A Terrible Tale (Not For The Faint of Heart)

Gentle Knitters and Spinners, come close and lend an ear.  I have for you a Tale of Terror to share...

Just last week, in a town near where you live, a Spindle Princess was searching for the last balls of Yarn she needed to finish a Sweater for her Dear Husband.  This Sweater had been promised to that noble man as a Christmas gift, but time had passed too quickly and the Princess did not get the Sweater finished.  The lovely Sweater had been set aside for many Smaller Projects that filled the small spaces in the Princess's busy days.  For you see, the Princess had many other tasks beside knitting, and precious knitting time had become hard to find, so finishing a Big Sweater was something easily set aside.

But, as the Summer wore away and the evenings became cooler, the Patient Husband asked his Princess if she would have time to finish the Sweater before the Autumn Chill set in.  The Princess, being a Good and Loving Wife, promised that she would and set about knitting the yoke of his Sweater.  She knit diligently for two evenings, and on the morning of the third day, discovered that she needed another ball of Yarn from the Stash stored in her Tower Room.

So our Princess ventured upward into her Special Place of Yarn Storage to find another ball of Yarn.  And there, she was met with a most vexing sight.  The ball of Yarn, so carefully stored in a Charming Basket, was frayed and broken in several places on the outer surface of the ball.  She searched for the source of this destruction, but could find no clue as to how this terrible thing had happened to this lovely Yarn.  The only explanation possible was that her Wee Manx Cat, who was know to devour bits of fleece at most inconvenient times, had developed a taste for Fine Merino Yarns.  The Princess carefully wound the broken Yarn into small balls and went about her knitting, silently cursing the Cat.

As her knitting progressed, the Princess began to fret that there would not be enough of the Yarn left to complete the Sweater now that the Damaged Yarn had been removed.  She recalled that she had purchased More Than Sufficient Yarn in case of just such a circumstance, but was at loss as to where this Surplus Yarn had be stored.

So, once again, the Princess ventured into her Tower Room to search for Yarn.  She had to move Boxes of Fleece and other great treasures that had accumulated over the Summer, but found no sign of the precious Yarn.  So she ventured deeper into the Tower Room.  She sorted through the Weaving Basket, finding yet more Frayed Yarns, but not the Yarn she sought.  Then, she spotted one ball of the Yarn on the top of her UnFinished-Objects Basket, and thought "Hallelujah!"  Her search was over.

It was then that the true cause of the damage to her Yarns was revealed, for underneath the sought-after Ball of Yarn lay another Ball of Yarn, covered in tiny white flecks.  As the horrified princess watched, the tiny white flecks began to squirm and move.  The princess rolled this writhing mass of yarn aside and revealed.....

....MOTHS!!

Hundreds and hundreds of tiny, wriggling Larvae, dozens and dozens of Adult Moths--tiny little Harbingers of Doom for any Yarn unfortunate enough to cross their paths.

On closer inspection, all of the Yarns in that Basket were infested with active Larvae and had been well shredded by their insatiable appetites for Fine Fibre.  Two Sweaters, both of Handspun Yarn, were riddled with holes and their surfaces were shredded as if by the claws of a Ravening Beast.  The Basket itself was crawling with the Horrid Creatures.

Our Princess wept in Bitter Despair at the Cruel Fates that had befallen her precious Yarns and Sweaters, but then she became filled with a Steely Resolve.  She armed herself with Plastic Bags, a Vacuum Cleaner, and a sacred bottle of Cedar Oil and went forth to battle the Squirming Menace.  For hours she laboured, bagging and vacuuming and spraying, then moving onward to seek any refugees seeking to escape her wrath.  Yarns were inspected, then bagged and placed in a Freezing Compartment to destroy the Younglings of the Invading Horde.  Many Yarns were simply bagged and hauled to the Trash.

The rampage continued long into the night, with even the linens from the Tower Room being laundered, though they showed no sign of having been inhabited by the Invaders.  Fine Fleeces were searched for the Offending Creatures, and most were found free of the beasties.  But two--TWO Fleeces showed signs of Moth Habitation.  Two Fleeces from Different Sources, but both stored near the UFO Basket, but both riddled with Moths and their Offspring.  Needless to say, these Fleeces and their Inhabitants were destroyed without Mercy.

So, the Princess now stands guard over her precious cache of Yarns, armed with her Cedar Oil and her Zip-Lock baggies, ever-vigilant.  She jumps at the flutter of a tiny dust mote in a sunbeam.  She shudders at the sight of a fleck of white lint on a carpet.  Yarns that were not even near the Tower Room but safely stashed in a Zippered Bag, nestled in the Princess's purse, are inspected thoroughly before being worked into ongoing projects.  The Princess may never be the same.

So, Gentle Knitters and Spinners, beware!  The Moth is a devious foe, hiding deep in the locks of Fleece, waiting to strike the Unwary.

Time. And Space.

Time.

And space.

That is what I have given myself this past month.

Time to spin.  Time to knit.  Time to read.  Time to sketch.  Time to catch up on movies.  Time to walk around and stare up at the trees.  Time to do nothing.

And space?  I've been a little more reclusive that usual lately.  I have stayed home instead of gallivanting around town.  I have retreated to my garden when family is home.  I have been lax about answering emails--even those from friends.  I have hermitted.

And you know what?  It felt GREAT!

I had no idea how overwhelmed I had become with all the going and the doing and the people and the emails and the Twitter.  I thought I was living the dream.  A busy career, and active family life, a big circle of friends and acquaintances.  And I was right, to a certain extent.  It was really good.

But I had no idea how much time and energy all of that was taking away from me until I walked away from it.  Don't get me wrong.  I wasn't miserable.  Oh, I was getting a little testy.  I was letting little things stress me out.  I wasn't sleeping.  But I didn't feel that bad.   Really.  I was loving it.

Truth be told, at first, I found it stressful to be doing "nothing".  I was constantly leaping up with the feeling that I should be doing Something Important.  I felt anxious and fidgety.  So I made myself sit.  I set knitting targets:  "You can't do anything else until you knit 6 rows of lace."  I would not allow myself to go to the grocery store until I had filled a bobbin with singles.  I learned to sit and be quiet.

I spent three weeks thinking that way, and I found that I could sit and do nothing.  I could feel "busy" when all I was doing was spinning.  I found a pace that worked for me.  A balance.

Now, I am starting to ease myself back into being busy.  This week is the deadline for Fibre Week proposals and I'm checking the emails--and answering them!-- three or four times a day.  I invited a friend over for dinner.  I am going out for lunch with my daughter.  I am getting out of my pyjamas before 3:00.  But I am also saying no.  And taking time, every day, to do small, quiet things that make me happy.

And now I see why I had to stop and rest for a bit.  I was am a stress junkie.  I like to have too many things going on at once.  I like to be the one running around doing ALL the things.  It makes me feel good to solve all the world's problems, then go home and cook a gourmet meal while answering emails and knitting a little bit of lace.  I feel powerful and capable when I do those things.

Not so much when I was sitting, alone, in my garden, making up a mitten pattern.

And WHY NOT?  Making up a knitting pattern is a good thing.  It's something that not just anybody can do.  I am still powerful and capable.  But it didn't feel the same.  The rush wasn't there.

That's when I realized that I had a problem.  Like a heroin addict,  I had started out with the thrill of a small dose of stress--a gram of paperwork here, a gram of travel there, a spoonful of committee.  But after a while, the thrill got harder to find, so I needed larger fixes to feed my habit.  I had to add a couple of grams of curriculum review,  then a spoonful of article writing, and a couple of big parties.   And another four grams of travel.  And pretty soon, that wasn't even enough to get me high.

So I quit.  Cold Turkey.

Now here I sit.  I have survived the withdrawal, and I can look back and see where I was.  And how far I have come.  I can find a thrill in answering one or two emails.  I feel like I have Accomplished Big Things when I get 6 rows of lace knit in an afternoon.  I'm happy with making hot dogs for dinner while I listen to my husband talk about his day.  I feel powerful and capable, without the constant go-go-go.  I'm good.

For now.

Catching Up

The Prodigal Blogger returns!

I am a sporadic blogger at best, but the past few months have been ridiculous.  I was overwhelmed by work and exhausted, so I stepped away from the job.  Right in time for some travel.   So I will use "I have been to interesting places, doing interesting things, with limited internet access" as my excuse for the latest blog silence.

I am home now, and settled for a bit, so it's time for some catching up.

Here's what I've been up to:

I have been married to Mr. Stephen Boyd for 30 years.  It has not always been easy, but we have somehow managed to cling together through all of it.  This, in our opinion, was worthy of a special celebration.  A cruise, at trip to Disneyland, something "big".  And what did we decide?  Sentimental fools that we are, we decided to go to our honeymoon destination and do it in the style we could not afford 30 years ago.  We went to Victoria, BC.

We drove through the mountains, dropping in at Vancouver to spend a couple of marvellous days catching up with our two older progeny, then off to Victoria.  We stayed in the lovely Magnolia Hotel and Spa (but did not spa), we ate fabulous food, and we walked our little feeties off.  We did not "do" anything.  We wandered, we drank wine, we talked.  We bought matching PFDs for kayaking.  It was AWESOME.

After a couple of days of that, we meandered up the Island to Nanaimo, where I was going to deliver one of the last Master Spinner books that I had marked.  That turned out to be a delightful side trip when the our hosts, Liz and Mark, proposed an impromptu kayak trip before a lovely salmon dinner...

We had to leave the paradise of Protection Island and mosey on, but we were going to Qualicum Bay, so it was worth the moseying.  We spent the next day wandering beaches in the rain...

...and enjoying the excellent local food at The Shady Rest Pub.

Then it was time to head back to the real world.  Back through the mountains and home again, home again, jiggety-jig.

Where we stayed for about 10 days.  I had a birthday in that time span, so we ate cake.  I weeded the garden.  I warped and wove a wee scarf.  I cast on a wee shawl.  I designed a pair of mittens, which are still progress.  I tidied the studio.  Nothing very interesting at all.  It was great!

Back on the road for the August long weekend, this time to Edmonton.  We hung out with family, we raided not one, but two farmers' markets, we visited with friends, and we did the doctor thing for Miss Julia.  (Her Juvenile Arthritis appears to be in full remission and all is well there, so it was a good visit.)
Then back home, where I have spent the last 2 days pickling and preserving and baking all the goodies we picked up at the farmers' markets.

Whew!

So, now I knit.  And spin.  And rest up from all of the "resting" I've been doing.

And blog.

Because now I have TWO blogs.

After much frustration in searching for recipes for sweet treats that do not call for processed sugars or, worse, artificial sweeteners, I have started adapting and inventing my own.  And I want to offer them to those who are seeking, as I am, alternatives for diabetics or others who want to eliminate sugar without relying on artificial sugar substitutes.  So, because I have so much free time, I have started Life After Sugar.  Go check it out when you have a minute.

There is pie.

Teaching, and Doing It Right

I want to start out today by thanking everyone who took the time to comment on my last post or to send me an email about my decision to step back from the Master Spinner Program.  The last couple of weeks have been very difficult for me, running the gamut from a giddy sense of freedom to deep guilt and regret.  Your kind words and support have been a great source of comfort and equilibrium as I am going through the adjustment.

Another part of the adjustment from busy college instructor to independent fibre artiste has been a great deal of navel gazing on the subject of teaching.  Do I want to continue to teach?  What do I want to teach?  Why do I want to teach?  HOW do I want to teach?

I have come to realize that I have some pretty strong beliefs about teaching and what it takes to actually be a teacher.  I am not talking about educational theory, or pedagogical techniques.  I am talking about the act of teaching.

Over the years, I have seen great teaching and I have seen terrible teaching.  I have seen these teachers in elementary and high school classrooms, in colleges and universities, in festival workshops and in seminars.  I have been inspired and nurtured, and I have been discouraged and even bullied.  I have taken the observations and lessons from all of these teachers and distilled them into my own style of teaching, and here is what I believe:

Teaching is a selfless act.  Teaching involves setting aside your own ego, your own beliefs, your own need for power and attention, and giving your students what they need to succeed.  Teaching means looking at a topic you may know inside and out with fresh eyes every time.  Teaching means taking things you think you know apart to look at the tiny details, then reassembling those things with others watching.

Teaching is NOT the act of imposing your beliefs, ideologies, and dogmas upon your students.  Teaching is not a power trip.  Teaching is not a marketing tool for your products. Teaching is not a road to fame and glory.

Teaching is a shared journey with your students.  Being a teacher means that you have to look at the topic from both your point of view and experience and the student's point of view and inexperience.  It means putting aside your own assumptions and judgemental tendencies.  It means being immensely patient and accepting of the faults and foibles of others.  Being a teacher is like being a parent; you have to put the interests of others before yours to do it successfully.

A passion for or a deep knowledge of a topic does not make a great teacher, though it certainly helps.  An enthusiasm for sharing something you love does not make a great teacher,  though this helps, too.  What makes a great teacher is the willingness to travel on the students' journey.  The willingness to embrace the needs of others and fulfill them.

I have tried over the years to live up to these beliefs.  I have not always succeeded, but with every class, I strive towards these ideals.  I have several friends who are  great teachers, both as fibre workers and in the public school systems, and they also aim towards these ideals.  They understand that teaching is not for the teacher, it is for the student, and I have seen some remarkable acts of generosity from these great human beings.

Now, not every teacher will be a great teacher, but the really good ones are working hard and learning and striving to become great.  Some of them use humour to overcome weaknesses, or take summer classes to brush up on topics they have not mastered.  Others find a niche where their strengths are better used and their weaknesses matter less.  Some find that a particular grade or a type of school is better suited to their style and strengths and they choose to teach there.  Others choose to write textbooks rather than present in a classroom.   Still others have found a place in on-line delivery.  There are many options and  many routes to great teaching.  Good and great teachers seek these options out and try them on until they find the one that fits.

And for those who are teaching who do not strive to place the student first, who cannot meet curriculum requirements because they conflict with personal beliefs, who pass out colouring sheets for "art class", who believe that belittling a student forces them to work harder to prove themselves...for you, I have this to say:  The world would be a better place if you stopped teaching. It really would.

Step aside and let the teachers who really want to TEACH do their job.

In the words of that great teacher, Yoda, "Do or do not.  There is no try."

Not the Blog Post You Were Hoping For

For the past 5 years, I have had the great pleasure of teaching for Olds College's Master Spinner Program as well as serving as the Fibre Arts Program Coordinator for Fibre Week. I have learned more in the past 5 years than I ever did as a student in the program, and I have had the great joy of leading literally hundreds of students to their "aha! moments". I have travelled to places I had never considered seeing, and met wonderful people, many of whom I now consider friends.  I have taken great responsibility for the Program and the well-being of its students.  I have been treated as part of the team by the administrators.  I have been blessed.

This has meant that I have kept a demanding teaching schedule, often prepping for the next session as I was travelling from the last class.  I have also worked as a volunteer on the module revisions for the MSP.  And as the volunteer Fibre Arts Coordinator for Fibre Week (a full-time job in and of itself).  I have become embroiled in the day to day operations of the Master Spinner Program and in the minutiae of Fibre Week arrangements.  And I have maintained a schedule of private workshops, as well.  I have been, well, busy.

And while all of this was going on, I had a life going on outside of spinning, too.  I have had loved ones with cancer and others with chronic illness,  I have had serious injury and family crises. I have had plumbing problems and renovation nightmares.  I have had bills and groceries and laundry and car pools.

So, along comes Fibre Week, where I not only taught several workshops, but performed my above-and-beyond duties as Coordinator, emceed the fashion show, subbed for a teacher who needed to run out for a medical appointment, counselled students, problem-solved with the administrative team, started planning for 2013, and generally ran myself ragged.  And I did a poor job of all of these things.  I was running on fumes, faking it all the way.  Everything was harder than it had to be--minor concerns became crises, setbacks became panics, each little discussion became a battle.  All of those little problems that we encounter every day quickly became catastrophes.  There were things that I simply could not cope with.  There was something seriously wrong.

And what was wrong was me.  I may have mentioned that I'm tired.  My perspective was skewed, my organizational skills were warped, and even my usually sharp wit was getting duller and duller.  Then, on top of everything else, I got hit with a stomach bug midweek.  By Friday, I was a zombie--and not the fun, flesh-eating kind.  Just a staring, shuffling, mindless husk.

The long drive home gave me plenty of time to think.  And think I did.  I thought about the dozens of students I had taught over the years.  I thought about the MSP modules and the changes that I have been working on and those that still need to be made.  I though about the planning for 2013.  I thought about my co-workers, my friends, the townhouses, the travel, the weather, the food, the fibre.  And I thought about myself.  For the first time in years, I thought about what I want.  And what I want is a rest.

I thought about taking a week or two and then rolling back into things--I was scheduled to be in Michigan in three weeks--but I've done that before and found myself up to my neck in paperwork and emails and phone calls before I even knew what was happening.  I had to pull the plug.  I have resigned from the Master Spinner instructor roster and I have ended my commitment to the module review for now.  I will be continuing in my role as Fibre Arts Program Coordinator until a replacement is found, but then I will be stepping away from that, too.  I have to cut myself completely off for a while, or I will just start doing all the things again. It is all too easy to get caught up in the needs of the program, of the students, to feel responsible for everything.  I have to step away.

This is a massive change for me, and I am grieving the loss in my life right now. A warm word would go a long way, if you have one to spare for me.  But I will recover, and I will continue to teach.  I will get around to finishing those articles that I haven't had time for and submit them to publications.  I will make things.  And the Master Spinner Program will go on.  I hope that my students will all continue on and become the great spinners I know they can be.  I hope that other instructors will step up and take on some of the duties I have been performing over the past few years.  And I hope that, in time, I will rest and recoup and reclaim my energy and get to a place where I can revisit the Master Spinner Program and they will have me back.

But, for now, I rest.

...But Is It Art?

                    art:  (ärt) noun 1. any form of human activity that is the product of

                       imagination and skill...

                                                       ~Gage Canadian Dictionary

With art and The Arts on my mind a lot lately, I have become very away that we all define art as something different, depending upon our own individual experience.  I have been told that art is only what you can hang on a wall.  That it is things like opera and ballet, obscure entertainments for the elite, but not for regular folks. That the people on the street don't understand art unless they have a university degree.  That true art is made by those passionate amateurs who squeeze it in between their day job and sleep.  That those who wish to be paid are "sell-outs", or worse, con-artists.

I have also been told that what I do is not really art.  The kinder critics inform me that I make fine craft.  (The "fine" is there to differentiate it from "macaroni-and-glitter" craft.)  Those less kind inform me that making yarn is not an art-machines can do it.  That knitting is not an art-grandmas can do it.  Weaving, well, sure, that's an art-except that since I only do plain-weave, maybe not so much. And best of all, I have been told that if I were a "real artist", I would be making art, not teaching.

I have been told all of these things, and more, by people who themselves profess to be artists.  And if artists can't agree on art, how can the rest of the world?  So I've decided it's time to re-define "art".  Or, rather, remind people of the actual definition of art.

Art is not something other, it is a part of the human experience.  Art stems from our observations of the world around us, both the natural and the mechanical.  Art comes when we apply the physical skills we have to our observations.  And for some of us that means painting a picture.  For others, it means telling a story.  Yet others dance.  Or make yarn. 

All of us are born with imagination.  We all have the power to observe the world around us through sights, sounds, smells, tastes and touches.  We all have responses to our experiences.  We laugh, we cry, we get angry, we hurt.  We live.  And all art is is the expression of the experience of living.

Now, not all of us have been trained to wield a paintbrush or execute a perfect arabesque.  In fact, most of us have not.  But we can still see the beauty around us, and we can choose a way to express our response that fits our skill set.  We can create a cozy home, or tally up a tidy column of numbers, or build a solid shed, or plant a garden, or cook an appetizing meal.  We can go to plays and movies, read books, or follow the patterns designed by others to make our own object of beauty. We can stand still and appreciate a beautiful sunset.  We can show a child how to arrange macaroni in the shape of a flower and sprinkle glitter on it to make it pretty.  In doing all of these things, we celebrate imagination and skill. 

There are those who have trained their minds and bodies to execute a skill that conveys their experience to the rest of the world.  Painters, dancers, singers, writers, designers, architects, sculptors, filmmakers, and makers have all worked hard to find a way to express that experience.  They share their observations with the rest of the world through the products of their labours.  They place experience in a physical context for us to see.  We don't always recognize the perspective, and it may make some of us uncomfortable, but for others, that viewpoint resonates and they see the art.  Our own skills may not extend to the designing and making of beautiful objects, but we all have the skills to choose, to combine, to rearrange, and to place context on the expressions of others.

Art is not other.  It is not strange, or unapproachable.  It is not a privilege reserved for the very rich or the very educated.  Art is our human experience, made physical.

Go out and make art.  Or live life.  It's the same thing.

Full Disclosure and The Other Side

On Friday, I issued a tiny crie de coeur here on my little blog about string.  I told the story of staff firings at our local college from the point of view of the friends I have who worked there and from students who will be impacted by the choices made.  I framed my comments in the context of the larger picture of the way the world is going and how those in the arts are perceived. (If you didn't take the time to read the link I provided, you missed out on a lot of the context.)  The cuts made to the Keyano VPA are, in my opinion, simply a small local reflection of a larger attitude, that Oil is King, and arts don't make money.  It was, simply, another blow in the battle.  One that struck close to home

What I didn't expect was that my post would be picked up and passed along the way it was.  I figured my Mom and the six other people who read me would shake their heads, mutter that I was off on another tangent, and the world would go on.  But picked up and passed along I was.

So, after two days of silence, the college has issued an official statement in response to the outcry by not only myself, but others stunned by the suddenness of Friday's events.  You can read it in it's entirety here: http://keyano.ca/news/open-letter-editor.

I encourage you to read this statement, and to make your own conclusions.  I also, however, stand by every word of my post as the truth as it was presented by those effected by these events.  I do realize that the official perspective and the personal perspective are vastly different.  I know that people exaggerate when telling tales to make their side look stronger, and I know that people in shock tend to use strong language.  I simply repeated the tales I was told, in the words they came to me in.  I am simply a chronicler of my experiences, and of those experiences shared with me.

I still feel that ANY cut to ANY arts education is a matter for public discussion.  I still feel that the manner in which the community was informed-or not informed-of the upcoming "improvements to arts delivery" was, at best, ham-fisted.  Perhaps, Keyano Folk, if you had been open and honest in explaining cuts and re-alignments in the first place, there would not have been the response to my post that there was.   Those six readers would have muttered, and that would have been it.

I would like to add at this point that there is a real need for trades training in our province.  I know that. I would also like to say that educational institutions do have to shift and grow as the focus of our society and economy changes.  But these changes were implemented with no warning to the college's staff, students, or community.  When change is introduced gradually, we move with it and adapt.  When you put a frog in a pot of cool water and gradually increase the heat, he will remain still until he is cooked.  When you drop a frog into a pot of boiling water, he screams and tries to fight back.

So this little frog screamed a little.