Optimism. Or Not.

I'm sitting here this morning feeling all mellow and relaxed and really not caring that I have Important Real Life Things to do.  Things like going to the store to buy soy sauce and baking powder.  Things like getting my glasses repaired.  Things like folding those two loads of towels on the couch.

Instead, I'm sitting here, knitting away on a sweater for Steve and pondering.  Pondering what to do with this...

...340 yards of Paco-Vicuna (28 g), about an 18s/52 wpi.  It is going to be something lacy, of course.  Possibly an Emily Shawl (Rav link).  But the real question is to dye or not to dye.  The natural colour is a lovely, rich, warm beige that I hate to cover up, but beige and I decided to part ways a few years back when my hair turned white.  Blue would be better, but the natural is so pretty.  So I knit and stare and ponder.

And very now and then I get up and check on this...

...Big Pile o' Mo.  Because checking it every five minutes will make it dry faster.  I spent part of yesterday washing marvellous kid mohair locks in natural colours with the vision of a fabulous monochromatic tail-spun yarn that will become the most glorious scarf in the history of the Universe.  But mohair dries in January at about the same rate molasses flows in January.  So I check and I ponder the marvellous yarn yet to come.

All this knitting and checking and pondering has led my mind down a few stray paths, too.  Which brings me to the topic of today's sermon.  Optimism, or the lack thereof.

I am an optimistic person.  Not like Pollyana optimistic, where everything is wonderful all the time.  I do have a little to much skepticism for that, and 50 years of living in the Real World had taught me a lesson or two on tempering optimism with caution.  But I'm essentially a glass-half-full kind of person.  (See the above hopeful delusion that mohair will dry quickly in January.)

This does not mean that I don't notice the bad things.  Or that I don't complain.  I do both.  Lots.  But I get over it, or find a way to turn it around.  I make a joke and move on and embrace the joy in life.

But lately, it has struck me that I am in a minority.  (I may not actually be, but it just seems that everybody is so full of gloom and doom.)  My Facebook and Twitter is full of complaint and misery.  Some seem to delight in reposting news stories of death and mayhem and tragedy of operatic proportions.  Others are sharing the suffering of their New Years resolution diets or the dark days of January (for which I actually do feel some sympathy).   A few are trying to pick political fights-Albertan and American (Neither contest is looking like it's going to be pretty, even to us optimists). There are even a couple who have made disparaging comments on the positive posts of others.  (It may be getting close to time for a Friend Purge...)

Even the Real World seems to be in a bad mood.  On two separate occasions this past week, strangers in check-out lines started conversations with me.  Normally, this would delight me, but these conversations were just openings for them to vent their spleens to a stranger.  (And, as a side note, to the man who believes that photoradar is just a cash grab by the Municipality because they nailed you 3 times on the same stretch of road:  STOP SPEEDING and the Municipality will stop grabbing your cash.  Just sayin'.)  Cashiers and servers grumble about the winter weather, which, in my opinion, has been exceptionally mild this year.  Well, okay, they reply, then say "but just wait, we're gonna get nailed."

You know, when you dwell on the negative, pretty soon it's all you see.  I'm pretty sure that there are a lot of people out there who are missing some pretty awesome adventures because all they can see are the roadblocks.  There is a silver lining to every cloud, but there seem to be a lot of people noticing the cloud to every silver lining these days.

So is it just the January Blues?  Or is everybody depressed because the Mayans are going to end the world this year. (Or because the Family Radio Network failed to do so last year?)  Or is this because there is too much bisphenol-A in our drinking water? Or do this many people just see the glass as half empty?

Well, you know what the optimist in me says to that?

"Glass half-full. Glass half-empty. Who cares?  We've still got wine either way!"

'Tis the Season

Yep, it's that time of year again.  The commercials have been running since mid-October.  Retailers are promising us the best prices of the year THIS WEEK ONLY for weeks on end.  And the bloggers are choosing up sides and pronouncing their pro-Christmas/anti-Christmas stance to the world.

You've probably seen something-the interwebz is full of the Spirit of the Season.  Christmas is too commercial.  How to have a "green" Christmas.  Don't say "Merry Christmas" because it's insensitive to those with non-Christian belief systems.  If you don't say "Merry Christmas" you are part of the "War on Christmas".  I have been reading all week about these things, and about each blogger's individual family crises that arise at this time of year for weeks now. 


And I will admit, the stress of the Season was beginning to build in me, too.  I was sulking about the fact that my family is scattered and we cannot spend significant dates together anymore.  I was fretting perfect gifts and mailing dates.  I was stewing over whether or not to decorate the dining room, for crying out loud.  Hell, I was even worrying about the lack of snow in the region!  I mean, how could I feel festive without snow?


Then the barrage began.  I started getting about 25 emails a day from retailers, some of whom I don't even shop with, offering me discounts, free shipping, or a gift card for me if I spend X dollars on gifts.  My Facebook and Twitter are littered with messages to "Keep Christ in Christmas", include non-Christians in my holiday wishes,  and Shop Local (which is grammatically incorrect--they should be exhorting me to shop locally).  I receive a dozen messages a day to boycott the same retailers who are emailing me to tell me to shop with them.  My blogroll is littered with stories of Christmas catastrophes and angst.


So I turn on the TV to escape the negativity.  Along with airings of "A Christmas Story", I find ads for seasonal air fresheners and special edition "holiday" oral care products.  I find myself confronted with news stories of Christmas sales being up, which is good news for the economy.  Or down, which is bad for the economy. I find ads telling me to give $2000 diamonds and big-screen TVs and cars for Christmas because those are the perfect gifts (financing available OAC).  I find celebrity chefs informing me that if I haven't been raising my own turkey since April, I have ruined Christmas dinner.  Or vegans telling me that if I eat turkey, I am a heathen and a monster.  And doctors telling me that eating any holiday-related foods will make me fat.


And don't get me started on the radio.  If I have to hear Justin Bieber singing that he wants to get his shorty under the mistletoe one more time, I may just go screaming fa-la-la-la-la all the way to the nearest mental health institution.


So I walk away from the media.  I meet friends for coffee.  Friends who tell me tales of family conflict over who will be hosting Christmas Eve and who gets Christmas dinner, or who are trying to figure out how they can afford to get both of their kids X-Boxes for their rooms.  I go to the Post Office to mail a non-Christmas-gift package and stand in line for half-an-hour surrounded by people who are angry because they have to stand in line for half-an-hour to mail their gifts.  I go to my local coffee dispensary for a latte and have to run a gauntlet of gifts and frantic shoppers fighting over the last mug with a reindeer on it. 


And this was only the first week of December.  I just wanted to crawl into a hole until January by last weekend.  I really did.


Now, don't get me wrong.  I really love the Festive Season.  I like the warmth and coziness of my home on long, dark winter days.  I love the reasons to see friends that I never seem to find time to visit the rest of the year.  I have an excuse to indulge in day-long knitting sessions, and to shop for things I would never otherwise even look at.  I love the lights, the music, the food, the smell of balsam and cedar.  But it's hard to remember these little joys when you are being bombarded with what you are doing wrong.  After all, what is a candle-lit evening spend sipping mulled wine compared to the "War on Christmas"?  Clearly, there are much bigger things than my simple pleasures.


In spite of my misgivings, I bravely soldiered on.  We ventured out and acquired a Christmas tree (the Boyd household is still a "real" tree establishment).  I turned off the radio and TV and played Christmas carols instead.  I planned baking, and, of course, I knit gifts.  My heart wasn't really in it, though.  I felt like I was just going through the motions.  And that made me really sad.


Then things started to happen.  With a rather deus ex machina-like development, my little quiet Christmas at home became a big family gathering.  It snowed.  I stumbled upon a favorite Christmas album on iTunes.  I finished the Christmas knitting.  I began the Christmas baking.  I remembered the joy of these early winter celebrations.

I think too many of us have bought the Madison Avenue Christmas--the one where the most expensive gift buys us the most love.  The one where we have to start decorating in October, and start shopping the day after.  The one where everyone behaves perfectly and there is peace and love and joy.  And shopping.  Or we have been burned out by the things that go wrong at Christmas.  The same things that go wrong at Easter and Mothers Day and on any given Tuesday, really.  But when there is a family spat or a burnt meal at Christmas, it is apocalyptic.  We lose perspective. Because we have been indoctrinated that this is the Biggest Day of the Year, and if you get this day wrong, you are the ultimate failure.

"The Holidays" have become synonymous with stress.  Because we have let them.  But we can take our joy back.  We can delete those emails about shopping.  We can turn off the advertising.  And the Justin Bieber.

We can celebrate on our own terms, whether that means a Solstice bonfire, or lighting a Menorah, or hosting a Norman Rockwell-esque Christmas for 40.  Or we can not celebrate at all.  We can cozy up in our homes with our loved ones, or we can travel to Grandma's house, or  to Cancun.  We can give big screen TVs, or hand-knit mittens, or no gifts at all.  We can give to the food bank, or we can wait and donate food in June when stocks are low again.  We can eat turkey, or Tofurkey, or roast beef.  We can eat cookies or not eat cookies.  We can like fruitcake.  We can laugh and cry and fight and hug.

Because when you embrace life on your own terms, taking the good with the bad, you will find joy where ever you are.  And whatever the date.

So, whatever celebration you observe at this turn of the seasons, ignore the advertisers, the spammers, the nay-sayers, and the Grinches and celebrate with all you've got!  Or not.  It's up to you.

(Personally, I'm gonna celebrate.)

With or Without U

For those of you who haven't noticed, I'm a Canadian gal.  (I was told once that I didn't LOOK Canadian, so I thought I should clarify this.)  I am proud of the fact that I was born and raised in Canada, and I am happy to live in our polite, multicultural, albeit wintry, nation.

But, being a Canadian who travels to and sends written articles to the US, and teaches visiting American students, I am beginning to feel very conflicted.  Not about political differences or economic issues.  No, I am conflicted about the letter U.

You see, even though Canada and the US are joined at the hip geographically, economically, and culturally, there are some subtle, yet oddly profound differences in our languages. And herein lies my struggle.

These differences are as a result of the fact that Canada remained an outpost of the British Empire for much longer than the US did.  Our language and spelling are still influenced by the Queen's English.  There are a lot of little ways this shows itself in my everyday life, but as someone who is sharing fairly specialised information across the border, it is beginning to stress me out.

One big one:  Americans say "zee", Canadians say "zed".  This causes me no end of stress when I am teaching in the US.  I speak casually of inserting zed twist into your yarns, and I am met with blank looks.  Not every time, but often enough to make me feel self-conscious.  So I try very hard to say zee, or translate after I have said zed.  It feels awkward, or rather, I feel awkward.  Especially when someone very kindly informs me that it is okay to say zed, because they know Canadians talk funny.

Then there is "re" versus "er", most notoriously, in my life anyway, in fibre.  Or fiber.  Spellcheck will not acknowledge "fibre", no matter how many times I reset the freakin' preferences.  That little red ziggy line appears every time.  When I typed in a Google search for a fibre source,  I used to get "Did you mean fiber?" (They have fixed that, but it used to bug me.  A lot.)  And the same thing happens when I type theatre, and centre.  I know a lot of people who have given up on "re" and just joined the "er" crowd.  I'm just not ready to go there yet.

But I'm really ready to say goodbye to the superfluous U.  It lurks in words like colour and honour and splendour.  It takes a whole extra keystroke to create, and it makes words look...old-fashioned.  There is a certain visual symmetry to letter-o-letter-o-letter that I prefer.  I'm done with that U, and I merrily type away, ignoring it's existence (and overriding my English (Canadian) Spellcheck setting).  And here lies the crux of my dilemma.

As a linguistically patriotic Canadian, who will not surrender her "re" words, who thinks turning "light" into "lite" is sheer laziness, who says "zed" with pride, how can I justify excluding the Canadian U?  This somehow feels like a betrayal of the language I was raised speaking, or at least writing.   I am often corrected by Canadian editors or web designers when I spell color "wrong".  I am so torn.  But I think that U is a pain in the a**.

Now, I have nothing against U as a general principle.  Without U, a lot of words would become ridiculous.  Who has ever heard of a nicorn, or a nicyle.  And a lot of words would change radically without it.  Our would become or, making possession very ambiguous: our house would become or house.  In fact, without U, it would become or hose.  Totally different.  But color is still a word describing a hue (or a he, without U), just like colour.  An honor is still high praise, even without the U.  There are some places I just don't like seeing that U, places where it just seems unnecessary.

So, as I prepare handouts for SOAR, as I blog, I struggle.  Do I stay consistent with my "pure" Canadian spellings and put that stupid U in there?  Or do I compromise all of my other Canadianisms by leaving it out and spelling the words the way I like them.  Or do I throw caution to the wind and mix and match as I please?  The last is what I want to do, but it smacks of a descent into chaos.  Without consistency, language loses its meaning.

U no wut I mean?

Winning! Or What is Wrong With the Internet

WARNING: Today's post has very little to do with knitting, spinning or string in general.  It is a rant, based upon personal responses to recent events and too much cold medication.  You may take or leave the opinions expressed below, according to your own personal editing mechanisms.  Just because it is on the internet does not mean the following has any value to anyone besides the author.

Well, all that found time I wrote about in my last post got eaten up pretty darned quick!  Here I am, ten days later, playing catch-up again.

Since we last visited, I have been to Edmonton, where Miss Julia had surgery on her knee, and back.  I spent most of last week sitting and waiting, knitting mindless wristwarmers, and pondering the Mysteries of the Universe.  And now I am down with another head cold that is making me too groggy and grumpy to do much except ponder some more.

I have pondered the events of my past month, and the factors that led up to my misadventures with US Customs.  I have pondered the Great Question of art versus craft. I have pondered the bizarre weather of this past winter, its causes and its impact on my life.  I have pondered survival tactics for the upcoming zombie apocalypse.  But mostly, I have pondered technology, the internet, and social media.

You see, I have been engaged in a triangular love-hate relationship with my computer and cell-phone for the past seven or eight years, as they have subtly inserted their tentacles deeply into every aspect of my life.  I resent the intrusion of the constant ringing of the phone in my pocket, yet I cannot leave the house without it for fear I miss something important.  I dread opening my emails each day, not knowing if good or bad news lurks there, but I am addicted to that beep that lets me know there is a new incoming message.  I remember the halcyon days when multi-tasking meant listening to music when I knit, yet I thrive on juggling emails, phone calls, a person in the room, and plying a complex boucle yarn.  All at the same time.  While supper is cooking.

As the years have passed, I have come to rely more and more on my computer.  I use it to write and print letters and information. I use it to make art.  I use it to organize and store my pictures.  I use it to organize Fibre Week from 700 km away.  I use it to organize workshops. I use it to teach.  I use it to stay in touch with family and friends.  I use it to find out what is happening in the world around me.

I am more connected than ever, too.  I carry a laptop when I travel to stay in touch.  I have emails and Facebook on my phone.  I tweet from all over, thanks to SMS.  I am wired into the world.

But lately, all of the nonsense and bullsh*it coming across the wireless waves is really annoying me.  From bad spinning and knitting tips being foisted onto unsuspecting beginners on forums and newlists to the whole Charlie Sheen debacle, I feel like the internet is drowning in a sea of swill.  All garbage, all day.  We are so "in touch" that we are losing touch with reality.  What is real is the horror of the earthquake in Japan.  What is unreal is the deluge of hateful Facebook updates suggesting that the earthquake was payback for Pearl Harbor or Japan's whaling activities.  What is real is that Charlie Sheen in a cocaine-addled celebrity in dire need of help.  What is not real is that he is WINNING!  Or funny.

Yet, every time I fire up the old computer, there it is, in all it's glory.  Unlimited information.  Such that it is in the 21st Century.  Communicated to us instantly.  We are in touch with the world around us, all day, every day.  We know EVERYTHING!!  All at once!

 I like the Information Age. I love that I can keep track of people's lives via Facebook, and that I can type my rambling philosophical thoughts into this blog.  The internet is a good thing.  Most of the time.

In 1964, a rather clever fellow by the name of Marshall McLuhan wrote a book about television and its influence on society.  He coined the  phrase "The medium is the message", which, essentially, means that the way information is delivered influences how that message is received.  Little did Mr. McLuhan know how true that would become in the internet age.  Everything on teh interwebz is True!  Everything on the world wide web is Important!  Every email is Urgent!  Every tweet, status update, and blog post is Vital Information, without which, the WORLD WILL END!!!!

McLuhan's opinion was that as news and information invaded the home, it became more intimate, more a part of our day-to-day lives.  We could not separate the information on television from our daily lives anymore.  I wonder if he ever imagined a day when we carried our media in our pockets and had 24-hour access to that information.  Or that information having 24-hour access to us.

We have lost the ability to turn the message off.  The medium is so ingrained in our lives that we cannot escape the message.  McLuhan suggested that the content of that message itself was more or less irrelevant, which leads me to my point.  We are losing our sense of perspective.  We are unable to discern good information from bad.  We are losing our ability to think critically.  We are becoming media-driven zombies, unable to escape the constant barrage of information, good and bad, and increasingly unable to differentiate which is which.  We are becoming more isolated, and more cruel to each other.

Now, I am not saying that there were no sources of bad information before the internet conquered the world.  I am not saying that there was not specious gossip, or pointless distractions thrown at us.  Nonsense and bullsh*t were invented 15 minutes before civilization was.  But, with electronic media in our faces 24/7, beeping urgently at us, we do not have the time to sift through every message we receive for the facts. And the facts are getting few and far between.  With more and more social media sites and blogs, we are getting fewer facts and a lot more opinions.  Not that opinions are bad--this whole post is nothing more than an opinion--but they are often used in place of facts.  Because we are so constantly bombarded, we are not sorting our information and opinion and fact are becoming one.

The key to survival is to learn how to look past the medium to the message.  The internet has become so much a part of our lives that we cannot live without it, or see past it.  But it is only a tool, just like a hammer.  We can choose to use a hammer to build, or to destroy.  But that is up to each of us as individuals.  We can do the same with our blogs, our tweets, our status updates.  We each of us control the medium.  We ARE the internet and social media.  We can be a positive force, building a better world, by choosing not to spread bad information or mean comments.  We can make sure of our facts before we share information on forums or blogs.  We can stop retweeting gossip and speculation. 

Information is currency.  And the more stable the currency, the greater its value.  We cannot censor the thoughts and opinions of others, but we can question their value.  We do not have to blindly believe it because it is streaming into our computers and phones.  We can get second opinions and form opinions of our own.  We can question "facts" that seem odd.  We can check with a second source before we drink the Kool-aid. (Seriously, a recent study found that most students rely on the first information they find and do not seek a second source.  And several bloggers argued that the study was unfair, because the researchers doing the study made their website "too believable" or that the children were too young to know better.  Kids question Santa Claus, but not the tree octopus.  They can find porn, but not information on where Egypt is actually located.  What is that about, then?)

We are thinking creatures.  So let's think when we use the internet.  Let's not turn off our brains because of a few flashy graphics or a viral link.  If we let the medium dictate our lives, that zombie apocalypse I am preparing for will happen a lot sooner than we expect!

Mea Culpa

I must confess.  I have committed a grave act that haunts me day and night.  I bought this sweater...

...which looks the picture of innocence.  But don't let looks deceive you.  This little sweater is...THE DIVIL!

You see, I am trying to reduce my carbon footprint.  I know that I am only one little person, but if I can reduce my dependency on petrochemicals and teach others to follow my example, I will feel that I have made an impact.  So, to that end, I have begun to walk to the grocery store and the post office, I have eliminated single-use plastic shopping bags from the household, I carry my own cup to Starbucks, I buy bulk groceries when I can to reduce the packaging waste...I do what I can.  But my big, soap-box rant-inspiring,
save-the planet action is to avoid clothing and textile products made from petrochemicals.

You know their names.  Polyester.  Nylon.  Acrylic.  Polyamide.  And the dreaded poly-vinyl-chloride.

Oh, they've gotten sneaky, these petro-textiles.  They hide behind names like "micro-fibre".  Spandex has snuck into the blue jean supply chain.  Petrochemicals are now being used to coat natural fibres, like wool -and cotton, to make them "shrink-proof" and "wrinkle-free".

But I see them out there, lurking.  I read the labels, and I put that super-sexy little top back on the rack because I don't trust those sneaky petro-textiles one bit.

Now, I live in an petrochemical community.  Fort McMurray is the home of the Oilsands, and we have a lot of debate about the rightness and the wrongness of the methods of extraction used around here, and the environmental impact.  Greenpeace shows up every now and then and rails about the dangers of "dirty oil".  All those activists, dressed in their acrylic fleece vests and Spandex pants, rappelling down nylon ropes to hang a vinyl banner protesting the extraction of oil from the ground were clearly not paying much attention to what that oil is being used for.

And nothing burns my biscuits like the animal-rights activists who protest the shearing of sheep by telling us that there are plenty of man-made alternatives, like polar-fleece and polyester, that do no harm to animals.  Tell that to the dolphins and sea turtles of the Gulf Coast.

All this talk about the dangers of oil extraction, and the ever-looming threat of peak oil, and we are wearing the stuff on our backs.  We are sitting on it.  We are walking on it.  We are carrying our groceries home in it.  We are wrapping our newborn babies in it.  Oil is everywhere.  (It really is!  Check out this list, which is actually pretty entertaining, to find out some of the other places petroleum products are used.  My favorite is pole vaulter poles!)

So, instead of wasting it on clothing, that can be made out of renewable resources like linen, cotton, wool, and even wood pulp, let's save our oil for driving our vehicles and heating our homes.  The supply will last longer, and development could slow down and take the time to be kinder to our environment.

Whew!  Soapbox rant over.  Now back to the sweater.

I will preface the conclusion of my tale with the defense that I was in a hurry, on my way to meet someone.  I saw the sweater in a store window and popped in to look at it.  It had a lovely hand, crisp, yet soft, like cotton.  And it was on sale for a price I couldn't resist.  So, I tossed it on the cashier's counter, then popped it into my re-usable cloth shopping bag and dashed to my appointment.  As the evening cooled, I pulled out my lovely new sweater and wore it.  Then I wore it the next day, loving the cuddly feel and the warmth it provided.  The sweater wound up in the laundry basket eventually, where it languished until yesterday.  As I sorted my laundry, I debated whether to put the sweater into a regular wash or the gentle cycle.  With trepidation, I checked the tag to see if there were any sneaky petro-fibres lurking that might require particular care.  And that is when the bombshell hit.

The label read 100% ACRYLIC!

I hang my head in shame.

But I'll probably wear the sweater anyway.  'Cuz it's a really nice sweater.

Mea Culpa.

Bliss

bliss (blis) n. 1. great happiness, perfect joy

 

Not so very long ago, I was a stay-at-home mom with small children and a husband who worked weird hours.  Like many women in that position, I watched a lot of Oprah.  There was one hour set aside in every day to sit and knit and listen to somebody talk about something, anything, besides Barney The Purple Dinosaur.  And Oprah kept telling me to "find my bliss."

Well, at the time, my bliss consisted of finding two matching socks in a load of laundry, or someone actually flushing the toilet after they used it, so I really couldn't figure out what Oprah was talking about.  But it sounded good.

As my children got a little older and started school, I had more free time to knit.  Then I learned to spin. 

At first, it was hard.  I couldn't make the spindle do what I wanted it to do and my yarns were over-twisted and lumpy.  But I really wanted to do this, so I kept practicing, and pretty soon I was making a smooth yarn that was actually usable.  Then I started the Master Spinner Program and found out how much I didn't know.  Back to square one, with lots of practice and lots of frustration.  If someone had asked me then if I had found my bliss, I probably would have punched them in the throat.

I managed to struggle through the hundreds of sample skeins that we were assigned at school, and I must admit, there was little to no joy in spinning for me during those years.  I fought the idea of specific tpi for a specific use.  I hated counting those treadles!  It was Serious Work.  No fun at all.  Joyless.  But, I was determined to be a Master.  I made specific skeins out of specific fibres, whether I wanted to or not.  When I wasn't making assigned skeins, I was practicing my drafting.  I took workshops whenever I could afford to.  I worked and worked to be a good spinner.

Then one day, I sat down to spin.  And I was a good spinner.  I still had a couple of levels left in the Master Spinner Program, but I knew what I was doing and I could handle it.  I really enjoyed spinning to a specific tpi for my in-depth study.  I really enjoyed spinning.  Period.

Then I broke my wrist.  I was in and out of casts for the larger part of a year after that, and I learned something.  Spinning was the thing that made me complete.  I have been blessed with a wonderful husband,  three beautiful, clever, healthy children, a home, and a good life.  But spinning was mine alone.  The thing that made me, well, feel like me.

I had found my bliss.

Since then, I have been teaching spinning on a fairly regular basis.  This gives me an excuse to continue spinning, but it also gives me an opportunity to share that thing that brings me such joy with others.  I have seen others struggle the way I did, and I can offer a way around that thing that is blocking their bliss.

I am a member of a far-flung community of string lovers.  We gather every now and then, such as at the HWSDA's conference in Edmonton a couple of weeks ago.  When we gather, the bliss is multiplied.  It's good to know that playing with string affects others as deeply as it does me.  And sometimes, there is an unexpected bonus.  Like these two lovely young people...

Laura and Daniel were not members of the HWSDA.  They attend the college where the conference was held,  but Laura has always loved the idea of spinning.  Her mother was a spinner and Laura did not appreciate it until she moved away from home, and was asking a lot of questions.  So we sat her down and gave her a quick lesson.   Daniel wanted to try, too, so we got him going on another wheel.  Soon, both of them where spinning a fair-to-middlin' yarn.  Look at the expressions on their faces.  Pure joy at their accomplishments.

Bliss.

I will also confess that a glass or two of wine has been known to contribute to my bliss.  Which leads me to this photo from that conference...

...wine under lock and key.  In case your computer's resolution is preventing you from reading the sign, here is a close-up.

Bwahahahaha!  Apparently. they know us too well!  And they are taunting us!  "Look inside", indeed!

So, now I'm preparing for another Fibre Week.  I will be teaching Level 3 once again, inflicting tpi stress upon another class.  I try very hard to remember my own anxiety about those very specific skeins when I teach this level.  And I remember the day I said "ah-ha!" and it ceased to be work.  And I try to share how the struggle to learn proper technical skills actually set me free to spin.  Spinning the right yarn for the right job ceased to be Serious Work.

And became Bliss.

Time

Have you noticed that time is diminishing, or am I imagining things?

Nope, I'm pretty sure time is getting smaller.

I mean, I thought I had a whole month to spend spinning and prepping for workshops.  I thought I'd get some knitting done, and keep up with the old blog.  I had great plans to do some baking, and stay on top of the laundry.  There was going to be time to hang out with friends, and have date nights with Steve.

My math isn't great, but I always thought that there were about 30 days or so each month, give or take February.  There are 24 hours in each of those days, or so we've been told.  That's 720 hours a month.  Even if you account for sleeping, which is something I haven't been doing lately,  there should still be 480 usable hours every day.  That's 28,800 minutes.  That's a lot of time.

So where did it all go?

In 28,800 minutes, I should have spun miles of singles.  I should have knit three sweaters and two pairs of socks.  I should have blogged at least once a week.  There should be stacks of pristine laundry everywhere, and freshly-baked muffins galore.  Friends and spouses should have been seen, and coffee consumed in their presence.

Instead,  I have just finished plying the Merino/silk that has been languishing on the wheel since before Christmas.  And I have half a sock knitted.  That's about what I've got to show for the last 3 weeks.

And I do not understand this, because I have been in the studio most days.  Working at the wheel.  Knitting,

Oh sure, there was the day I dug compost into the garden.  But the two achey days afterwards were spent spinning.  For hours.  And yet, so little to show for the time spent.  Where did all that time go, if not into mile after productive mile of string?

So, the only thing I can come up with is that time is shrinking.  A minute just isn't what it used to be.

That't my excuse, and I'm sticking to it.

Setting A Good Example

Well, so much for good intentions!  It was my goal to blog every week, regardless of what was going on, this year.  I missed last week, and this week is nearly gone, too.  I guess I'd better write something...

I have spent the last two weeks spinning, knitting, hosting puppeteers, writing, packing, organizing, spinning, getting cortisone shots in my knee, knitting, writing...you get the picture.  But mostly, I have been making samples.

Back when I was a newbie spinner, I took a lot of workshops.  I heard a lot of "facts".  I saw a lot of 2-yard lengths of yarn.  I heard a lot of do's and don'ts.  But I saw very few samples.

Now, there are a lot of great instructors who teach without samples, but my fellow students and I all seemed to agree that seeing how the principle being taught worked in an actual garment, or at least a swatch, really helped.  And one wise instructor even said that samples were proof that the teacher knew what she was talking about.  And, to be fair, there are a lot things that we teach in spinning that don't really need samples to back them up, or that the two-yard demo yarn will illustrate just fine.

But, do you really know what I mean when I say your stitches will skew if you underply?

Now you have a visual. (Or, at least you would if I had laid them out properly.  It's there, trust me.  Take the workshop.)

And how about explaining how a particular blend of fibres will perform in a sock?

There you go.

I have, over the past few years, accumulated quite a few samples of different types of yarn, and made samples to demonstrate certain points, but as I teach each workshop, I think of something else that would benefit from visual support.  Simply telling us to do something is fine, but showing us gives depth and substance to the words.  And giving us something we can touch is icing on the cake for tactile folk like spinners.

So, I have been spinning 30-yard skeins.  Sock yarns, S and Z yarns, overplied and underplied yarns, woollen and worsted yarns.  When I had to do this for my Master Spinner classes, I procrastinated and grumbled.  Now, each day I try to see what I can demonstrate with a new yarn.  It's been a lot of fun. (I'm sure there are a few current Master Spinner students out there who think I've gone off my nut with that statement.  Really, it's fun!  Honest!)

Of course, this means that my "real" spinning has been back-burnered for the last couple of weeks, and that I am still struggling to finish the last raglan cap on Steve's Christmas sweater. (Honestly, I have like 15 rows to go and just can't seem to get to it.  Methinks there is some procrastination of the inevitable sewing-up there!)  There are so many sample yarns to knit up, and I keep thinking there should be woven samples too.  Oh, goody!  More skeins!

So, there you have it.  I have to set a good example.  Or at least, set out a good sample.

On a personal note, because my family and friends read this blog, I got a new hairstyle this week.  After a couple of years of that funky asymetrical cut always flopping in my eyes, I went and got my bangs cut and the whole shebang layered and shagged.  May I present The New Moi:

It's much fluffier in person, which makes me happy.  And I can see the world again, which is more amazing than I expected.

And yes, those are bib coveralls.  Wanna make something of it? 

I thought not.

Countdown H Minus 25 Days and Some Random Rambling, To Boot

What happens when you forget to pay an exorcist?



You get re-possessed!

I wish I had a rim-shot sound effect--you know, ba-dum-dum-CHING!

By the way Repossessed was the name of a bad spoof the The Exorcist that came along in the early '90s, starring the original Child From Hell, Linda Blair and perennial Bad Spoof Star Leslie Neilson.

Just so you don't think I'm spending my days hunting down these comedic gems, here's a bit of an update on what's been going on around here:

This time of year, I tend to get all domestic and feather-your-nesty, settling in for the winter. Now, I know I swore up and down and as loudly as I could to anyone who happened to wander by that I would NOT spend another winter in Fort McMurray, but life has a funny way of derailing even the most stubbornly set agendas. So, here I am, facing another 40 below winter and trying to make the best of it.

Making the best of it for me seems to entail cooking. Much cooking. Last week, there were 2 lasagnas, 3 apple pies, 6 litres of borscht, chicken stock, vegetable stock, and 4 jars of pickled beets. This was on top of 6 skeins of bulky-weight, 2 novelty skeins, the plying of 6 skeins of Merino and two bobbins of alpaca/silk/cashmere singles. Not to mention the mittens I have been knitting, 5 or 6 loads of laundry, the big garden clean-out, and a nasty sinus infection. And don't forget the mounds of paperwork for Fibre Week that have been sorted through and dealt with, plus a newsletter article that was written.

There is a lot to be said about being busy. I sometimes feel like I am "doing nothing" when I spend an entire day sitting at my spinning wheel, making miles of string. I should be doing something "productive" or "worthwhile". I don't "work". So I go out and do the banking, sit on committees, do volunteer work, take on short-term contract jobs, get groceries, and deliver people to where they need to be. I'm one busy lady, as people are always telling me. And what do I have to show for it. A sore knee and a messy house?

Yet, when I'm doing that thing that isn't work--you, know, making string--I wind up with beautiful yarns to make beautiful things that I can sell or give as gifts. I am honing my craft, solving problems, and improving my skills as a spinner and a teacher. I am still busy, and I still have a messy house, but there is something tangible at the end of the day. And in the end, there is actually a greater dollar value on what I have accomplished sitting on my butt than there is on all that running around. I make money with my craft, and I make money teaching. I get to travel and share my knowledge of the craft with others. I have to keep reminding myself that this is my JOB. A dream job, actually, getting to do what I love and getting paid for the privilege.

And, on top of that, when I am at home, "doing nothing", I can be available to my family when they need me. I have time to make lasagna and pies, and still get my actual work done. And I am still more than busy, just not in that rushing-around-from-place-to-place-and-always-stressing-about-the-next-thing way.

Now, I do have the luxury of a partner in life who makes good coin so the bills get paid, and who supports me in what I do. I stay home and do "women's work": raising kids, growing and cooking food, making string into clothing. Unimportant stuff, done, unnoticed by hundreds of millions of women for tens of thousands of years. And the stuff that our very civilizations have been built upon. Without the free labor of women, who have always seen to the insignificant minutiae of life, men would never have had the time to do great things. Like fight wars, invent nuclear weapons, and collapse a world economy.

Okay, I've rationalized my domesticity. I'm good. I know there are those of you out there who need to work, man or woman, and I know there are those of you who love to do what you do. What I want to say is that those same phrases apply to me, and to what I do. I have to remind myself that, even without a regular paycheck and a corner office, what I do is a job and has real value, too. That way, I'll stop doing busy work and start doing my work.

So, back to work. This week's plan includes about 300 cabbage rolls, some Halloween baking, and spinning the rest of that bulky-weight yarn. To start with, anyway. And since I also have some busy work to do, I shall leave you with today's riddle and get on with it:

What do you call serious rocks?

Hey, remember these guys?

My Fibre Week Master Spinner class from this year, whom I mentioned in my last post. Yeah, them. Amazing women, all, each in her own way. It is because of people like these that I teach.

I have been knitting for 25 years, spinning for just shy of 15 years. Over those years, I have taught individuals what I knew at the time, passing along the skills and concepts that I had acquired. In time, my skill base expanded, my knowledge and understanding of techniques increased, and teaching individuals led to teaching classes. And that has led me on my greatest learning adventure of all!

I am continually astonished by the people who take spinning workshops and classes. They come from everywhere--all levels of education, all economic levels, all geographic regions, all races, religions, and creeds. There are women, men, and children. There are people who have overcome enormous physical and personal challenges. Phds, high school drop-outs, shepherds, urbanites, artists, accountants, young, old. Spinning appeals to a remarkable range of individuals, and for as many unique reasons as there are those individuals.

I have taught students whose only previous exposure to a spinning wheel was in illustrations from Sleeping Beauty. I have taught students who have been spinning for longer than I have been alive. What I have learned has far outweighed what I have taught.

Firstly, I feel a responsibility to have as much information to impart as possible. I read, I take workshops to upgrade my own skills, I practice new techniques. I am on my own continual journey to learn new things, so that I may share with those I teach. As long as I teach, I have to continue learning.

Everyone who comes into a spinning class has a different personality, a different learning style, and a different physical structure. In order to be able to teach all of these different people, I have had to look at spinning techniques from different angles. Sometimes this leads to me changing how I myself approach a technique. Other times, this means I gain new insight into a theory, breaking it down into tiny pieces to examine every aspect. I have dissected the minute movements of my hands, and I know where I make my mistakes and can correct them. I know so much more about myself and my spinning, because I have to be able to describe it to my students.

And then there are the tips and techniques that I have learned from them. There are a lot of people out there who have figured out how to make things work for themselves, or have spent a lot of time reading obscure books, or have taken a workshop that I have not. There are an awful lot of ways to make string, and I have learned any number of nifty tricks from people who were ostensibly there to learn from me.

I have also been blessed with students who are patient enough with me to work through new material in books and modules that I am not as familiar with as I could be. I, personally, suffer from a bit of mathophobia, which means that I have to slow down and work carefully through anything that involves a formula. I have had students who speak math a lot more fluently than I do help me break things down, turn them over, and understand them better. We have worked together to make the formulas work, and I have learned.

But what I love best, what keeps me going back to teach, is the sheer joy that my students take in spinning. Whether it is the thrill of creating a new yarn, outside of their comfort zone...

...like Kristi and her novelty yarn, or overcoming a preconceived notion or an outright fear of a technique, it is the thrill of their discoveries that make what I do worthwhile. I get to share in their "aha" moments, and that is...a rush. There is no other way to describe it.

So here I am. Somehow, without really noticing it was happening, I have gained a reputation for knowing a bit about technical spinning. (Which is vastly amusing to me, who was never going to count treadles!) I make string, I keep alive ancient traditions, I make cloth, I learn, and I teach. Spinning has brought me a great deal of joy, but the greatest joy has come from the people I have met, the friends that I have made, and the students who have taught me so much about the craft and about myself.

So I'll make you guys a deal--I'll never stop teaching if you never stop teaching me.

But I Digress...

...which is something I rarely do. Broad wink.

I know, I know. Suddenly there is a veritable avalanche of blog updates, but this one is kind of timely.

WARNING: Some opinions expressed in this post may not align with your personal philisophy.

It is Pride Week in Edmonton through til June 21. There are events planned all over the city, including Pride Awards, a film festival and a Seniors' Strawberry Tea. And, of course, what Pride Week would be complete without a parade?

Especially a parade led by a giant puppet? The theme of this year's parade was "The Age of Aqueerius" and the puppet, designed by Brendan Boyd and built by members of the Odd-Lot Theatre Company reflected the acquatic nature of the Zodiac sign...

...complete with little fishies!

Whoops! There they are again!

The parade marched through the streets of Edmonton, and while it may not rival the spectacle or Toronto's Pride Parade, it was marvelous to see the rather conservative population of Alberta's capital come out (so to speak) and support their gay/lesbian/bi/TG brothers and sisters. As you can see from the photos, there were a few folks there.

This makes me happy. I have watched the hurt inflicted by ignorance and closed-mindedness upon people who have no choice but to live their lives the way they were meant to live. I have seen families torn apart because a child's sexual orientation flies in the face of the religious beliefs or the expectations of the parents. I have watched young boys taunted with chants of "gay" for not playing hockey, girls called "dykes" because they would rather read a book than make out with the popular boys. I watch in horror as another "pro-family"group denies loving couples the privilege of cementing their relationships with vows and a public celebration of their love. Gay couples are families, too.

I know homosexuality is a hot-button topic, and each person is entitled to his or her own thoughts on the subject. But please remember that just because someone lives a life different from the one you understand, it does not make one of you right and the other wrong. Open dialogue, a meeting in the middle, will go a long way toward making this world a better place for gay and straight

Not everyone involved in the puppet project was gay/lesbian/bi/transgendered, but everyone believes in equality and pride...

...and that fills me with pride.

Way to go Odd-Lot!

(BTW, these photos were hijacked from Jackie Healy's Facebook. Thanks, Jackie!)

We now return you to your regularly scheduled fibre blog.

Happy Mother's Day!

Yes, it's that one day a year that we are allowed to be Moms, openly love our Moms, or praise Motherhood in general. Happy Mother's Day!

Motherhood is damned hard. Pregnancy, childbirth, the Terrible Twos, the Terrible Teens, wondering where the hell they are at 3 a.m., knowing exactly where they are at 3 a.m. (just follow the incessant crying!). They all take a toll on a body. Not to mention the day to day dealing with everything from sibling rivalry to broken hearts, bad grades, awards days, messy bedrooms, perfect teeth, sniffles and boo-boos, and big hugs. And ALL THAT DRIVING! (I swear that I had a couple of years that I wanted to change my permanent address to my car.)

I have, like every mother, made mistakes, and will continue to do so. But I love my kids. And I love my Mom and am grateful for all the lessons she has taught me. I don't always see eye to eye with my children or my Mom, but in the end, my love and respect for all of them far outweigh the petty disagreements and occasional hurt feelings.



Happy Mother's Day, Mom. Thank you for letting me become who I am today.



And thank you to my kids, Brendan, Lexi and Julia, for helping me become who I am today.

I came across this snippet of poetry the other day, and it seemed right to me. So in the spirit of Mother's Day, I would like to pass it on:

And a woman who held a babe against her bosom said, "Speak to us of Children."

And he said:

Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.

They come through you, but not from you.

And though they are with you, they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,

For they have thoughts of their own.

You may house their bodies but not their souls,

For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,

Which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.

You may strive to be like them,

But seek not to make them like you.

For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.

The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite;

And He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.

Let your bending in the archer's had be for gladness;

For even as he loves the arrow that flies, so he also loves the bow that is stable.

- Khalil Gibran

The Prophet

Greetings from Earth

Yes, my feet are back on the ground for a while.

You know you travel too much when two people start phone conversations with "So where are you today?" in the same day! Pretty funny.

I am settled in after another jaunt away, and I am spinning, spinning spinning. And as I spin, I ponder. I ponder a great many things, most of which are imponderable at the best of times, but there you have it. And, at times, I feel the urge to share my Deep Thoughts with the world.

First off--to the anonymous yarn bomber who struck recently in Dr. Wilbur McIntyre Park in Old Strathcona in Edmonton:

Thank You! You made my Saturday last week!

Now that that is out of my system, on to the pondering. Today is Earth Day. I am not exactly the granola-munching, Birkenstock-wearing, tree-hugging type, but I happen to like the rock that I am floating through space on. But I am frequently surprised by how often my fellow hairless primates take that rock for granted, so it's nice to have one day a year where the media takes a minute or two to remind us where we live.

So, with this in mind as I spin flax and contemplate the slow, steady accumulation of singles on my bobbin, I am struck again by our disposable culture. By the waste we create and the mess we are making of our Planet Earth.

It is spring in Fort McMurray, which is not a pretty thing. The grass is brown, the trees are bare, the boulevards are ankle-deep in the gravel and sand that was spread on snowy streets, and there is garbage everywhere! There's not much we can do about the grass and trees--they will turn green in their own time. The municipality is out clearing up the gravel and sand, which is much needed during our long, cold, and often icy, winters. But all that crap--plastic grocery bags, Timmy's cups, sales flyers, torn up term papers, fast food wrappers galore--that has accumulated where the snowbanks have melted does not have to be there.

To begin with, there are more than adequate garbage disposal receptacles all over our fair city. But for some reason, many people can't be bothered to walk two meters to put their waste into them. Now I have to look at their mess when I walk my dog down the local trails. Lovely.

Secondly, why don't we just cut down on our waste to begin with. We have a relatively good recycling program up here. Take the 15 minutes and sort your cardboard, paper, cans and glass, then drop them off. Seriously, 15 minutes a week.

I use reusable shopping bags--my favorite one is from Egli's Sheep Farm and has a picture of a sheep on the side and the caption "Re-ewesable shopping bag." I also carry my own re-usable coffee cup (which was referred to as "a classic" by the barista yesterday!), so I'm not tossing paper cups into the garbage every time I need a caffeine fix.

These are little things--and only part of my personal campaign to reduce my carbon footprint--but they tell us every little bit helps. Sure, landfills are an eyesore, but putting your garbage into an organized area where it is compacted and plowed into the ground to decompose is a lot more desirable than leaving it to blow around my neighborhood parks. Remembering to grab your shopping bag before you leave the house is a PITA, but it's better than having a hundred of those crummy little plastic bags shoved under your kitchen sink. Or blowing around my neighborhood parks.

And, speaking of carbon footprints, and spinning, let us not forget our good friends, natural fibres. Wool, linen, hemp, silk, llama, alpaca, even the dreaded cotton with all of its pesticides and herbicides, are still better for our planet than polycarbon synthetics. I've never seen a flock of Acrylics that were as charming as Marg's Shetlands.

So, as I continue to spin and ponder life on Earth, I would suggest to you that if you do not wish to observe Earth Day by hugging a tree, you could go out and yarn bomb a tree. Or, you could hug the local spinner, knitter, weaver, or shepherd who is working to keep natural fibres on our backs and hold the Polyesters at bay.

Zen and the Art of Hand Knitting

I have come to the conclusion that I just cannot follow some one else's pattern anymore. Or, rather, that I will not follow some one else's pattern. It's not that I don't want to. There are so many great patterns out there! But I just can't seem to do it.

Case in point: my Almost Annetrelac Socks.

Oh, they look great, but the closest I came to following the pattern was to look at the picture. You see, this yarn (Lorna's Laces Shepherd Sock) was given to me for my birthday, with the proviso that I make myself some socks. Yay! And after a fall and winter of making socks for others, it seemed like a thing to do in January. But I was tired of knitting basic socks, and, frankly, I thought that both the yarn and I deserved something a little spankier. So I started perusing patterns on Ravelry and Knitty.com. The Annetrelac Socks from Interweave Knits Holiday 2007 fit the bill. I wound the yarn into balls and pulled out my Lantern Moon rosewood dpns and away I went.

Now, I will admit that I did skim over the text of the pattern. I cast on the wrong number of stitches out of habit. So, instead of starting over and adjusting to the pattern, I made the right number of base triangles to suit the smaller number of stitches. Once I started working, I found myself stopping and thinking "Oh, crap! I should check the pattern!" Which I did, then discovered that I would have to tink out several squares of entrelac to get back to where the pattern said I should be. So I tucked the magazine away and knit on.

The socks are great--I'm wearing them as I type--and they look just like the Annetrelac Socks (as well as any number of other entrelac socks out there), but there was no actual "following" of patterns involved.

This is certainly not an indictment of the pattern--in fact, I read it over before I sat down to blog and found that, aside from the fact that I cast on and worked with my own number of stitches, it was pretty much what I had done anyway. So did I follow it, or not?

Well, I figured, socks are one thing. I mean, aside from stitch patterns, knitting a sock is knitting a sock (hush up you Kat Bordhi fans!). Perhaps a larger project would be different. And it just so happens that I was looking for inspiration for a shrug. So off we go to Ravelry's pattern search again. And, lo and behold, a perfect shrug pattern, from Knitty.com, presented itself. I printed it off, balled my yarn and cast on. And frogged out. And cast on. And frogged out. And cast on, and knit 4 inches, forgetting to decrease. And frogged out. And cast on and knit 6 inches before I realized that I really didn't like the way the lace pattern was working out in the handpainted yarn.

So I pulled out my Barbara Walker Treasuries, and Nicky Epstein's Knitting On the Edge, found a lace pattern I liked, cast on and away I went. There are 7 inches on the needles and it's looking fab. And I am happy with the knitting.

Okay, so maybe this was more a case of choosing a pattern that didn't suit the yarn. But it also reminded that I just don't like following patterns. Even as a novice knitter, I would alter patterns by substituting yarns, changing the ribbing, adding a stripe or a cable. As the songs says, I did it my way.

It hasn't helped that I have been reading a great deal about the nature of craft and its place in history lately. That sort of reading always seems to lead to a bout of navel gazing, making me ponder each thing I do in way too much detail. Some authors seem to trigger more pondering than others and the current crop are far too effective in that department!

Right now, the culprit is Soetsu Yanagi, a Japanese Zen Bhuddist art critic from the early 20th century. He was a great proponent of the preservation of traditional craft in Japan and Korea, with a soft spot for pottery, but his comments on craft, handwork,and art, should be inspiring to artisans in any field.

Yanagi writes about craft as "true art", springing from instinct, with none of the pretensions of fine art. Once the craftsman had mastered the form of the craft, anything is possible and instinct dictates the actual execution of the product. There is expression of the individual through the process, not through the brilliance of the intended message. And it is the improvisation of the individual maker that makes each piece a work of art, rather than the cleverness of a preconceived design.

So, as I read this, and I struggle with the words some other clever knitter has laid out to lead me through her/his design, I find my own Zen state of being. This is what I make, and this is how I make it. It is what it is.

And I'm okay with that.

Who? Me?

I don't have a problem. I really don't. It's just that the rest of the world doesn't understand me, that's all.

It all started out innocently enough. A sweater here or there. The occassional sock. Harmless, social knitting. All in fun, really.

Then the kids came, and layettes were needed. And as the kids grew, new sweaters and mittens and socks had to be knit. After all, kids grow so fast. And since I was knitting for my kids anyway, why not knit for others as well? I mean, I was getting paid for it, so I HAD to do it, right?

When the local yarn shop closed, there were a few rough days. Sure, I started eying the cats and wondering how many brushings it would take to get a sweater...but I didn't actually DO anything.

It was Steve who brought the spinning wheel home and said, "Hey, Honey, try THIS." I see now that that may have been the beginning of the end. As yarn was spun, it had to be knit, and as the yarn got knit up, more had to be spun. It was a vicious circle from which there was no escape.

In order to spin faster and better, I travelled to learn the craft. The more I learned, the more I needed to know. I became a Master Spinner. I learned to weave and dye and felt. But the knitting was always there, waiting. A warm comfort at the end of the day. Something to do in the car or the airport. A quick escape from the pressures of family, work, or school. Something to take the edge off.

Only, recently, I have begun to wonder if I may have developed a dependency.

I mean, keeping a mitten in the bathroom cabinet to knit while I was in the bathtub was really just part of the Christmas knitting subterfuge. I couldn't knit that mitten out in public where Julia might see it. That would ruin the surprise of the gift.

Carrying a sock in my purse to work on in doctor's offices, or while waiting in the car for kids, has always seemed so safe and practical. But a couple of weeks ago, after checking my purse to ensure that I had my keys, my cell phone and my knitting, I set out on a series of errands. And at stop number one, I discovered that I had left my wallet at home. BUT I HAD MY KNITTING! So I knit a couple of rounds to calm down, then I went home to retrieve my wallet. Everything was fine.

And the fact that I have barely left the house since the beginning of the New Year has nothing to do with the fact that I have been spinning cotton for 4 hours every afternoon, or the entrelac sock that I just have to knit one more row of squares on. It's because it's been really, really cold and the road conditions are really bad.

But I've noticed that people are beginning to stare.

We recently travelled to Banff for a family wedding at the Banff Springs Hotel. Steve's family doesn't gather together very often, with so many family members scattered so far apart, so it was a wonderful reunion of his siblings and all of their offspring. The weather was bitterly cold, but the wedding was beautiful and the company was warm and convivial.

With the chill in the air, so many tourists were bundled up in their woolly best. Apparently, though, people don't appreciate you following them down Banff Avenue, staring at their heads, trying to figure out the stitch pattern on their toques.

And there was nothing wrong with stashing a sock in Julia's purse on the way to the wedding ceremony. I didn't knit on it until we were having lunch in the lounge afterwards. Well, I mean, the service was really slow. C'mon! Why were people looking at me like that?

Sure, we went back to our hotel room for a rest before the reception and I finished a button band on my llama cardigan while Steve and Brendan snoozed, but I did go to the reception without my knitting. We were late for cocktails, but that was because it took so long to get a cab, not because I wanted to sew the buttons on before we left.

The woman who stood behind me in the Starbucks on the way home, who looked at my knitting and said (somewhat patronizingly, in my opinion), "Oh, aren't you industrious!" gave me pause, though. Industrious? Is that what people think this is?

The other woman, who was admiring my handspun, handknit scarf at the grocery store last week and asked "Where do you find the time? Don't you have things to do?" also made me stop and think--once I calmed down and got over the urge to gouge her eyes out with my dpns. What do you mean "things to do"? Isn't knitting doing a thing?

So I started to wonder if maybe I did have a problem. Not being able to go out the door without something fuzzy in my purse, but forgetting my wallet. Knitting to calm my nerves in social situations. Stashing knitting in odd spots in order to get in a few rows while no one is looking. Just a few rows to help me relax before bedtime. That sounded like an addiction to me. I started considering a twelve-step program.

Then I remembered that the British Royal Navy actually encouraged sailors to knit to keep them from other, less desirable pursuits. That Ghandi taught the people of India that spinning for two hours every day would lead them to independence. That Victorian ladies believed that knitting was a far more suitable occupation for women of good breeding than housework.

And I remembered that this is my job! People pay me to knit them sweaters and shawls, and to teach them how to spin and knit for themselves. If someone brings their laptop home from the office to finish a report, they are admired for their work ethic. If someone carries their Blackberry in their coat pocket and checks it in the grocery store line-up, they are dedicated to their work. I am simply doing the same thing with my work.

So, I have come to the conclusion that I do not have a problem.

And now that I have that off my chest, I'm going to go work a couple of rows of ribbing to settle my nerves.

Behind the Wheel

January 7 is an auspicious day on many calendars. It is the birthdate of such luminaries as Nicolas Cage and David Caruso. It is the date upon which Harry S. Truman announced the creation of the hydrogen bomb, which would end World War II and plunge the world into a full-blown Cold War. It is the date upon which the HMS Beagle weighed anchor in the Galapagos, where Charles Darwin would develop the theory of evolution.


The Japanese celebrate Nanakusa on January 7th. This is also Christmas Day for those who follow the Julian Calendar, known in Canada as Ukrainian Christmas. (I will be having my peroghies and holubsti when my cold clears up!) This year, Muslims will observe Ashura, a day of remembrance, on January 7th.



And for those of us who spin, January 7th is St. Distaff Day. This is the day that European women traditionally returned to the work of spinning after the Christmas festivities. The men did not return to their work until Plough Monday, which could be as many as 6 days away, which meant that they had a lot of time on their hands to harass the women at their work. This was generally referred to as merriment. I personally think that this was just further proof that men have never grasped the concept that the only thing standing between civilization and them standing naked in a field bashing things withs sticks was a woman and her spindle.



Of course, in the shiny new year of 2009, we have Wal-Mart and The Gap to keep us well attired while we bash things with sticks. So why do we still have spinners? Someone asked me that question lately, and my immediate response was "Because spinning is the basis of all civilization!"

There is much debate regarding how long humans have been twisting plant and animal fibres to make string. Most historians and archaeologists will agree to 10 000 years, but many speculate that spinning goes back further. Neolithic goddess figures, dating back 20 000 years BCE have been found that appear to be wearing skirts of twisted string. These goddess figures have little other detail, but the twists of the spun string on their skirts is clearly represented. Why would cave-dwelling mammoth eaters take the time to carve twists into the string if they had not observed them daily and regarded them as significant?

We know from Egyptian tomb paintings that women spun and wove the fine linens that the mummies were wrapped in. Researchers have found mummy wrappings as fine as 500 threads per inch, just like a set of Ralph Lauren sheets. But handspun.



Greeks and Romans treasured their sheer linens, and many of their goddesses are associated with spinning. Demeter,the goddess of the harvest, was also associated with the hearth and spinning. Athena, the goddess of wisdom, was a weaver. The Moirae, who determined the fates of men, were three mystical beings who spun, measured and cut the thread of destiny. The classical mythology of the Greco-Roman period is rife with tales of spinning and weaving, from Jason's pursuit of the Golden Fleece, through Penelope's weaving and unweaving of her wedding veil while she waited faithfully for Odysseus to return to her. And all the string was handspun.


Vikings sailed to the New World with waterproof sails of handspun greasy wool. The ships that Columbus brought to that same New World five-hundred years later likely had sails of hemp or linen, but still handspun. Nations rose to power, and collapsed, according to their textile industries. The pursuit of silk and pepper led to the Crusades; the Spanish Empire grew to rule most of the New World and Europe on the strength of silk stocking and Merino wool. All spun into string by women who were not paid for their labor.


And handspun string was not only reserved for great feats and fine artifacts. Every stitch of clothing worn by prince and pauper in every culture and nation in the world was made from string spun almost exclusively by women. Unpaid women, who squeezed the spinning in between tending the animals and the home garden, raising babies, cooking, and cleaning. Women who spun because they knew that otherwise their families would be naked in a field, bashing things with sticks.


Over the millenia, the simple spindle evolved into the spinning great wheel. Then the great wheel was streamlined to fit into small cottages and a treadle was added to speed the process up. Then , in 1764, James Hargreave invented the Spinning Jenny, which allowed a single operator to spin 8 spindles of string instead of just one. Ten years later, Samuel Crompton attached the Spinning Jenny to a water-driven turbine and the mechanization of spinning began. Suddenly, the home spinner was obsolete. Mass production of muslin made fabric cheap and accessible to all. Factories wove the cheap cotton cloth, chemical dyes were invented to dye cloth more economically, and clothing was mass-produced. The Industrial Revolution came along, and the world has never been the same. Twenty thousand years of handspun string and its crucial role in holding society together disappeared practically overnight.


Spinning had historically never been truly treated with respect. It was often referred to as a feminine pursuit or as a means to occupy idle women to keep them out of mischief. In the same way that other women's work, such as child-rearing and nursing the ill and dying were historically marginalized, so was spinning. In German and the Netherlands, men took a shot at controlling the cottage weaving industry, forming Guilds that granted license to qualified men and making it illegal for women to weave, but they never touched spinning. That was women's work, and thus , beneath them.


Women have continued to spin in developing nations since the Industrial Revolution. Not everyone has access to manufactured goods, or the resources to purchase them. Babies need blankets, husbands need warm hats, young brides need finery, whether there is a Wal-Mart nearby or not. Indigenous spinning traditions thrived in India, Tibet and Peru well into the 1970's and are now being eagerly revived.


Mohandas K. Ghandi promoted spinning as a step toward autonomy from Colonial rule for the eople of India. The wheel in the centre of India's flag is a charkha--the traditional spinning wheel used by Indian women. To many Indian people, that wheel is the symbol of independence and freedom. And with the growing craft revival in North America and Europe, it is becoming an increasingly relevant symbol of individuality.


Modern spinners tie the world to the very roots of civilization. As we begin to discover the environmental, fiscal and social costs of mass-production and our credit-card, fast-food economy, more and more people are turning to the simpler joys of the hand-made. And with the current climate of global economic concern, I suspect that even more will start looking for the independence and freedom that the DIY lifestyle offers. Which is where it all began. With a couple of women sitting in a cave, twisting nettle fibres together while the naked boys were out bashing things with sticks.


It is time for spinners to stand up and claim our heritage. For women and men to come together to appreciate this timeless and gentle craft that connects us to the roots of what makes us human. The unseen craft that raised us from caves to condos, discovered new worlds, preserved ancient cultures, and kept us warm and clothed while we were doing all that stuff.

Spinning is just one way we express our individuality. It is a connection to the past, it is a road to the future. It is women's work, raised to art. Men are spinning. "High art" is being created. The world is a warmer place when there are spinners. We are in control of our destinies. We are behind the wheel, so to speak.


So, on St. Distaff Day, as I sit back down at my wheel after a couple of wonderful weeks of revelry with family and friends, I am going to take a moment to thank all the women who have worked to make the world a warmer, safer place for the ones they loved, and to all the men who have appreciated them and the work that they did.