Nothing momentous this week--

rather, a motley collection of moments
that has somehow seemed worth noticing:

--Lovely tunes at an annual outdoor Renaissance Fair,
the straw-bale seating much improved
by the purse spindle in my hands
(9 gram Jenkins Kuchulu)
and the new Brandi hat to replace the one
that fell out of my pocket after years of faithful service
keeping my ears warm and the rain off my glasses. 

--A mis-matched collection
of  backstrap experiments

--The Sides-to-Middle sheet,
apparently enjoying its extended life
as much as I have been

-Two coyotes crossing the path
(not together, but both heading south --following the mice?)
and then a black cat we thought (pretended), was a panther. 

--Also, drawing some instructions
(hopefully something I can share before too long)

--Beverages with Rochelle,
are always magical
even when the thing I most like
about fancy cocktails
is drawing them.

--That moment after lunch,
when I can get a little work done
​without moving from the spot in the sun
​outside the woodshed.

--Oh yes,
and deciding on the 20 gram yellow Hepty,
for the spin-and-knit-as-I-go Summer Sweater.
For some odd reason​
though the spindle is four grams lighter than the wooden one,
the finished chain-plied yarn is a hair thicker
(2700 yards/lb vs 2900yards/lb)
and thus slightly easier to knit.
Also, the spindle shaft is longer on the yellow one,
so it holds more.

--More laundry today
but I haven't drawn it yet
(and anyway you're probably less excited than I am
about sketches of our undies
hanging in the sun),
so I'll leave you here--
messing around,
barefoot in the mud.

You never know what is going to happen
 on a trip to our cabin. 
Sometimes the Glacier Lilies are blooming,
and all is peace and birdsong and rattlesnakes.

And a big pile of possibility
always seems a good idea when I'm at home
where distractions are everywhere.

Those of you who got last week's newsletter
might remember that I do try to limit myself,
for experience has taught me
that too many choices 
actually makes makes it harder
to settle in.

Because it turned out
that what I really needed
was to wander around in my muck boots
​between rain storms

How could I possibly forget

how easily I am amused?

Tiny Tapestry Books.

Who knew?

Not me.

But perhaps the tapestries did.

Woven side by side last July

they refused to be parted.

Scraps of  Washi
​and Reeves Lightweight printing paper.

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

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,