tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-211625742024-02-18T17:41:36.573-08:00As the Whorl SpinsMichelle Boydhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04749215517370187042noreply@blogger.comBlogger240125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21162574.post-73540063327660336762017-05-24T14:39:00.000-07:002017-05-24T14:39:02.221-07:00Debris This post has taken me almost two weeks to write. Or, more accurately, almost three months. I have an alarmingly long list of partial drafts stacking up on my dashboard, none of which will be likely to ever see the light of day as time goes on. And on. And on.<br />
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I have a perfectly valid reason for all of the false starts and delays over the past three months. I picked up a bit of a common cold bug while I was out on Salt Spring Island. No big deal. Except that I have a hyperactive immune system. So while my Incredible Hulk immune system smashed that wee cold before it even had a chance to get fully established in my sinuses, those pesky antibodies proceeded to smash a lot of other stuff too. I spent two months in full flare, pretending nothing was wrong and pushing through projects and trips and meetings. I've been feeling better for the past two or three weeks, but I am now in what I call "The Debris Phase." This is the point at the end of a flare where I discover all of the soft tissue bits that have been damaged by the swelling in my joints. Tendinitis, muscle strains, torn cartilage, odd pockets of fluid in big joints that make things a little unstable...all the debris left behind.<br />
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I have been here before, and I will be here again. That is the joy of chronic illnesses like Rheumatoid Arthritis. They ebb and flow. I have been ill long enough to recognize the cycles, and I know that after the Debris Phase comes the Feeling Great Phase and then the Overdoing Everything to Make Up For the Flare Phase.<br />
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This time around, though, I am noticing another kind of debris. I am seeing the emails that I never returned. The text message conversations that were left hanging. The bill payments missed. The birthday cards unsent. The half-finished weaving projects. The partially filled bobbins laying on top of half braids of fibre. The blog posts stalled in the draft stage.<br />
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You see, while I thought I was "pushing through" and coping with my life, things were slipping through the cracks. Nothing major. A few bills that had to be caught up. I probably owe a few people a chat or a coffee. Nobody will die because I didn't notice these things while I was out of service. But it scares me. I am at a juncture personally and professionally where SO MANY opportunities are presenting themselves. And I am afraid to take them.<br />
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The very worst debris from a flare is this fear that I can't. I can't be healthy. I can't keep track of bills and birthdays and blogs. I can't be reliable. I can't plan or risk or dream, because who knows when the next flare is coming. How can I commit to a future when I can't guarantee that I can follow through with it?<br />
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I know this is simply more debris. I will clear it away and find my path again. <br />
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And now, a random picture of tulips...<br />
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... that I planted last fall, because they popped up this spring to remind me that I do get things done.Michelle Boydhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04749215517370187042noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21162574.post-91376432422966066812017-02-01T11:45:00.003-08:002017-02-20T10:42:09.747-08:00How Weaving Saved My LifeIf you used to read this blog regularly (back when I posted regularly), you will know that about 4 years ago, after a relatively healthy life, I began a winding journey through rheumatoid arthritis and lupus. Coming shortly after my 51st birthday, with a busy teaching schedule and an exhibit in the works, the diagnosis was devastating. But nowhere near as devastating as the pain and loss of mobility, especially in my hands.<br>
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At the time of diagnosis, my rheumatologist was pleased to hear that I worked with my hands as a spinner and knitter. He and my occupational therapy team encouraged me to knit daily and spin as much as I could to keep my hands limber and my joints mobile. I gladly took their advice and knitted and spun.<br>
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But then, I started noticing little things going wrong. Some days, the swelling in my finger joints made knitting impossibly painful. Tendons and ligaments in my wrists and fingers would rupture suddenly. The tendons in my wrists would become so inflamed that I could not even bend my wrists. Odd swellings appeared on the back of my hands that blocked the movement of both fingers and wrists.<br>Each crisis was addressed. A series of splints and braces were employed and I soldiered on, knitting less, but holding out hope that things would get better.<br>
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Until the Christmas of 2014. I was deep into my Christmas knitting when my thumbs failed. Completely. To the point where I could not hold a cup of coffee, let alone knitting needles. I stopped knitting. I sulked. I moped. I didn't realize it then, but that was the beginning of a long spiral into depression that I only started climbing out of a few months ago.<br>
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After a couple of months of this, I was having a conversation with my daughter, who has battles of her own, about staying creative with chronic illness. She suggested I give weaving another shot, but I told her I was hesitant to do that because of the precision and control needed to make good cloth by hand. My hands couldn't handle the fiddly bits and my wrists are sometimes like solid blocks. I've tried weaving this way, and let me tell you, my selvedges would have made even the most relaxed and generous weaver weep.<br>
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But later, pondering upon our conversation, I remembered I had attended a talk about a style of weaving from Japan that was accessible to even the most handicapped of weavers. Immediately, the name of the style and the name of the weaver I had heard talk came to me, and I emailed Terri Bibby at Salt Spring Weaving to ask her about Saori weaving.<br>
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By no small coincidence, Terri happened to be preparing for a workshop at the Edmonton Weavers Guild, which was the closest guild to me at that time. So I signed up, not too sure what I was getting in to.<br>
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By lunch time on the first day, I was in love.<br>
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Saori weaving is usually tabby, plainweave. It is not about straight selvedges. It is not about regular patterns. It is not about perfection.<br>
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It is about finding the beauty in imperfection.<br>
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It is about being in the moment while you weave.<br>
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It is about weaving what you feel. Here. Now. With no concern about the end product.<br>
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It is exactly what I needed to be doing. Then, in those first dark days of my illness, and now.<div><br></div><div>I have been weaving in the Saori style now for two years. I have learned to embrace the moment and I have stopped mourning who I was. I have found who I am now. Perfectly imperfect. Messy around the edges. Unconstrained by expectations. </div><div><br></div><div>I am joyful. </div><div><br></div><div>Every day. </div><div><br></div><div>I have no doubt that I would still be suffering from depression and fighting for normalcy if I had not started weaving this way. There are days when I am pretty sure the weaving is even easing the chronic pain caused by permanent damage to my joints. I can lose myself in colour and texture and not notice that my hip is screaming at me. I have reduced my dependency on opioid painkillers and embraced alternative healing modalities. I am living more gently. I have my life back. <br><br>Today marks another milestone in my Saori journey. Today, I begin my time as Artist in Residence at Saori Salt Spring. I will spend the next 10 days exploring Saori, pushing my boundaries as a weaver and living for each moment, each throw of the shuttle. I'm posting this today to invite you to join my journey, here and on Instagram, where you can find me as @spindleprincess.<br><br>
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<br></div>Michelle Boydhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04749215517370187042noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21162574.post-42308087271857314222017-01-25T12:13:00.000-08:002017-01-26T12:19:17.337-08:00SilenceIt's been nearly a year since I posted anything on this blog. Getting back to writing has been a big priority for me lately, but I deliberately waited until today to post.<br>
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Today is Bell Let's Talk Day here in Canada. This is a day that happens every year, where the communications media corporation Bell Canada promotes talking about mental health to erase the stigma and promote awareness that mental health effects us all. I chose today to reopen my blog because, simply put, I took the past year away from it for mental health reasons.<br>
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A lot of things happened in this last year. Big things. Stressful things. Things about life and family and health and career. And I found myself, for the first time in 55 years, without words.<br>
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You could call it a writer's block, I suppose. But it was more than that. There was too much happening, and not enough. I couldn't organize thoughts, I couldn't face deadlines, I couldn't say the thing I needed to say in a way that others would understand. I talked and talked and talked and said absolutely nothing.<br>
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I was overwhelmed.<br>
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I shut down in a lot of ways.<br>
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I found myself in a new community, alone for most of the day, in a great deal of pain, with no one to talk at. I withdrew into my own small space.<br>
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Then, in that little, quiet, lonely place, I found peace. I understood that talking and talking and talking...or writing and writing and writing...were not what I needed to do just then. What I needed was silence.<br>
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I realized that when I was talking and writing, I was making words and thoughts for others.<br>
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So I took some time to listen to the thoughts in my head, the words that were for me.<br>
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I took more time to listen to others, too.<br>
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Of course, I did not shut down completely. I did not take a vow of silence. I still talked to family and friends. I still wrote articles and essays. I simply slowed the chatter in my mind, curbed the need to let that chatter spill out. I started to think more slowly, to contemplate my words before I spoke them. Before I wrote them.<br>
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And I found a new voice. One that is kinder, one that is stronger.<br>
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I am starting to talk again. And I want you to talk, too. So, please, talk. Tell me your stories. Tell me your fears and your anxiety. Tell me what makes you mad and what scares you. I am ready to listen, without fear, without judgement.<br>
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I am ready to write.<br>
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(I make no promises that I will do so regularly, though!)<br>
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Michelle Boydhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04749215517370187042noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21162574.post-48811529187890023122016-02-02T10:08:00.001-08:002019-08-02T10:24:36.286-07:00The Face of Facing Rheumatoid DiseaseI have done it again.<br />
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Somehow 6 months have passed, without a single post to this blog. It's not that I didn't have things to post about. There have been trips and transitions and adventures aplenty. There has been spinning and weaving--so much weaving. There have been developments and changes and growth and frustrations and....all those things people blog about. </div>
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I hesitate to call it "writer's block", but, really, that has been the problem. I have had much to write about, but each time I sit down to write, there is nothing. There is much to say, there just are not words to say it with.</div>
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But today, I have words. Today, I am inspired to write. Because today is Rheumatoid Disease Awareness Day. Today is a day to share and to write about the true face of rheumatoid disease. To write about the root of my writer's block.</div>
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I am still relatively new to rheumatoid disease. This month marks the third anniversary of the sudden onset of the symptoms that led me to a rheumatologist and the eventual diagnosis of rheumatoid arthritis and/or lupus. Three short years, yet a lifetime.</div>
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When I was first diagnosed, I was told I had mild to moderate disease activity. That we had caught it early and that I could be in remission within 2 to 3 years with minimal treatment. Blood tests indicated that I fell into a category that required minimal treatment. That didn't seem too bad, though I did have to learn to inject myself with methotrexate, a chemotherapy drug with a rather frightening reputation for nasty side-effects. (It turns out I tolerate methotrexate quite well. Side effects happen, but they are mild.) But, hey, 2 to 3 years. I could handle that.</div>
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And then the circus began. I was referred to an education program, where I was monitored and trained by a team of physiotherapists, occupational therapists, and dieticians. A joint count was done, finding moderate to severe inflammation in 57 out of 60 joints. After three months, it was determined that there was permanent damage to multiple joints in my hands and a series of splints were fitted for different joints and for different functions. X-rays and MRIs and nuclear bone scans became a thing I did. Monthly blood tests are routine now<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">. Medications were tried and discarded, dosages were fiddled with. Blood tests levelled out, with little to no inflammation showing up, but my joint symptoms spread into my tendons. I now have chronic tenosynovitis in and around all of my joints, from the tiny joints in my toes to the big rotational joints in my hips and shoulders, and inflammation ateach tendon insertion (called enthesitis).</span></div>
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I have symptoms in other parts of my body too. Shortness of breath and wheezing and even occasional crackling in my lungs. Hoarseness caused by the inflammation of the joints around my vocal chords. Chronic bursitis has developed in my large joints, and I get injections into those bursae every 3 months. I get dizzy spells that last for weeks, but are completely without any physical cause. I have bouts of fever, and every now and then I get a rash on my torso and shoulders. Headaches and fatigue are my constant companions. I have something wrong with my wrists that does not have name. The doctors all just call it "hmmm, that's weird".</div>
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This is my "mild to moderate" disease.</div>
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This past summer, I hit my biggest roadblock yet. I had to change rheumatologists when my first one moved away. The new guy was very thorough, and very kind. He told me that all of my indicators for RA appeared to be well controlled. But. My other symptoms suggested to him that I was still quite sick. That the tenosynovitis and the lungs and the headaches suggested an ra/lupus overlap to him. And that, bottom line, this was as good as it was ever going to get. </div>
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Dosages were upped again to their safe maximums. But this is as far as they go. There are other drugs called biologics that may help, but my original diagnosis of mild-to-moderate and my new diagnosis of lupus keep me from qualifying for those drugs at this time under the protocols in place here in Alberta. The physios, the OTs, and my GP have all done a marvellous job of supporting me and offering pain management and joint protection. I am not well, but I am functional.</div>
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So this brings me back to that writer's block thing. My block began the day I was told "this is as good as it's going to get". It has taken me until now to realize that, at that moment, I lost hope. That I had been expecting remission within 2 or 3 years. That I was going to have to live like this for...who knows how long. And I stopped.</div>
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It has taken me 6 months to accept that pain and stiffness are just part of the deal for now. That there are ways to work with the disease, and to work around it. To truly understand the limits placed on me, and then to work with and around those limits. And to recognize that just because those specific limits exist, that my life is not limited. This may be my new normal, and while I may miss the old normal, it's really not so bad. I am learning what is truly important to me. And I am embracing it. I am moving out of the hopelessness and forward into...something new.</div>
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And today is another day. Today is the day to share my story. To show you the face of Real Rheumatoid Disease. That face can look like fear and frustration and hopelessness sometimes. But it can also look like resolve and courage and acceptance. It can look like the face of a warrior who has taken some time to study her enemy and understand her own vulnerability and choses to go forward into battle in spite of the dangers. It can look like a woman sitting down to write on a neglected blog to share her story and reclaim some of her power back from a disease that is misunderstood and undertreated.</div>
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This is my RD face. There are many, many others. Look on Twitter and Facebook today for the hashtag #therealrd and read their stories, too. </div>
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Michelle Boydhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04749215517370187042noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21162574.post-39275543328014270562015-07-02T11:07:00.001-07:002015-07-02T11:07:44.137-07:00Fibre Week and BeyondAnother Fibre Week at Olds College has come and gone, and once again, I have lived to tell the tale.<div><br></div><div>(For those of you who do not know about Fibre Week, a brief primer: Fibre Week is an annual celebration of all things fibre hosted by Olds College in Olds, Alberta, Canada. The centerpiece of the week is the Master Spinner/Master Weaver programming offered by the college, but the week also includes a short workshop program, a vendors' marketplace, fleeces shows and sales, and a variety of social events.)</div><div><br></div><div>I wear two hats at this event: Master Spinner instructor and Workshop Coordinator, so even before I got sick, Fibre Week was exhausting. Knowing this and taking my doctor's gloom and doom as a warning, I worked very hard for the week leading in to Fibre Week to organize myself so that I could conserve energy and reduce pain and impairment as much as possible.</div><div><br></div><div>And it worked.</div><div><br></div><div>I'm not going to say nothing hurt or that I didn't come home absolutely exhausted, but I did manage to drive there, shop, teach and visit, then drive home with stops to pick up furniture on the way. Much fibre was purchased. Many friends were hugged. I got to see the fashion show, which included this SAORI piece I made...</div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNvv87j_rLyhrpYW_RwwYpR6c6rZnkobdAjZHJbR3-8Rn4sxfsH0CuZ392HR4rgDP0KBwX1wMf0EZiKXOMQj2-0RFFgUn5eogedGEZux6oMC9_MS852TpSldT1pLBjvHJrfjHMQg/s640/blogger-image--354130197.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNvv87j_rLyhrpYW_RwwYpR6c6rZnkobdAjZHJbR3-8Rn4sxfsH0CuZ392HR4rgDP0KBwX1wMf0EZiKXOMQj2-0RFFgUn5eogedGEZux6oMC9_MS852TpSldT1pLBjvHJrfjHMQg/s640/blogger-image--354130197.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">...and I had the privilege of teaching this really remarkable group of women...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi23URmFwUNdi0GnWjpaJ_7WAU7M0E7G7yTB1bWuT4ZHtgOytHUPangGaHD_vdBUDIj_ArrK5Ic1kDe4am1iRFYPQE_92rqHOu_I0367hQF3jPQmbrOAbZrMo10LCj9gtK-HG4kAA/s640/blogger-image-728080498.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi23URmFwUNdi0GnWjpaJ_7WAU7M0E7G7yTB1bWuT4ZHtgOytHUPangGaHD_vdBUDIj_ArrK5Ic1kDe4am1iRFYPQE_92rqHOu_I0367hQF3jPQmbrOAbZrMo10LCj9gtK-HG4kAA/s640/blogger-image-728080498.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">The beds were hard and the food was abysmal, and there were details that we as organizers had overlooked that led to brief moments of stress, but the people and the fibre more than made up for the shortcomings. As they always do. This is why I go back, year after year.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">This Fibre Week was a little different, though. Along with all the usual stress and chaos, I received a phone call on the Tuesday night that has, very literally, changed my life. My husband had been laid off from Keyano College, where he had worked for nearly 24 years, due to budget cuts and organizational changes.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">I was pretty shaken by the news. I lost all interest in fibre and spinning and teaching at that moment, and just needs to be home with the partner I have shared my life with for the past 33 years. But then, after a good cry, a shot of Jack Daniels (okay, a double...or two), and a pep talk from a good friend, I decided not to pack my bags and rush home. Dealing with that crisis could wait-my husband, though in shock, was fine and we are not suddenly destitute, thanks to wise investments and a generous severance package. And I had a great class to finish teaching. There was fibre to touch and twist. I stayed and finished up my class, then had a meeting to start the planning for next year in motion.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">The time and space between me and the news was probably a good thing. I did not get hysterical (after the initial panic, anyway) and, let me tell you, it sure took my mind off my disease! I left Olds feeling relaxed, with that exhausted but happy post-Fibre Week glow.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">I've been home a week now. I'm busy getting ready for my next teaching trip, which is just 10 days away. And my husband and I have realized something. Something big. We can go anywhere, do anything. We are not so financially strapped that we need to find work tomorrow or starve. Our kids are grown and educated and responsible for themselves. We owe next to nothing on the tiny home we have loved for 20 plus years and only have 3 more car payments left. We are young enough to do almost anything, from farming to urban life to living on a boat for a few years.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">We are free.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">And the dreaming begins. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">So tell me. What would you do if you had the freedom to choose any life you wanted?</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">...because we're making a list!</div><br></div><br></div></div>Michelle Boydhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04749215517370187042noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21162574.post-75399035467982218652015-06-10T10:20:00.001-07:002015-06-10T10:21:07.553-07:00Re-emergence<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRUMcYd3kdSRgVRH0LNpMRSSPrUKEmJlHYmuoIIfCIxr71F7-MpaN_q-emMGbQ7OirO78QamuWl0eo2SzjBfYhxYTiaPT1aKSWZgxjL6kPK4nba_QB43uo6pXy3QR71xiTLsSNeA/s640/blogger-image-1358165534.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRUMcYd3kdSRgVRH0LNpMRSSPrUKEmJlHYmuoIIfCIxr71F7-MpaN_q-emMGbQ7OirO78QamuWl0eo2SzjBfYhxYTiaPT1aKSWZgxjL6kPK4nba_QB43uo6pXy3QR71xiTLsSNeA/s640/blogger-image-1358165534.jpg"></a></div> <i>(Image shamelessly stolen from RawForBeauty's Facebook page.)</i><br><div><br></div><div>It's been a while.</div><div><br></div><div>You see, I've kind of been going though some stuff. Heavy-duty stuff. Chronic pain, serious medications, physical impairment, crippling existential angst. You know, stuff nobody wants to deal with. Ever.</div><div><br></div><div>When I developed chronic tenosynovitis in my wrists and hands and I had to give up knitting, I felt like I had lost a little piece of my soul. So I've sort of shut down, closed myself off. Become a hermit. </div><div><br></div><div>Because I was afraid.</div><div><br></div><div>Afraid that I would lose all the other things that I loved to do, like spinning and weaving and cooking. Afraid that without those things, my life would have no meaning. Afraid that I was exaggerating my pain or my disease (the medical term is "catastrophising"). Afraid that things would never get better, and continue getting worse. Afraid that doctors would not take me seriously. Afraid of what people would think of me. Afraid that friends would leave me if they caught a whiff of weakness or neediness. Afraid that I was not good enough anymore. Afraid that a disease had stolen my life.</div><div><br></div><div>Afraid that no one would read this blog anymore if I wrote whiny posts about how much rheumatoid arthritis hurts and how it is changing my life every day.</div><div><br></div><div>And, you know what? A lot of those things did happen. I had to cut back on the amount of spinning I do (and so a lot less worsted spinning!). And life did feel less meaningful. I was told that my pain couldn't be that bad, because it was "only tendinitis", after all. Things did get worse as the tenosynovitis spread through my body and I developed some fairly major bursitis issues, too, leading to more pain and some mobility issues. Some doctors dismissed me out of hand. Some friends simply disappeared from my life.</div><div><br></div><div>So I wallowed in my hermitage.</div><div><br></div><div>But some small spark kept me fighting. I just didn't realize how hard I WAS fighting until yesterday.</div><div><br></div><div>Today I see that when I cut back on spinning, it opened up more time for weaving. I see that my definition of a meaningful life is evolving, and different things give my life meaning today. I found a few compassionate medical professionals who verified that my pain was real, that it was indeed part of the journey through rheumatoid arthritis, and that there were treatment options. I have learned that moving slowly and cautiously still gets me from Point A to Point B, and that it gives me time to stop and smell the roses as I go. I have learned that doctors are fallible, and if one does not hear you, you just have to go to the next one and speak a little more clearly. And I learned that I really do have some pretty amazing friends, who love me in spite of my pain and my newfound slowness.</div><div><br></div><div>So I'm beginning to see the last 6 months of my life less as a period of hiding and hermitting and more <br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">as a period of metamorphosis. I have been in a cocoon, buffering myself from the outside world as I grow into the new life I have to live. I am still changing, still struggling to accept limitations and alterations. I am having a hard time letting go of old beliefs and expectations. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">And here I am, slowly emerging from my cocoon, unfurling fragile and wet wings, hoping that they will be strong enough to allow me to soar. We shall see if I am ready to share my story and return to this blog.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">I still have much to sort through, so bear with me. I am still learning what it means to live with chronic illness. I am restructuring my life, my entire world view. It's not easy, and it sure ain't pretty, but I'm tired of hiding and hoping it will go away. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Let's see where the road leads.</div></div>Michelle Boydhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04749215517370187042noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21162574.post-16680888177232458992015-02-02T14:25:00.001-08:002015-02-02T14:26:13.443-08:00LabelsHow do you label yourself?<div><br></div><div>We all put labels on ourselves. Mother, architect, artist, nurse, accountant, teacher. Gay, straight, black, white, Christian, Muslim. Smart, sexy, socially awkward, efficient, funny, stressed. Sometimes we combine these labels, as in "stressed Christian accountant" or "efficient gay mother". </div><div><br></div><div>Labels can be very effective in introducing ourselves to new people or situations: "Hi, I'm your new neighbor. I'm a dentist who likes to garden." Resumes, social media, dating sites, the first day of school. These are all good places to use labels. They are markers that others can use to remember us and our role in their lives.</div><div><br></div><div>But what happens when those labels change? When your label changes from "wife" to "divorcee", from "doctor" to "retiree", from "general manager" to "CEO"? Does that change who you are. Does your value go up or down? Do you look different, feel different?</div><div><br></div><div>If we are lucky, we recognise that the labels we use to identify ourselves are not permanent. They are sticky notes we put on our foreheads for the comfort of others. But some of us begin to feel that the label is who we are. We can feel trapped by our labels, or wear them like armour. We can find comfort in our label, a sense of self. The label becomes our identity.</div><div><br></div><div>This is what happened to me. I was happy with my label. I was "fibre artist", with sub-labels like "spinner" and "knitter" and "teacher". I was mother, wife, cook, gardener, writer. I was busy, smart, efficient.</div><div><br></div><div>Then I was diagnosed with Rheumatoid Disease. I became "chronically ill". I became a "patient". I became slow and sore and fatigued. </div><div><br></div><div>These new labels plastered themselves over the old ones, obscuring them, and pretty soon I had no idea what I was. Who I was. </div><div><br></div><div>I did feel different. My value did change, at least in my own mind it did. I felt that everything I was has been torn away from me by this disease. I tried hard to continue tonwear the old labels. I plastered a smile on my face and charged forward. The doctors and therapists all told me to maintain as much of my normal life as possible. So I did.</div><div><br></div><div>Or, rather, I tried to.</div><div><br></div><div>It became very apparent that my old labels and my new diagnosis were not going to be compatible. Even so, I fought to hold on to those labels for over a year. I tried to keep up the pace of travel and work and family involvement and art and socializing and gardening. It got harder and harder to keep up the pace, with side-effects from medications and deformities happening in over-stressed and inflamed joints. Fatigue became overwhelming and flares stopped me dead in my tracks for weeks at a time. </div><div><br></div><div>Pretty soon, the labels by which I had lived my life became overwhelming. They became impossible dreams, or sticky tar pits fromwhich I could not escape. I felt like an imposter, wearing labels that were no longer mine.</div><div><br></div><div>I gave up.</div><div><br></div><div>I let go of those labels. I crawled into a little hole and stayed warm while the cold and dark of winter beat on my joints and my soul. I floundered without my labels, not sure who I was and what to do.</div><div><br></div><div>Then, slowly, I realized that letting go of those labels did not mean I had let go of who I was. No, sir. Instead, letting go of those labels set me free to be whoever I wanted to be. I can still be a fibre artist without being a knitter. I can still be a mother without being efficient. I can still be a gardener, even if my hips won't let me bend over some days. I am adapting old skills to new tools and techniques, as an artist and a person.</div><div><br></div><div>I also began to see that my new labels did not limit my existence. Being a patient does not mean I am at the mercy of doctors and instiutions, it means I am part of a team working to make my life better. Being chronically ill does not mean I am an invalid, it simply means that I have to live one day at a time and embrace each day for what it is. In some ways, the new labels have given me much more power and confidence than the old ones ever did.</div><div><br></div><div>I am not my labels. I simply am.</div><div><br></div>Michelle Boydhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04749215517370187042noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21162574.post-19927993536753555822014-12-11T12:53:00.000-08:002014-12-11T14:12:34.880-08:00A Christmas Without KnittingI have been knitting for 30 years.<br />
<br />
I have been knitting Christmas gifts for 29 years.<br />
<br />
Or, rather, I have knit Christmas gifts for the past 28 years. This year, for the first time in over a quarter-century, I am not knitting a single gift.<br />
<br />
If you are a knitter, or if you know me, you know this is A Big Deal. Christmas knitting is as much a ritual of the season as trimming the tree and leaving cookies out for Santa. The planning, the dreaming, the anticipation of the recipient's delight. Thinking of that special person as I knit miles of ribbing. The clever hiding places that I stashed that knitting if someone walked unexpectedly through the door as I was working on their gift. Casting on one last pair of mittens on December 22, because they would look great with the hat I had made. The tense race to have that last project cast off by Christmas Eve. These have been a huge chunk of my festive season for most of my life.<br />
<br />
I love my Christmas knitting. It allows me to be generous with those I love without feeling that I've given in to commercialism. It gives me a sense of connection with my gift and with the season. I have always considered it one of the best parts of Christmas.<br />
<br />
But not this year.<br />
<br />
Now, this was not originally the plan. I spent much of September perusing Ravelry and Knitty and the hundreds of magazines accumulated over the past 30 years for inspiration. October was spent considering yarn, rifling through my stash or ordering the perfect yarn. Early November saw the rolling of balls of yarn, the casting on, and long, lazy evenings of knitting. I knit a couple of scarfs for<br />
a puppet show. I was rolling nicely along on the gifts, with more in the planning stages. Then my<br />
thumbs stopped working.<br />
<br />
Stopped working. Not "got stiff". Not "started to hurt". Stopped. Working. Did not move. Locked. Both of them.<br />
<br />
Okay, I had been pushing through a bit of a flare, but I wore my compression gloves and my wrist splints to protect the joints. Sure, there was some stiffness in my hands as I worked, but the gentle rhythm of knitting tends to work the kinks out and get those stiff fingers moving. But this was different. My thumbs were painful, swollen and frozen at a strange angle. I decided that I needed to take a day or two to rest. I called all the various assorted doctors and physiotherapists, making appointments for the earliest dates they had (between a week and a month into the future). I looked into different knitting styles, hoping that I would find one that was more ergonomically friendly to stiff thumbs. I discovered just how much <i>everything</i> in human life depends upon having opposable<br />
thumbs.<br />
<br />
Eventually, the pain eased. My left thumb started to move, then my right-though that one still won't bend at the top joint. Everyone, from the orthopaedic surgeon who fixed my broken wrist years ago to my current rehab team, has told me that knitting is good for stiff joints, so I picked up my knitting again. There was a mild sense of panic in the back of my mind about the fast approach of mailing deadlines, but I knit on.<br />
<br />
For about half an hour. And my right thumb stopped again. Just stopped.<br />
<br />
I finally got in to see my primary care physician this week, and he was full of bad news.<br />
Anemia, bursitis in one hip, advanced osteoarthritis in the other, deterioration in my lumbar vertebrae, and something with the charming name <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Osteitis_pubis" target="_blank">osteitis pubis</a>. And that was <i>before</i> he looked at my hands.<br />
<br />
It didn't take him long to determine that something is wrong. The prime suspect is <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/De_Quervain_syndrome" target="_blank">de Quervain's tenosynovitis</a>, but also in the pool are bursitis and osteoarthritis. There will be x-rays and MRIs and a visit to the rehab team before the culprit is revealed, and that will take time, especially at this time of year.<br />
<br />
So, long story short, there will be no knitting for a while.<br />
<br />
I feel like I just got a stocking full of coal. I am struggling with the idea of not Christmas knitting. Not because the gift bit is important, but because it has been such a part of my celebrations at this time of year for so long. Because knitting has been so much of my life for so long.<br />
<br />
I will rest, and I will take the anti-inflammatories, and I will find other ways to celebrate the<br />
season. I know I will continue to feel as if something is missing, as if Christmas is not quite right. But I also know that, if I rest and recoup this Christmas, I can knit next Christmas. So, I will bake and buy my gifts and spend time with those I love<br />
<br />
And start planning next year's Christmas knitting.<br />
<br />
<br />Michelle Boydhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04749215517370187042noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21162574.post-81306241678191238492014-10-28T15:43:00.003-07:002014-10-28T15:43:55.576-07:00ResistanceResistance, as the Borg say, is futile. This, however, does not stop me from practicing it, especially when it comes to my Rheumatoid Arthritis.<br />
<br />
It's been a year since I was diagnosed and I still find myself fighting with both the disease and my self. I've worked hard over this past year to accept the limitations that have been put on me by this disease. I'm not doing as well as I could be, because I am resisting.<br />
<br />
I liked my life the way it was. I was busy and productive. I spun and knit and wove. I taught and wrote. I cooked fancy meals and gardened. I socialized and entertained. I did things. Lots of things. Sure, sometimes I got tired or stressed, or some part of me hurt, but I was living up to my model of a busy, accomplished human in the 21st Century. I was strong and bold and accomplished.<br />
<br />
Things have changed drastically in the last couple of years. I just can't keep up that pace anymore, as much as I wish I could. Limits have been imposed. Limits not of my own choosing. My fingers are not quite as nimble as they once were. Chronic fatigue has cut both ends off of my days by making it harder to get up in the mornings and easier to fall asleep in the evenings. Pain and stiffness mean every task takes so much longer than it used to, and side effects from my medications make me groggy and fuzzy-headed.<br />
<br />
In spite of all of this, I soldiered on, keeping up the hectic pace of my old life. I have had to work harder to keep it all going, but I have kept it. I have talked big talk about letting go of this task or focussing more on that job, but I haven't actually done it. I have been trying to resist changing. As long as I am resisting, I can tell myself I am fighting and holding on to a normal life.<br />
<br />
But two things have become very clear to me lately. The first is that this disease is not going to go away and I had just better accept my new limits. The second is that putting a pretty face on pain and illness and suffering of any kind hurts not only the person who is suffering, but every one. Openess and honesty do not mean you are weak and whiny. It means you are accepting life as it is. It is the lie that all is well that does far more harm.<br />
<br />
So, the time has come, the walrus said, to speak of many things. About change and acceptance and moving forward. About saying no and setting reasonable expectations. About being honest about my disease and the impact it has on my life. It is time to stop resisting and to understand that acceptance does not equal defeat. About admitting when I hurt and slowing down.<br />
<br />
It is also time to talk about tiny triemphs. About finally finishing the sweater that I started in January. About my wonderful vacation in California over the last two weeks. About living life, in spite of pain and fatigue, even if it is not exactly the life I had planned.<br />
<br />
Moving forward, I want to write more, about my disease and about fibre and about life, starting here on this little blog. I am not changing my blog from a fibre arts blog to an RA blog, I am opening up my focus to include the realities of my life as a fibre artist with RA. There will be more stories about pain and disease and medications, but there will be stories about fibre and making really good yarn, too. I hope that those of you who have been reading all along will come along for the new journey.<br />
<br />
Let's stop resisting together.Michelle Boydhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04749215517370187042noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21162574.post-65607147510905329632014-09-26T09:52:00.002-07:002014-09-26T09:53:50.145-07:00RA 101Okay. I think that if I'm going to share my stories with you, it's only fair that I offer you some perspective on what these stories are about.<br />
<br />
One of the first things that I learned about Rheumatoid Arthritis is that most people don't actually know what it is. There are misconceptions, even within the medical community, and confusion with other forms of arthritis and even with other diseases. So, to get us started off, I offer a basic primer on Rheumatoid Arthritis (RA).<br />
<br />
RA is a chronic, systemic auto-immune disease. What this fancy phrase means, basically, is that the immune system goes haywire and starts attacking healthy body tissues as if they were disease agents like bacteria or viruses. This happens most frequently in the fluids that serve as cushions between the bones in our joints, but can happen to other tissues in our bodies, including our heart, lungs, eyes, and digestive organs. It is not just a few achey joints, it is a disease of the whole body. And once your immune system goes awry, it never goes back. The primary result of this malfunction of the immune system is inflammation, typified by swelling, heat, and pain in the affected area. Or areas. RA very rarely hits just one spot, but rather goes after multiple joints and organs.<br />
<br />
Other body functions are affected, too. Most people with RA have malformed red blood cells, or far to few of them, leading to anemia. This, along with the chronic pain and the fact that your body is basically expending all its energy fighting the invasion of an enemy that doesn't exist, leads to chronic fatigue. The swelling of the joints also means that our body movements are thrown way out of whack. leading to all sorts of muscle aches and pains. Some RA sufferers also have other illnesses that piggyback with the RA, such as<a href="http://www.arthritis.ca/page.aspx?pid=928" target="_blank"> fibromyalgia,</a> chronic tendinitis, <a href="http://www.mayoclinic.org/diseases-conditions/crohns-disease/basics/definition/con-20032061" target="_blank">Crohn's disease</a>, or <a href="http://www.arthritis.ca/page.aspx?pid=1002" target="_blank">Sjogren's syndrome</a> (the inflammation of salivary glands and tear ducts), which compound the pain and fatigue.<br />
<br />
This is a lifelong disease. There is no cure.<br />
<br />
It is estimated that between .5% and 1% of the population have this disease, making it relatively rare, but RA can attack anyone, at any time. The usual age of diagnosis is between 20 and 50, but children (including my own daughter) can have it and I recently met a woman who was first diagnosed at 72. This disease strikes predominantly women, but men get it, too. There is no known cause, though there have been recent studies that suggest a combination of genetic and environmental factors as the trigger. The symptoms of RA vary from person to person, and from day to day in each individual. There are days that I feel pretty good, then I wake up the next morning unable to bend my fingers without crying.<br />
<br />
This is the biggest problem with having RA-the unpredictability of the thing. No one knows who will get it, when they will get it, which of the symptoms they will have, or when and where those symptoms will strike. This unpredictability makes treatment more or less and experimental process. There is no cure, but there are treatments that can reduce the symptoms and slow the progress of the disease and mitigate the damage done. Sadly, though, there is no way of knowing which treatments will work for who until the treatment is given. And all of the treatments come with problems of their own. All of the know treatments for RA focus on suppressing the immune system, which opens a whole other can of worms. Then we add in the side-effects that come with strong medicine, from dry skin to nausea to death.<br />
<br />
In other words, this ain't no picnic.<br />
<br />
For me, RA has shown up as inflammation in 57 of the 60 joints counted for assessment. (My elbows and my left knee were inflammation free and have stayed that way for almost a year.) I have inflammatory tendinitis in my shoulders, hips, wrists, and ankles. I am battling <a href="http://www.mayoclinic.org/diseases-conditions/costochondritis/basics/definition/con-20024454" target="_blank">costochondritis</a>, the inflammation of the cartilage in my rib cage. I also have Sjogren's, which means my eyes are constantly dry and red and my mouth is so dry that my lips stick to my teeth.<br />
<br />
So, now you know what I'm facing. I lived for 50 years with relatively few major health issues, then, WHAMMO! This thing hit me like a freight train. I had a life I liked, making things and teaching others to make things. Travelling and gardening and eating good food. Good friends, wonderful family. A good life. A life I do not want to give up. As I said in my <a href="http://whorlspins.blogspot.ca/2014/09/new-stories.html" target="_blank">last post</a>, I am weaving the ends of that life into a new cloth, building a different life on the foundations of that old one.<br />
<br />
The first step, in every journey, is acceptance.<br />
<br />
For more information about RA, you can go to:<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.arthritis.ca/page.aspx?pid=982">http://www.arthritis.ca/page.aspx?pid=982</a><br />
<a href="http://www.hopkinsarthritis.org/arthritis-info/rheumatoid-arthritis/">http://www.hopkinsarthritis.org/arthritis-info/rheumatoid-arthritis/</a><br />
<a href="http://www.arthritistoday.org/about-arthritis/types-of-arthritis/rheumatoid-arthritis/">http://www.arthritistoday.org/about-arthritis/types-of-arthritis/rheumatoid-arthritis/</a><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Michelle Boydhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04749215517370187042noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21162574.post-7248142694109713042014-09-25T13:22:00.001-07:002014-09-25T13:22:33.644-07:00New StoriesIt's been a while again.<br />
<br />
I know I haven't been the most consistent or prolific blogger, but, even for me, four months is a long time. It's not that I haven't had plenty of adventures, or that I don't have long, rambling stories to tell. In fact, I've had a wonderful summer, filled with travel and gardening and family and friends. I even sat down to write several times, but I stopped.<br />
<br />
Why?<br />
<br />
You see, when I started this blog, I wanted to write about my journey as a fibre artist. To show off finished objects. To share my travels and adventures at fibre events. To teach and inform. This was, to me, a place for fibre and art and ideas. I know I strayed a bit here and there, but my focus always returned to my true love, the fibre stories.<br />
<br />
Over the past year, my stories started to change. They were no longer stories of fibre and spinning and making things. As I tried to write this past year, so many of the stories changed into stories of pain, of frustration, or of anger. There was no longer spinning to share, or finished objects to show.<br />
<br />
So, I stopped telling stories. I stopped sending out proposals to magazines, I stopped working on the book, I neglected this blog. I had no story to tell. Not anymore.<br />
<br />
But this past month I have realized that I <i>do</i> have stories. Just not the ones I am used to telling. New stories. Scary stories. Stories of despair and hope and redemption. Stories of recovery and reclamation. Stories of set-backs and defeats. Stories far more interesting and revealing than those simple stories about making yarn and knitting sweaters.<br />
<br />
I had put my stories in a box. They were safe stories. Stories about things outside of me. It's time now to set my stories free. There will be stories of spinning and pain and knitting and adaptation and growth and learning.<br />
<br />
I am slowly weaving the threads of my old life through those of my new one. This is no longer just a blog about my journey as a fibre artist. This is a blog about my journey as a fibre artist with Rheumatoid Arthritis.<br />
<br />
This is a blog about me, as I learn to bring my two worlds together. That old world of fibre and teaching and travel and my new world of disease and doctors. Each world has its stories, and I am the place where those stories intersect.<br />
<br />Michelle Boydhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04749215517370187042noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21162574.post-53339046332603739742014-05-21T09:10:00.001-07:002014-05-21T09:13:05.629-07:00Here Comes the SunWell, hi there!<br />
<br />
Yes, it's me. I know it's been a while, but...<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Little darling, it's been a long cold lonely winter.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Little darling, it feels like years since it's been here.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
It was a long and cold winter, with a lot of bad news, sad stories, and personal and professional struggles. For so many I know, this past winter has been a season of loss, of change, of confusion. For me, it's been six months of medical visits, conflicting information, side effects, pain and frustration. I have sat down to write hundreds of times, only to find that all I had to express was fear and anger.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Here comes the sun, here comes the sun...</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>And I say it's all right.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
Even after the deepest darkness, there is light. My medical team has finally found a combination of drugs that are easing the pain and inflammation. I am able to use my hands again, though only for short times before they get fatigued. I can sleep again-and I seem to be making up for lost time in that department! I am eating and exercising and, most importantly, spinning.<br />
<br />
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<i>Little darling, the smiles returning to the faces.</i></div>
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<i>Little darling, it seems like years since it's been here.</i></div>
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I must admit, it's been hard work to get here. And there is still a long way to go. But I am optimistic. I can share my stories again without becoming angry, or sliding into self-pity. I am softer, slower, and more in the moment than I have ever been.<br />
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<i>Here comes the sun, here comes the sun…</i></div>
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<i>And I say it's all right.</i></div>
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<i>Sun, sun, sun, here it comes.</i></div>
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<i>Sun, sun, sun, here it comes.</i></div>
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<i>Sun, sun, sun, here it comes.</i></div>
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<i>Sun, sun, sun, here it comes.</i></div>
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<i>Sun, sun, sun, here it comes.</i></div>
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I'm not sure where life is going to take me yet. I'm still learning my new limits and limitations. I'm weighing which aspects of my life to release, which to modify, and which to hold on to. But I'm moving forward and feeling optimistic for the first time in months.<br />
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<i>Little darling, I feel that ice is slowly melting.</i></div>
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<i>Little darling, it seems like years since it's been clear.</i></div>
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Spring has finally arrived here in Fort McMurray, and with it has come sunshine and a parting of the dark clouds over my health and heart. The hurt that was keeping me from pursuing my passions is melting under the sun's rays. I've made string, I've finished projects that have languished in the studio since last fall, I've started writing again. I've dug in the garden and walked my dog every day. I'm up and around and ALIVE.<br />
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<i>Here comes the sun, here comes the sun…</i></div>
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<i>And I day it's all right.</i></div>
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<i>~Lyrics to "Here Come the Sun" by George Harrison. Thank you, George, you've given me my new mantra.</i><br />
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<a href="http://youtu.be/C5E_zXbmrlM" target="_blank">http://youtu.be/C5E_zXbmrlM</a></div>
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<br />Michelle Boydhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04749215517370187042noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21162574.post-39954029797911323152014-01-31T12:00:00.000-08:002014-01-31T12:00:20.254-08:00MasteryI am a Master Spinner.<br />
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What does that mean? Well, on the surface, it means that I took 5 years of classroom teaching and followed each class up with a year of home study. It means that I spent a week of intensive testing, making yarns to specification. I means I wrote an In-Depth Study, examining how to make a yarn and how that yarn will perform in use for socks. It means I fulfilled the requirements of a college continuing education course.<br />
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But it also means so much more.<br />
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It means that I have taken the time to think not only about how to make yarn, but why to do it that way. It means that I have read and studied the works of others, drawing lessons from their work, then applying it to my own. It means I have made mistakes and learned how to correct them. It means I have learned to think critically and independently.<br />
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I do not blindly accept that we do things as spinners because that is "tradition". I do not mindlessly follow gurus or trends. I have the means and the skills to set trends, if I feel the need. I take risks and make yarns that I know I will never use, just to see if I can make them. I read and think and analyze, and I draw my own conclusions. I understand my craft intimately.<br />
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There is a school of thought, made popular by Malcolm Gladwell, that it takes 10,000 hours of practice to achieve mastery of a skill. That, with enough practice, anyone can become great at the task they have set out to learn. While I agree that time and repeated practice will make you more proficient at a task, I do not agree that repetition alone will make you a master.<br />
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I recently stumbled across this <a href="http://www.thevine.com.au/life/thoughts/does-10000-hours-of-practice-actually-make-perfect-20130530-231578" target="_blank">post</a> about the 10,000 hour rule. I highly suggest you read it, but in a nutshell, it says that new research has shown that it is not only the amount of time that you spend perfecting your skill, but how you use that time to analyze and improve those skills as you practice them. Doing scales, reviewing technique, problem-solving when you make mistakes. It takes an understanding of the skill that you are trying to perfect. It also means that many, no matter how long they practice or how dedicated they are, will become true masters.<br />
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My friend Margaret tells of her early spinning experience. She had been merrily spinning yarn for twenty years, but when she took her first level of the Master Spinner Program, she says she realized that she had been "spinning for one year, twenty times". She did not know that she was repeating the same patterns over and over, doing the same things right and the same things wrong again and again. She was not analyzing her work, understanding only the how, but not the why.<br />
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I am often asked what it takes to succeed in the Master Spinner Program, and my answer is always the same. It takes practice and patience and humility. That last one is a big one for most people. Humility, admitting that we do not know everything, the willingness to make mistakes and learn from them, are rare commodities today. Modern media makes us all believe that we should be instant experts in everything we try, that we all deserve greatness in our chosen fields.<br />
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The terrible reality is that this does not happen in real life. To learn any skill, be it spinning or baking bread or tightrope walking, takes practice, conscious thought, and the horrible realization that you will never be as good as you want to be. A true master is always seeking to improve, to learn more, to understand more deeply. Stopping our practicing after 10,000 hours, assuming that we are now masters, stunts our mastery and limits us. For others, even 10,000 hours of practice will not overcome a hurdle placed by a skill or an assignment.<br />
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Instead of assuming that the learning has ended and the practice has made you better, continue to learn and experiment. Guys, we have 40,000 years of spinning history to explore! New fibres, new techniques, new concepts await every one of us. Push out of your comfort zone, take risks, make mistakes. And learn. Always learn.<br />
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That is truly the road to mastery.Michelle Boydhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04749215517370187042noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21162574.post-64122782376274732402014-01-25T12:57:00.000-08:002014-01-25T12:57:41.245-08:00Back in the Saddle AgainYep, Pardners, I'm back in the saddle again. Back to teaching for the Olds College Master Spinner Program, back to good ole Level 3.<br />
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I spent last weekend in Las Cruces, New Mexico, teaching TPI formulas and the spinning of cotton and silk. I had had the pleasure of teaching a lot of the people in this class their Level 1 as well, so going back to Las Cruces was a lot like going home.<br />
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The city of Las Cruces is beautiful, and while it is in the desert, it is not hot-hot this time of year. In fact, there were a couple of mornings where the temperature was warmer in Edmonton, Alberta that in Las Cruces. However, once that bright sun started to shine, Las Cruces warmed up and it was glorious in the afternoons. Most of my too-short visit was spent in the classroom space at<a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/My-Place-Jewell-Store-Studio/119578554767538" target="_blank"> My Place Jewell</a>, but I did get out for a few walks in the area.<br />
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The classroom was a busy place. We did the math, we counted our treadles, we spun the cotton, we made silk mawatas, we dyed. We managed to get the 25 colours from 1 dye bath exercise done with minimal confusion, in spite of the fact that we had 250 skeins on the go all day long!<br />
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We also had the luxury of spinning locally-grown cotton from Ric's garden. Ric is the MSP coordinator for the Las Cruces class, along with being very active in the local arts community. And, he grew cotton in his backyard garden!<br />
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(This is very exciting and exotic to someone who lives in the land of ice and snow! Not only that, but it turns out there was an experimental cotton field right across the road from my hotel. Good thing I didn't find out about that until I was leaving, or I may have been shot for trespassing. Fortunately for me, Ric used his connections in the community to get a bag of the cotton from that field to share with us!)<br />
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It was a long, hectic 5-day weekend, and by the end, the students seemed brain-weary but satisfied, and I felt the same way.<br />
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I will confess that I had had my moments of trepidation about getting back into teaching before I had my RA fully under control, and I will also confess that I was in bed, sound asleep, by 8 p.m. each night. I think that I managed rather well, though. By the end of the week, I was feeling pretty battered and my hands refused to cooperate with me on our last day of class, but all in all, it was good. It felt like stepping back into a comfortable pair of shoes, and I am happy to be back.<br />
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And, as a wee reward to myself for getting back into the saddle again, I made a slight detour on my way home. I went to Disneyland, where, to carry on the cowboy metaphor, I met up with Woody and Jessie from the Toy Story movies…<br />
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I am home now, weary and aching, but happy to be back teaching. I have another class for the Master Spinner Program coming up at Fibre Week in June, and I am looking forward to it more than I can say.<br />
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Yeehaw!Michelle Boydhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04749215517370187042noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21162574.post-45469217820164325422014-01-02T09:51:00.002-08:002014-01-02T09:51:33.443-08:00The Power of Negative ThinkingHappy New Year!<br />
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Yes, it's a new year, full of hope and promise, as every new year is. And we are all making resolutions to be better people and do better things. Because that's what you do in the new year. And, to that end, my social media feeds have filled up with all sorts of diet ads and inspirational memes.<br />
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You know, those little memes that show up every day on social media, telling you to embrace the joy. Positive thinking leads to positive results. Love yourself and the world will love you. Chirpy little cliches in a swirly font over a background of hearts or "nature". You know the ones.<br />
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Now, there is nothing wrong with having a positive outlook. I have one myself. I believe that the world is good and kind and generous, and that things will always work out in the end (though not always the way I want). I see beauty in every day, no matter how grey and bleak. I encourage those around me to stay positive, because I really do believe that we make our own reality with our perceptions. If we perceive goodness and abundance, we see it in our lives. It's just there.<br />
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I also believe that there are a lot of people out there who need to be reminded of the good in the world. That there is kindness and joy and sunshine. Depression is a real thing, and so are fear and loneliness and pain. Sometimes those things are huge and overwhelming to the point where the person loses perspective and they become the only reality they know. I have been there myself over the last few months, when the pain in my joints has been the only thing that I was aware of. Food doesn't taste the same, colours look different, sound hurts.<br />
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Most of the time, I think those chirpy little cliches are a way to remind ourselves that the sun will come out tomorrow, that we are stronger than we think we are, that others have recovered and we can, too. But, when they are flung around carelessly in place of active concern and the acknowledgement of the reality of suffering, they are more like a slap in the face to those who hurt.<br />
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I have looked at life very long and very hard lately, as one does when one is facing some enormous changes, and I have come to this conclusion: Stop accentuating the positive.<br />
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Because there is a dark side to life. Everybody has bad days. Flat tires, the stomach flu, a car accident, a death, a cheating spouse, a scary medical diagnosis. Shit happens. To all of us. Laying a veneer of false cheerfulness over the way that that crap makes us feel is denying our natural response to crisis. And to deny us our natural response to crisis is wrong.<br />
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When something terrible happens, big or small, we need to accept our rage, our pain, our frustration, our disappointment. We need to name it and to release it, vent it out. If we do not vent it, it builds up inside us, like steam, until something breaks. Yet we are taught from infancy that it is not appropriate to be openly angry or frustrated or disappointed. Those are negative behaviours and nobody wants to see them. Be nice, smile, stay positive and it will all go away. Everything happens for a reason. The sun will come out tomorrow.<br />
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Painters understand the importance of the negative. The space around the focus of any visual artwork is called negative space and is as vital as the actual subject itself. It is the negative space that focuses the viewer's eye on what they really need to see. It is the negative space that highlights the beauty of the subject of the work. It is the negative space that gives the work meaning.<br />
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As knitters, we know the power of negative space, too. The holes and loops me make when we knit lace are what makes the fabric special. Without the holes, all we have cloth. When we add holes, emptiness, negative space, we make a thing of beauty.<br />
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When we look into the negative space, it helps us illuminate what is good and beautiful and positive. We see life from a different perspective again. We accept the darkness and the emptiness and the pain, because it shows us what is real, and what is good. We become more positive when we embrace the negative.<br />
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When we live our lives by those chirpy cliches, when we lay them over our darkness to hide it from ourselves and others, we deny the balance of art, of life. We need to visit our dark places, our negative space, from time to time. Oh, I'm not saying move in and live there, just drop by every now and then. Acknowledge the negative space and the role it has in making our lives beautiful.<br />
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So, though I do not make resolutions, I am going to state an intent for 2014. I am going to embrace the Power of Negative Thinking. And I am going to continue to love my life and find beauty in every day because of it.Michelle Boydhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04749215517370187042noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21162574.post-2688624457149477002013-12-05T12:55:00.000-08:002013-12-05T12:55:35.389-08:00Make Do and MendI have a favourite sweater. It is a grey handspun Merino/silk pullover, knit in a travelling cable pattern and I designed it and made it almost 8 years ago. It is that go-to sweater that I pull over everything. Warm enough to fend off our 40 below winter days, light enough to toss on over a t-shirt on a cooler summer evening. Sturdy enough to wear as winter outerwear, soft enough to wear against bare skin. I love this sweater.<br />
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I love this sweater not only because it is practical and pretty and I made it with my own two little hands. I love this sweater for what it represents.<br />
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I bought the fibre for this sweater, roving in a blend of "Oreo" Merino and Tussah silk from Silver Valley Fibres, as my reward for completing Level 6 of the Olds Master Spinner Program in 2005. It was a difficult year, fraught with personality conflicts and teacher drama, and I deserved a treat. I packed up my lovely fibre and brought it home, intending to use it as my reward spinning as I produced each sample for my In-Depth Study.<br />
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Meanwhile, life moved on. I gardened and hiked and enjoyed the rest of the summer. After all, spinning wool, in my mind, was a winter thing, anyway. I joined the cast of a student-directed production of The Rez Sisters and had a wonderful time learning the role Annie, the aspiring country singer. And, yes, I was learning to sing. Then, on our first rehearsal on stage, disaster struck. While rehearsing a house exit, I was tripped by another actor while we dashed down a concrete ramp. I bounced off my right knee and I whacked my left wrist on a metal railing as I went down. Torn ligaments and cartilage in my knee, but, far worse, I had broken the scaphoid in my left wrist and there was a possible hairline fracture in the radius.<br />
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I was in a cast for almost 3 months, with my knee bandaged and supported. I spent most of the fall of 2005 on the couch, heavily drugged and fearing that my life as a spinner was over. I was in pain and scared and depressed. And then, when the cast came off, my worst fears were confirmed. My wrist was locked and there was incredible pain and inflammation in the joints of my wrist and thumb. I was referred for an MRI, which showed an inexplicable inflammation of the tendon. The surgeon decided that the best option was to simply slit the tendon sheath and allow the tendon to move more freely, assuming that the inflammation would then resolve itself.<br />
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It took 2 surgeries to eventually correct the issue, which left me in casts for nearly another 4 months, off and on. I was going stir crazy and I was certainly not about to give up the craft that not only had become my source of income, but was often my only tenuous link to sanity in a busy house full of teens. I managed to teach myself to knit while holding the left-hand needle tucked between the exposed fingertips at the end of my cast and letting the right hand do all the work. And I decided to try an unsupported long draw. At first, I was not very good, mostly because I spin left-handed. My right hand was not as attuned to the feel of the fibre, the tug of the twist. I struggled and fought. But, pretty soon, I got the hang of it, and that was when I went looking for more roving to spin. I found my reward fibre.<br />
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I spun the yarn for the sweater using a completely unsupported long draw with the hand less accustomed to spinning while in a cast. This is something of an accomplishment, as any spinner can tell you. And, once I was out of casts, I used knitting as my physiotherapy to recover. Doctors and physiotherapists comment often on how great the range of motion is in that thumb, and I give all the credit to this sweater. I called the sweater Phoenix, because it chronicles my rise out of the ashes of injury and my renewed flight as a maker and teacher. The story of the sweater is a great one, and a reminder to me that there is no obstacle that cannot be overcome.<br />
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However, over the past few months, I have met a new obstacle. The pain and stiffness of RA make the frustration of spending months in a cast pale by comparison. Side effects from medications are making day-to-day living challenging. And this week, I had a full physio assessment that has shown me exactly how bad this flare is. I not only have inflammation in my hands and feet, but in my jaw, shoulder, spine, hips, knees. I even have inflammation at the points where my ribs meet my sternum. I am a mass of messed up joints, and some of the joints in my hands are showing signs of permanent damage. The headaches, the sore neck, the shortness of breath, the lower back pain--all of which I had attributed to being out of shape and lazy--are all disease. I am actually ill. I am wallowing in frustration and fear and pain, with little hope of a speedy resolution to the mess. I am, once again, facing the fear of losing the thing that defines me as an individual, my craft, my career.<br />
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So, in this state of mind, I pulled out the Phoenix sweater to warm my achey joints on a very cold Northern Alberta morning. As I pulled it over my head, I noticed a spot where there was light shining through. A hole. In my precious sweater. The sweater had survived the Great M*th Attack of ought-twelve. It has been washed and worn and stuffed in the bottom of gym bags. It has ridden around on the floor of the car. And now, after sitting in the closet for a few months, it has a hole.<br />
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I will freely admit that I cried. I stood staring at this hole and cried.<br />
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Then I remembered that I still had a tiny ball of that precious yarn that I had fought so hard to make. I had kept it because it reminded me that I could. I could find a way around the problems. I could make things, even under adverse conditions. I could persevere and recover. And I could mend my sweater.<br />
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The mend is not pretty. The hole was in the spot between the reverse stockinette stitch and the knit stitches of the cable pattern, plus the hands doing the stitching are stiff and clumsy these days. But the hole is gone. The patch will make the sweater last another 6 years, or more.<br />
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Sometimes, when a thing gets damaged, we are quick to discard it. It is easier to just get another one, or do without. But, sometimes, something is worth mending. It will not be perfect anymore. It may not look the same as it used to, and it may even be totally different, but we still have it. We just have to take the time to make do and mend.<br />
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<i>As a tiny footnote to this story, I would like to share this with you: The physiotherapists were amazed that with the amount of inflammation and joint damage that exists in my hands that I still had better than average range of motion. They attribute that to the fact that, in spite of the pain and the slowness of the process with swollen fingers, I am continuing to knit and spin. And they encouraged me to keep it up.</i>Michelle Boydhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04749215517370187042noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21162574.post-64533181260038808882013-11-13T14:46:00.000-08:002013-11-13T14:46:47.096-08:00And Another Month Flies ByJust like that, we're into the middle of November! The gift knitting is going on, and the baking of seasonal favourites has begun. It seems that as the days get darker, they get shorter, and time seems to zoom by.<br />
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It's been a hectic month since I last posted. There was that diagnosis thing, then a great vacation, then home to a house full of puppeteers, then Halloween, then…well…CRASH AND BURN. My rheumatologist gave me as steroid shot to get me through the holiday…<br />
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…which was awesome.<br />
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We walked on the beach in Ventura every day…<br />
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We went to Universal Studios for a day…<br />
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Then we went back for Halloween Horror Nights…<br />
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We picked up Miss Lexi and her fine young man at the airport and went down to Disneyland…<br />
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<br />
…where we went to Mickey's Halloween Party…<br />
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<br />
…and had an all-around fabulous time.<br />
<br />
I kept up remarkably well, considering the shape I've been in for the past few months. I now totally understand why athletes turn to steroids for performance enhancement. I felt relatively superhuman for the couple of weeks that stuff was in my system.<br />
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Coming home was another matter. I kept up the superhuman thing for another week, but by the first weekend of November the steroids had worn off and pure exhaustion had set in. So, for the last couple of weeks, there has been much sitting and knitting and navel gazing. I am charting a new life for myself, rearranging priorities, and shuffling responsibilities. And knitting. A lot of knitting.<br />
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UFOs are getting finished, Christmas gifts are finished, socks are being churned out. My medications are starting to work, and I am starting to adapt to their side effects. And, yesterday, for the first time in weeks (months!), I sat down at the spinning wheel. I had no idea how much I missed it! It was like being set free after months in captivity. The treadling did my stiff ankles in after an hour or so, but I felt like a great weight was lifted the moment I started drafting. Today, I managed almost 2 hours and I'm planning another hour before dinner. I'm BACK.<br />
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As I spin, I am gaining back the confidence that this illness and the months of pain had drained. I am having moments of clarity and perspective that I had lost while mired in pain. I am relaxing, and accepting. And I'm making beautiful yarn.<br />
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I had forgotten that spinning could be so therapeutic. It had almost become a chore, making samples for articles, teaching rules and precision, doing production work for hours on end. Spinning is not a necessity in today's world, it is a pleasure, and with my busy schedule, I had forgotten that.<br />
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I still have article samples to spin, and I will continue to teach, but I will also remember that there is sheer joy and peace to be found in the rhythm of the wheel and the drift of soft wool between your fingers. I will be making yarn for the simple sake of making yarn today.<br />
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And tomorrow.Michelle Boydhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04749215517370187042noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21162574.post-11404155205885495952013-10-10T09:59:00.003-07:002013-10-10T09:59:51.650-07:00DiagnosisIt started small. In early March, three little toes on my left foot started to swell and ache after a long day of teaching. Maybe it was the new shoes.<br />
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Then the toes on my right foot started doing the same thing. Within a week, the tops of both feet were sore and red at the base of my toes. A month later, my ankles started to swell and ache. I woke up some mornings totally unable to walk without sharp pain, my ankles locked, sometimes for 2 or 3 hours. It wasn't the shoes.<br />
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I was totally fatigued. Exhausted. I have never been a napper, yet afternoon naps started to happen. Whether I wanted them to or not. I was having trouble concentrating. I figured I just had too much on my plate, what with teaching and writing and organizing and designing and making.<br />
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I went to my doctor, and he diagnosed me with a bad case of menopause. He sent me home with a prescription for anti-psychotics and hormones, which I promptly threw in the garbage. I soldiered on, becoming irritable and impatient with myself for being so easily worn out.<br />
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A little more yoga, slower mornings, cleaning up my diet, letting go of some responsibilities. These were my solutions. Solutions that didn't seem to make any difference and that got abandoned as the weeks progressed without any noticeable improvements.<br />
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In mid-June, I started noticing that my wrists were very sore. Not after a marathon knitting session or hours of hand-carding. First thing in the morning. And all night long. I was beginning to wake up in the middle of the night with the sensation that I had just been hit on a finger with a hammer. Sharp, deep, bruised pain in the joints.<br />
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And all this time, my feet continued to malfunction and the fatigue increased. It was now a giant task to get up a flight of stairs, a painful journey that left me breathless and exhausted. I was going to bed loaded with over-the-counter pain killers and covered in pain patches.<br />
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I started developing headaches. Just that low-level, grinding, annoying tension headache. There was a sharp pain in my jaw when I yawned, and an achey sensation in my ears.<br />
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I gave in and went back to my doctor. He ordered a series of blood tests, including screening for celiac and rheumatoid factor. When those came back negative, he prescribed a whack of painkillers and anti-inflammatories and told me to stop knitting so much because I was causing excess wear and tear on my wrists and fingers. I filled those painkiller prescriptions. Immediately.<br />
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And I demanded a referral to a rheumatologist. He said no at first, but when I burst into tears, he wrote a quick referral to get me out of his office.<br />
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Most of the summer was spent under the body- and mind-numbing influences of those painkillers. I missed appointments, forgot to do things, slept a ridiculous amount. But I was never rested and recharged. I was mostly just stoned and grumpy.<br />
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By this time, my fingers were all clearly involved. Big, red, hot knobs were forming on each joint. Some days, even with the drugs, all I could do is lay on the couch with my hands curled against my chest.<br />
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Other days, I bit the bullet, skipped the drugs and pushed to get things done. Life had to be lived. Deadlines had to be met. I have a family and a household and a career. I passed on the pills and got what needed to be done done. And then suffered for it for days afterward.<br />
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I was in bed every night at 9 or 10 o'clock. I slept for 12 to 14 hours, and still woke up stiff and sore and cranky. It was like waking up each morning wearing barbwire mittens and socks.<br />
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Still, my doctor assured me that, since I had a negative rheumatoid factor test, I couldn't possibly have Rheumatoid Arthritis. However, he reluctantly admitted that he couldn't think what else could possibly be and said that he would leave it to the rheumatologist to make the call. And prescribed stronger painkillers.<br />
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And, through all of this, I tried as hard as possible to maintain at least the surface appearance of normalcy. I don't think I fooled anyone, especially those who know me well, but I worked very hard to fool myself. It was the only thing that got me out of bed some days, that drive to look "normal".<br />
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Yesterday, I finally got in to see that rheumatologist I had insisted on seeing. And my entire life changed within 10 minutes. That was how long it took him to look at my fingers and, in his best "I have some bad news for you, ma'am" voice inform me that I had moderate to advanced symptoms of RA. I don't think he was quite prepared for me to respond with "Oh, thank God!"<br />
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I knew what was going on. You see, I have a child who has suffered from Juvenile Arthritis for the past 6 years--longer, if truth be told, because we had a series of doctors tell us that it was something else and prescribe painkillers before she saw a rheumatologist, too. I am something of an expert on arthritis and its treatment, from the mother perspective, anyway.<br />
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Everything that took place yesterday was familiar, but utterly surreal because, this time, it was happening to <i>me</i>. Blood tests, x-rays, injection education, pages of prescriptions. This was <i>my</i> life, not someone else's.<br />
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So, today is the first day of a new life for me. I have some serious thinking to do about work, therapies, and medications. I have to make some decisions about how to proceed. The initial giddy joy of a diagnosis,<i> any</i> diagnosis, has worn off and the reality of the struggles I will face is beginning to set in. I will have to make some big changes, trim down my commitments, set clear priorities, and learn a new way of living. The good news, though, is that my rheumatologist considers knitting excellent therapy for the joints and encourages me to do some knitting every day, no matter what else is going on.<br />
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I am moving forward. I will not let this thing knock me on my butt anymore, but it will be some time before I learn the steps to the new dance that my life will become. A good doctor, the right medications, and the support of my amazing family and friends will make things easier. There will be good days and bad days. But through it all, I will spin and knit and teach and write because my rheumatologist gave me a great piece of advice:<br />
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"Live your life, and make the things that are important to <i>you</i> your priorities. That will keep you positive."<br />
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Words we should <i>all </i>live by.<br />
<br />Michelle Boydhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04749215517370187042noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21162574.post-76033883586848654892013-09-25T09:27:00.001-07:002013-09-25T09:27:24.731-07:00Support Your Local Artist. Please.If you are reading this blog, you probably already know that I am a fibre artist. While I have spent the last several years focussing more on the educational side of my art, I am, at heart, an artist first. I live in a relatively remote community, Fort McMurray, in Northern Alberta, where we are 4.5 hours from anything connected to the fibre arts--materials, classes, guilds.<br />
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So imagine my delight when our local recreation facility, MacDonald Island, announced that they would be presenting a fibre arts event in celebration of Alberta Culture Days. The event, titled <a href="http://www.macdonaldisland.ca/news/macdonald-island-park-celebrates-alberta-culture-days-with-the-silk-caravanna" target="_blank">Silk Caravanna</a>, will involve students in both Fort McMurray and Fort Chipewyan as well as interested community members in an exhibit of silk paintings. I found this concept brilliant and was fully prepared to dive in and participate.<br />
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Then...<br />
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Yesterday, I read the press release that I linked to above. If you read it, you will see that the General Manager of MacDonald Island is delighted to be bringing a<b> Northwest Territories</b> artist to lead their celebration of <b>Alberta</b> Culture Days. Stop for a moment and let that sink in.<br />
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Now, I have no problem at all with the artist in question, Janet Procure. Take a moment to look at her <a href="http://www.tangletreegallery.com/" target="_blank">website</a> and <a href="http://www.jprocure.blogspot.ca/p/bio.html" target="_blank">blog</a>. She's very good at what she does. I'm sure she's a marvellous human being, because people who work with fibre always are. And I think the project that she is tackling is quite brilliant.<br />
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However...<br />
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I am a full-time artist and fibre arts instructor who lives and works in Alberta. So are dozens of my friends, some of whom do work similar to Ms. Procure's. And most of us rarely, if ever, work in our own home town or even our own home province. I know dyers, surface designers, felt makers, knitters, weavers, and spinners who are internationally recognized, yet insignificant in Alberta. I know people who have been published in Vogue Knitting, Interweave Knits, Handwoven, and Spin-Off or have had work exhibited in Europe who are overlooked in favour of "big names" from outside of Alberta by guilds and galleries in the province. I myself struggle each year with bringing balance to the Fibre Week roster by finding local instructors while others would prefer to see those out-of-town headliners.<br />
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I wrote and asked the person at MacDonald Island why she had chosen an out-of-province artist for this project and she was kind enough to respond. She told me that Mac Island had a longstanding working relationship with this artist and that the artist had taken pains to secure a grant from the NWT government to facilitate her travel. She told me that Albertans were being invited to participate, and that they would benefit from the exchange. All of this is fine and good, but it suggests one of two things to me.<br />
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The first is that the familiar choice is the best choice. Someone you know, with a proven track record, comes to you with an idea. You know this person does quality work, you know you can work with them, and the idea is great. We all do this. I do it all the time at Fibre Week--there are two or three instructors who come to me every year with something brilliant, and it works. You know it's going to be good, there is no risk. I am assuming, based upon my reply from MacDonald Island that this is the case in this instance and I cannot fault that.<br />
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The other way of looking at this is that the grass is always greener somewhere else. Somebody from here is okay, but somebody from somewhere else is better. Because they are from somewhere else. This does not just apply to Albertans, or to fibre artists. This is a thing in every field. My husband currently deals with construction, and the hierarchy under which he works seems to think that an architect from Edmonton is okay, but one from Vancouver is far better. Because they are from somewhere else. The troubling implication in this, of course, it that the homegrown is somehow inferior.<br />
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Now, it is not easy to make a living as a fibre artist. Or as an artist of any medium, be it visual, written, or performed. It is especially difficult in hard times, when arts and culture budgets are the first ones axed. Or in a busy province like Alberta, where people are working hard to keep up with a boom economy. It is extremely challenging to work in the arts. And it is almost impossible to succeed locally in the arts, since everyone thinks that the arts and culture scene is better somewhere else. Special guest artists from anywhere else draw a larger crowd than the local talent.<br />
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This is why the Alberta government instigated Alberta Culture Days, to "<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">recognize the value of Alberta's arts and cultural communities" in the words used on their website. They go on to say "</span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Alberta Culture Days 2013, September 27 to 29, will continue to showcase <b>the province's</b> arts, multicultural, heritage and nonprofit/voluntary organizations; creative industries and individual artists, while encouraging all Albertans to discover the important contributions of culture to a prosperous, vibrant society."</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">If you take some time to peruse the Culture Days <a href="http://culture.alberta.ca/culturedays/default.aspx" target="_blank">website</a> (and I encourage you to do so), you will see that the communities participating have invited a wide variety of Alberta artists. Writers, painters, musicians, photographers, sculptors, and fine craftspersons will all be presenting events for public participation. Every single one of them Albertans, or at least, successful artists who got their start in Alberta.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Now, it is really important to present art and artists from outside of Alberta to the folks living here. Exposing the public to the arts in all its complexity and richness makes for a better society. And there are any number of venues that do this, year round. But these three days are for celebrating and encouraging <b>Alberta</b> artists. It just seems to me that MacDonald Island is missing the spirit of the thing by bringing in an outside artist to celebrate the art in our own home province. I am going to participate in events that focus on local talent, both professional and amateur, because they are the warp and weft that make up Alberta's culture.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 18px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And for those of you outside of Alberta, take a moment to look around your community. I bet you will find amazing fibre artists, painters, potters, singers, actors, and </span></span><span style="color: #333333;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">basket weavers in your own back yard. Take a moment to appreciate what you have right there at home and support your local artists.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="line-height: 18px;">Because I am from somewhere else, too. And I can tell you that the grass is no greener here than it is in your own backyard. </span></span><br />
<br />Michelle Boydhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04749215517370187042noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21162574.post-18507758195559885762013-09-05T10:21:00.001-07:002013-09-05T10:21:40.013-07:00Changes<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i> Turn and face the strange...</i></blockquote>
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A little over a year ago, I resigned from the Olds College Master Spinner Program' teaching roster and went into a bit of a sabbatical, if you will. It has been an interesting year, to say the least. I intended to spend the year resting and revitalizing, but very quickly discovered that what I was doing was more like a caterpillar's cocoon stage. I isolated myself in a small, cozy spot and transformed.<br />
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A year ago, I was driven by my need to please. I rarely, if ever, said no. I revelled in the admiring coos of "Ohhh, you're so busy." I was addicted to my inbox-if I had fewer than 30 emails on any given day, I would wonder what was wrong. I travelled and taught and spun and knit and organized and emailed 7 days a week.<br />
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Sure, I was beginning to feel a few aches and pains. I had a little trouble sleeping. I tended to fly off the handle when something went wrong. And that constant, grinding pain in my stomach was a little annoying. But, hey, everybody just sits down at two o'clock in the afternoon and bursts into tears, right?<br />
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I told the story of my <a href="http://whorlspins.blogspot.ca/2012/07/not-blog-post-you-were-hoping-for.html" target="_blank">breaking point</a>, and of the realization that I was <a href="http://whorlspins.blogspot.ca/2012/08/time-and-space.html" target="_blank">addicted to stress</a> on this blog. What I haven't told you is how much I've changed.<br />
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Oh, don't get me wrong! I'm still prone to hyper-organization and over-doing things. I'm still busy, juggling travel and teaching and organizing. I've begun writing more, with a series of magazine articles in the pipeline and the outline of a book filling in nicely. I'm still spinning and knitting and dabbling in the weaving world. I still manage to cook fabulous meals and keep the house from total chaos and occasionally get a load of laundry done.<br />
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What has changed is my engagement to the outcome. I am no longer doing the things I do for the approval of others. I am doing it for my own approval. I am saying no to things that will cause me more stress and work, though I am still finding that hard to do. I am saying yes to an afternoon of reading, where nothing measurable gets accomplished at all. If I get stalled on something, I will simply walk away and clear my mind, then come back when I am ready. I have learned to set boundaries and limits, and I'm working hard to stay within them.<br />
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And as I have been changing, the world around me has been changing, too. My youngest baby has graduated from high school and turned 18, becoming an adult overnight. She will be moving out of our house and into her own home in Edmonton next month in preparation for starting culinary school in January, leaving me with a truly empty nest. We are already finding that we are changing our routines, that the pace of life is changing, too.<br />
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Another exodus of friends from Fort McMurray has begun as well. Comfortable, long-term friendships that could be counted on will now become long-distance friendships. This will bring another change in routines, another change in pace.<br />
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There are big changes on the work front as well. Not only am I morphing from hands-on teacher to writer/teacher, but the administration of the Master Spinners/Fibre Week at Olds College has changed. I am back on the teaching roster and still volunteering for Fibre Week, but I am learning new systems and new personalities. The administration of the programs is being pulled more tightly into alignment with the policies of the rest of the college, and there are several places where we are not going to be a smooth fit, but it is working out so far. In all of this transition, I have gone from being an insider in the decision-making process to someone who works among the ranks. The new administration team is wonderful, but it is odd to be dealing with, once again, new routines and the change in the pace of doing things.<br />
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Yet, oddly, with all of this change swirling around me, I am sleeping better than ever and that grinding pain in my stomach only comes when I have forgotten to each lunch. And I haven't cried at two o'clock in months. There are still aches and pains, but that is a story for another post.<br />
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Not all is well. Life is still chaotic and overwhelming, but I'm okay with that. I have simply come to accept that I don't have control of everything and I really don't need to control everything. That acceptance has set me free. Free to spin and write and design and travel and live my life.<br />
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And, really, who could ask for anything more.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i><br /></i><i> Time may change me, but I can't trace time.</i></blockquote>
Michelle Boydhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04749215517370187042noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21162574.post-19520967676250720532013-07-11T11:47:00.001-07:002013-07-11T11:49:47.490-07:00MonorailI do no usually write about local politics--or politics in general-on this blog. This is a blog about fibre and fibre arts. I am not a political junkie, one of those people who watches council meetings every two weeks. What I am is a citizen who is engaged in the day-to-day life of my community. And I think it is time for me to say something that has been on my mind for a while.<br />
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But first, some context into the title of this post. There is a classic episode of The Simpsons in which a conman sells a monorail system to the people of Springfield that turns out to be somewhat less than what it seemed. If you haven't seen it before, or if you really want an earworm, watch Lyle Lanley work his magic:<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/AEZjzsnPhnw?rel=0" width="420"></iframe><br />
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I share this clip with you because it came up on my Twitter feed the other night as members of the community were watching the Municipal Council meeting, where our council voted to pay $100,000 to something called Nexus North for a membership (<a href="http://www.mix1037fm.com/content/view/8241/60/" target="_blank">local news link</a>). What, exactly, this membership entitles the Regional Municipality of Wood Buffalo and Fort McMurray to, or what benefits the community will see, is yet to be determined. The presentation by the representatives of this "initiative" was filled with inspirational double-speak and jingoisms. There will be synergies and social growth and collaborations a-plenty. The names of major corporations were casually tossed about. But what was never once mentioned was an actual action, plan, or tangible outcome.<br />
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(You can read more buzzwords and catch-phrases <a href="http://www.middleagebulge.com/2013/07/deconstructing-nexus-north.html" target="_blank">here</a> on council member Russell Thomas's blog. This appears to be the most concrete information about Nexus North that appears anywhere on the internet. In an entertaining side note, a Twitter search for @NexusNorth turns up one result, an apparently defunct, Spanish-language porn site. A Google search of the phrase turns up even less. Surely, such an important initiative should have a web-presence here and now in the Information Age?)<br />
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Our mayor cannot tell us what this shadowy group does, or will do for our city. Councillors asked why, if the function of this group is too complex and arcane for the average voter to understand, money should be directed there. The local Twitterati had a field day, starting with the aforementioned monorail, and continuing with references to Ponzi schemes and Nigerian princes. But, in my mind, Nexus North is not the only problem that the current council has. It is merely a symptom.<br />
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Here is what I think is wrong with our current mayor and council: They have forgotten where they live.<br />
<br />
There has been an enormous effort expended by the current city government and administration to make Fort McMurray a "world-class city". Their lives seem to be consumed by the fact that a couple of opinion writers for The National Post and The Globe and Mail have commented that Fort McMurray is dirty, sleazy, or somehow filled with venal, money-grabbing carpetbaggers profiting from the oil boom. The solution, according to the current council, is to remake Fort McMurray in Toronto's image. According to them, we need to scrap long-standing institutions and geography to create a new, vibrant city centre. We need to tear down businesses and hotels and homes to build epic architecture that reflects our hip, new image. We need art galleries, and bistros, and multiple cultural and entertainment venues.<br />
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Now, I'm not saying that there is anything wrong with art galleries and bistros. What I AM saying is that those already exist. Sure, they are in old industrial buildings, or housed inside other existing institutions such as The Suncor Leisure Centre at Mac Island. But we have them. And they are under-utilized. Art galleries and frozen yogurt is awesome, but affordable housing, an adequate transportation system, and decent snow clearing is what makes a city a community people want to live in.<br />
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The current council has hired outside consultants, design firms, and planning initiatives to tell the people of Fort McMurray what the future of their city will be. These plans are then presented as a<i> fait</i> <i>accompli, </i>without community consultation. It seems to me, as an ordinary citizen of this city, that the community I have lived in for 31 years is simply being scrapped for a shiny new model that will impress Toronto journalists. They appear to be saying that the outsiders are right: "Fort McMurray is bad and we have to fix it."<br />
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I'm all for change, and for grand vision. What I am not for is throwing money at shadows and grasping at tenuous schemes when the basic infrastructure of our city is crumbling. It is mid-July and I have been driving through the same pot-hole on Thickwood Boulevard since April. Traffic is a nightmare of near legendary proportions in the city as poor planning, disorganization and knee-jerk solutions are patched together and discarded. The local aging-in-place centre is bogged down in a bureaucratic quagmire because the city jumped in with a grand vision and no plan.<br />
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I am not an urban planner, or a politician. I am just a human being who wants her home to be a place that she can live. The goal of the Municipal Council's grandiose plans is supposedly to attract educated, white-collar workers to our community, and to make our community a place where the fly-in camp population can move their families to settle. They claim they need a more sophisticated city to make that happen, but I can tell you right now, as an educated, white-collar person, that when I look at a community, I do not assess it by the number of art galleries. I look at transportation and health care and sanitation. I look at whether or not the local government ensures that the infrastructure of the community meets the needs of the community. I look at the people of the community, and how much the local government values the community for what it is.<br />
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It is not, in my opinion, the job of our local elected officials to rebuild and remake our city. It is their job to nurture the city we have, warts and all, as it grows, organically, into that "world-class city" that it can be.<br />
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In that Simpsons episode monorail did not make Springfield a better place to be. It turned out to be a disaster. A monorail is not going to make Fort McMurray a better place to be. Go build your monorail somewhere else.Michelle Boydhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04749215517370187042noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21162574.post-30150958014981131482013-07-02T12:45:00.002-07:002013-07-02T12:45:28.447-07:00Tiny RipplesWell, the mayhem of June is over and we are coasting into the hot, sunny days of July. Another Fibre Week is behind me, and I am stopping to catch my breath before I start <strike>harassing</strike> inviting instructors to join us for next year. It is a time to rest, and to reflect.<br />
<br />
This was a milestone year at Fibre Week in many ways. This year is the centennial of the establishment of both the community of Olds and Olds College. It is also the 25th anniversary of the Master Spinner Program. This was the year that we saw the most graduates in one year from the Master Spinner Program, five in all. And this is the year that we said goodbye to the man who has been at the helm of Fibre Week for the past 12 years, Otto Pahl.<br />
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There was much talk of legacies and the impact of the actions of innovators, leaders, and decision makers on the lives of those of us who have come to love Fibre Week. New scholarships were introduced, the vision of those who first proposed the Master Spinner Program was lauded, the impact of Otto's interest in this quirky little program and his influence in its growth was celebrated. I was personally thanked for my dedication to the monumental task of creating the Fibre Week instructor roster and workshop schedule again and again. Great, sweeping decisions, long, arduous tasks, and gigantic risks were all publicly praised.<br />
<br />
However, what I learned at Fibre Week this year was that the big things don't matter quite as much as the little things. Sure, friends and strangers alike told me stories of how decisions I had made in the dark of winter in my little studio had introduced them to a skill, an instructor, or an idea that had changed their life. And, let me tell you, it is a wondrous feeling to know that you have had that impact on someone. But, what struck me most in this year of celebrating big accomplishments was the number of people who came forward to thank me for the tiny gestures.<br />
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We rarely get to see the impact of the little things we do each day, like letting someone in the grocery store line go ahead of us, or smiling at someone on the street, but for some reason, this Fibre Week, I was repeatedly reminded that even our simplest gestures can have great impact.<br />
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I have two stories to share that are sharp illustrations of this point.<br />
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My journey to Fibre Week this year was epic in the scope and number of minor disasters that occurred en route, starting with a flat tire before I left home delaying my departure by two days, followed by a series of miscommunications and missed appointments. Once I actually got on the road, the miscommunications continued to plague me, and then the brand new tire that I had waited two days for failed. In the pouring rain, in Red Deer. After the lovely gentleman from AMA Roadside Assistance had put my spare on, I limped to the local franchise of the tire company that had installed said new tire, only to be treated with blatant sexism ("Well, honey, I don't know that I can help you...) and even more blatant lies about the cost and availability of a new tire.<br />
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After much teeth-grinding and Googling, I discovered another franchise located in Olds, which is where I wanted to be anyway, and we set off on the back roads, driving slowly and carefully on the emergency spare. The Olds franchise was happy to help me, and I worked my way back to the College. Where I was immediately met with chaos and panic. The College was serving as an evacuation centre for the victims of the flooding that was impacting much of Southern Alberta at that time and this was causing much confusion with the housing staff. Keys were being mixed up and double bookings abounded. Instructors were stranded by mudslides and washouts. Mayhem ruled.<br />
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There was not much I could do about any of it, though, so I decided to move into my condo. Exhausted, cranky, and overwhelmed, I grabbed an armful of stuff and trudged through the rain to my accommodation. I opened the door and there was a young woman who looked very familiar to me--I presumed I recognized her from the Master Spinner Program--who said something like "Hey, looks like we get to be room mates!"<br />
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To which I replied something along the lines of "Huh."<br />
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Not really smooth and eloquent, but apropos to the moment.<br />
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The evening progressed, I ate and had a glass of wine and chatted with good friends. I went back to my condo, where my room mate, whose name I had now remembered, was already in her room. I went to bed, thinking nothing more than "Thank goodness I am warm and dry and all is well."<br />
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The next day was a busy one for me, so after a brief exchange of good mornings and small talk about the weather with my roomie, I went about my rounds, making sure instructors had everything they needed, familiarizing newbies with the campus, and shooting interviews for Fibre Optic. I had a quick supper with my son, then headed back for a quiet evening in the condos.<br />
<br />
My room mate was in, and I poured a glass of wine and sat down to chat with her. By now, I had fully remembered who she was--she had taken a class from me last year at Fibre Week. And, unfortunately for her, she had been there when I had my <a href="http://whorlspins.blogspot.ca/2012/07/not-blog-post-you-were-hoping-for.html" target="_blank">momentous meltdown</a>. And worse yet, she had felt that she may have triggered it by raising the question about the handout that threw me for a loop. And then I had been rude and abrupt with her as I moved in.<br />
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A moment of personal doubt, and a few tiny, careless acts, and I had given this poor woman the idea that I disliked her. Which was not the least bit true, but that was how she had seen me. Hopefully, we have cleared the air, but the point that even my unconscious actions could impact someone this way really threw me for a loop.<br />
<br />
The other story is a happier one. As I mentioned before, there were five graduates from the Master<br />
Spinner Program this year. I was fortunate enough to have taught 3 of them, so I know I somehow influenced them, for good or for bad. But when I congratulated one of the two I had not taught, she thanked me profusely for helping her so much through the program.<br />
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Now, I had chatted with her. I had gone out for dinner with her, or sat with her at lunch. But I had never taught her. Never marked her books. Never helped her with her homework. How had I helped her through the program?<br />
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So, she told me the story of her Level One year, when she was overwhelmed and frustrated and scared that she couldn't handle the amount of work ahead of her. She was headed back to her condo, admitting defeat and thinking she didn't fit in. She was passing a bunch of Level Six students who were heading out for dinner, and one of them asked if she wanted to come along. That would have been me.<br />
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I don't remember that dinner. I have no idea who was there, or what we talked about, or where we ate. But SHE remembered that dinner as the moment she realized that she was welcome and that she fit in. A simple, careless gesture on my part--"Hey, want to join us for dinner?"--was a turning point in her life.<br />
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What both of these encounters reminded me was that it is not the great things that we do, but the little, tiny ones, that change the world. We impact people without even recognizing it with the little things we do every day.<br />
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When you drop a great big rock into a pool of water, there is a great big splash and everyone notices. When you drop a tiny pebble into that same pool of water, there are just tiny ripples that are barely noticeable. But those tiny ripples spread outward and go on and on, and we may never know where they end up.<br />
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So, while I will continue to drop big rocks and try to make a splash, what I'm really going to do is remember that I can accomplish much more by dropping the tiny pebbles and making those tiny ripples.<br />
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<br />
<br />
<br />Michelle Boydhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04749215517370187042noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21162574.post-37699112590409285542013-05-28T10:31:00.001-07:002013-05-28T10:31:24.842-07:00California Odyssey Part Three: The Happiest Place on EarthAfter a fabulous 10 days of writing and beach-walking, I sadly said goodbye to Ventura and headed southward toward LAX to return my rental car. The drive that day was worthy of a post all it's own. People in my weaving class had recommended the PCH as a route, and I decided it was worth a shot.<br />
Or several shots...<br />
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The Pacific Coast Highway meanders along, well, the Pacific coast. The scenery is spectacular, and the traffic is fairly light and easy-going. It was a fabulous drive, and I wound up at Santa Monica just as the sun broke through the marine layer and made the day even more beautiful...<br />
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It was a lovely way to transition from peace and solitude to the hustle-bustle of one of the world's busiest theme parks. And transition I did!<br />
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My daughter Lexi flew in to join me, and we had a wonderful time. We rode the rides and ate the food and just hung out...<br />
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<br />
We met Goofy...<br />
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<br />
...and Donald Duck...<br />
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<br />
...and Tigger!<br />
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We had fun...<br />
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My whole family are big Disneyland fans, and we know a lot of the little ins and outs of the park. It's almost like coming home for us to visit both Disneyland and Disney's California Adventure, and I think that I have way more fun with my kids there now that they are adults than we did even when they were little. It was great to connect with each other and play.<br />
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I've been home now for almost 4 weeks, back to my hectic life, and the rested feeling is long gone. Life marches on, bringing with it the frantic tedium of day-to-day, interspersed with bouts of stress and nonsense. But all I have to do is sit down for five minutes and remember California and it all fades away. The sights and sounds, the people, the learning and growing, and the sheer joy that I found on that trip have altered me forever.<br />
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But when you boil it all down, no matter where you come from, and no matter where you go, there's no place like home. And my home is, truly, The Happiest Place on Earth.Michelle Boydhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04749215517370187042noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21162574.post-78285372359006549862013-05-16T10:11:00.000-07:002013-05-16T10:11:00.838-07:00Commercial BreakI just wanted to pop in and let you know that I have launched an exciting new project, and I could use your help.<br />
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I am developing a new web series about fibre and the people who raise it, process it, and work with it called Fibre Optic Television. I am very excited about this project, even though the size and scope of it seem a little overwhelming at times.<br />
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If you want some more information about what I'm up to, you can like my Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Fibre-Optic-Television/367460223365034<br />
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Or you can check out my Indiegogo fundraising campaign: http://igg.me/p/409743/x/224608 and maybe even throw a couple of bucks my way to get this thing up and running.<br />
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Hopefully, if a few people are willing to help cover the travel and production costs, I will have this series recorded and ready to air by early January, 2014. I'm really excited and I hope I can get the rest of the fibre world excited, too. Spread the word!<br />
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And stay tuned to a computer near you...<br />
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We will now return you to our regularly scheduled blog.Michelle Boydhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04749215517370187042noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21162574.post-64878117959292358422013-05-13T14:18:00.001-07:002013-05-13T14:18:55.059-07:00California Odyssey Part Two: Ventura and Points BeyondWhen we last left the tale of my California Odyssey, I had packed my bags and trundled my new loom into my rented chariot and travelled down the mountain to Ventura. I was, all of a sudden, in a new town without adult supervision.<br />
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<a href="http://www.ventura-usa.com/" target="_blank">Ventura</a> is a lovely little city on the California coast, just north of the Malibu area. I had rented a cottage that turned out to be in a lovely little spot on top of a hill just above the Mission, walking distance from downtown and the beach. It was a quiet and extremely charming spot, with a huge garden that was constantly filled with the singing of birds and the buzzing of hummingbirds. I had a view of orange groves up the side of a mountain, and a wee glimpse of the ocean. But mostly, I had solitude.<br />
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You see, I am writing a book. THERE! I put it on the interwebs for all to see. I am writing a book about spinning. I do not have a publishing deal, I do not have an agent, and, frankly, I do not have a deadline. But, I am writing.<br />
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I had started chipping away at an outline and an early draft in January, but life being life, there were too many distractions. I got the flu, we had medical appointments, there was laundry to be washed. Life. And a wee bit of procrastination. So we figured a change of scenery, a break in the routine, would be the answer.<br />
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Turns out it was. I wrote every morning until I ran out of words, or until my fingers started to cramp from the typing. Then I went on an adventure.<br />
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I would walk down to the Mission...<br />
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or out to Surfer's Point...<br />
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I walked on the State Beach...<br />
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...or out on the pier ...<br />
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And I had bigger adventures, too.<br />
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Through one of the women I met in my class in Ojai, I was introduced to Randy, a spinner from Santa Barbara, who invited me up to her community for a day. So, one drizzly morning, I set out for Santa Barbara, where I had a marvellous visit with Randy and a tour of that gorgeous city. The rain had lifted by the time I got to Santa Barbara, and we talked fibre and spinning before heading for lunch on the terrace of El Encanto. We continued to talk fibre and spinning through lunch, when we were not distracted by the incredible view. And we talked fibre and spinning as we drove around and explored Santa Barbara until it was time for me to head home. And, I TOOK NOT ONE PICTURE. No, not a one, so I have to rely on my already sketchy memory to remind me of the beautiful day. Or, maybe, I will just have to go back.<br />
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Then there was more writing and more meandering around Ventura. I discovered the whereabouts of the local Trader Joe's and stocked up on some of my favourite goodies there. I rambled through the shops downtown and treated myself to some new clothes. I even checked out the Local Yarn Shop--<a href="http://www.anacapafineyarns.com/" target="_blank">Anacapa Fine Yarns</a>, (which leads to another story that I will tell later, because it is not a story about Ventura or the lovely folks at Anacapa). Did I mention there was writing? I know I have a lot to say about yarn, but...WOW. I have a LOT to say about yarn.<br />
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After a couple of days of just hanging out, I set out on another adventure, this time with one of my classmates from the weaving class. We went to Solvang to visit <a href="http://www.villagespinweave.com/" target="_blank">Village Spinning and Weaving</a>. Solvang is a stunning drive north from Ventura along the Pacific Coast and a quick turn inland, where you suddenly find yourself in a totally different world. Solvang's architecture and layout is based on a Danish village, so you see things like...<br />
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...windmills on the main drag...<br />
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...and Hamlet square.<br />
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The downtown area is filled with lovely little boutiques and quirky shops, and, of course, Village Spinning and Weaving, where no small amounts of time and money were spent. We had lunch, then meandered the non-spinning-and-weaving shops for a while, then discovered that it was farmer's market day.<br />
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Now, I am a bit of a farmer's market junkie. I cannot walk away from one empty-handed. I went to the farmer's market in Ojai, I had been to the one in Ventura just days before, but we had to poke along through this one, too. So I managed to toddle on home from Solvang with plenty of yarn and a big sack of strawberries and veggies.<br />
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More writing and beach strolling, with a bit of weaving in the sunshine...<br />
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...filled up my week, and before I knew it, it was time to move on again.<br />
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I was actually a little sad to leave Ventura and my little nest, but that didn't last too long because my next stop was Disneyland!<br />
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Stay tuned...Michelle Boydhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04749215517370187042noreply@blogger.com0