooses  warp at the edge of section to be picked up,
-pushes back against the open warp to the left of that warp
-reaches back and grabs desired "back" warp between thumb and middle finger
- pulls that warp forward, holding it on forefinger 
-moves one warp to the right, over the next open warp 
-pushes back against that open warp as before to make space to grab next "back" warp
 continuing in this way until 3 - 5 warp threads (about one inch worth) have been grabbed.
-pull to open that section of the shed
RIGHT HAND 
​​-slips into space just opened
-passes bobbin through the space behind the warp and back into the same hand
(bobbin now in front of the warp)
-pulls slightly on the weft while...
LEFT HAND:
-releases warp threads
-drops down to grab the end of the weft
-adjusts weft tension 
( leaving enough weft in the shed to make a nice bubble, which is easier with pick shed as the released warp adds its own tension)
-holds onto weft while
RIGHT HAND:
uses bobbin to tap weft into place.

All of this takes a LOT Of words,
and I generally find Comics to be a more efficient medium
than plain text, but hopefully the videos make things somewhat clear.
And alas, if I had to draw an entire comic 
for every blog post, you'd get one a couple of times a year!

NOTE: Bobbins
Still REALLY happy with both sets of new bobbins I wrote about here
Both makers are HIGHLY RECOMMENDED

NOTE: Sett
​ The warp on the loom in the videos above is sett at 10 epi,
8 epi is easier and smoother (more room to teach and grab)
but much of this depends on the size of your warp 
and the size of your fingers.
If your fingers are large and/or you like to work at closer setts
I  recommend some kind of shedding device for the pick shed --
Leashes and String heddles (very short leashes), are both excellent.
I describe the latter in Backstrap Dialogues,
and will put a detail below, which should help.

So that's it for now --
EXCEPT! that for those of you not on Instagram
I wanted to include a photo
of  the finished running shoes
I was working on last week!
SO happy.
(Shoe pattern from Simple Shoe Making)