Knitting on Impulse

Still Here

Three weeks kind of fell into a black hole there. It wasn't anything tragic - a cold that brought with it weeks of aches, chills and exhaustion, a husband completely (and I do mean completely) incapacitated by a bout of back pain, and the need to spend my evenings walking on eggshells in the effort to buoy my daughter's spirits and provide just the right amount of prodding to get her homework load finished before bedtime. That last one feels like it uses up most of my capacity for creative word work right now.... or at least the cheerful words.  A couple of months ago, someone in town who reads my blog (which is vaguely disconcerting in a small town) laughed and told me that she knows ALL about my neuroses now, thanks to the blog. And even though I believe passionately in authenticity, the cyclical nature of life and the value and validity of the whole  of human experience, that comment initiated a nagging doubt that maybe I ought to self-censor more, stick with Enthusiasm and Good Cheer.  And I promptly lost my voice.

While I'm not invested in the idea of misery as a prerequisite for art, I do believe that embracing and processing and grappling with the full range of emotion and energy and season is the best foundation for creativity.  I find limiting my emotional range to Relentless Enthusiasm to have approximately the same effect as a diet consisting solely of buttercream icing.

I guess that's as good a way as any of saying: I'm back.

Where to begin - there's plenty going on. It has been a dark and rainy fall, which sets me to craving colour, and certain kinds of colour, in the same way I crave comfort food.  Juxtaposition of hues in stranded knitting has captivated me right now, and is opening up whole new avenues of exploration. I've begun to think of each colourway as a musical instrument - some are pure and singular, some so harmonically rich as to be practically an orchestra unto themselves. Nevertheless, there is a world of difference between a solo and a duet... a trio, quartet, symphony.  The qualities of a single instrument (or colour) are heightened in combination with another - sometimes in equal partnership, sometimes with one creating a backdrop for the other. Furthermore, there are any number of instruments that don't normally solo, but are indispensible to a full and richly layered sound... so it is with colour, and that little insight frees me to consider all sorts of new possibilities. 

I'm working on simple  duets right now, via an ever-lengthening swatch scarf... like so:

Copper and Coppergreen

 

Coppergreen and Pale Rock

 

Pale Rock and Beary Surprise:

 

As time permits, I'd like to work through each duet with a blog post of its own - looking at the components, their level of saturation, where they sit on the colour wheel... teasing out the inner workings of their partnership.

I've also begun to offer the duets as split skeins, because a significant majority (not all - check your pattern first!) of small stranded projects (mitts, mittens, hats, etc.) require a total yardage equivalent to a single skein of fingering weight yarn, and it seems a little daunting to purchase two skeins to be partially used for a single small project. It's a work in progress - I'm just putting up a couple of skeins of each duet at a time, until I get a better sense of interest levels, but I'm already having a lot of fun with it. (Actually, I would have published a collection of small colourwork designs of my own to go with them by now, if not for a mysteriously corrupted flash drive, but I'm trying not to dwell on that and think instead about the golden opportunity to make them That Much Better. The first is almost rewritten and once I send it out for TE and testing, I'll give you a sneak preview.)

Small Things

I've been a little silent here lately, despite the fact that both design and dyeing are happening at full capacity, and all sorts of fabulous and creative plans are afoot on both fronts. A great many things are going very well, but as much as September brings the return of kid-free productivity, it also adds a layer of emotionally draining angst. I don't say a whole lot about my daughter's issues here, as I think she deserves a certain layer of anonymity, but suffice it to say that each school year brings a whole new set of problems to be identified, solutions to be imagined and advocated for, and after-school unloading to be coped with, comforted, and buffered on behalf of the younger sibling. This year is shaping up to be a tough one as normal preteen angst dovetails with the pain of being genuinely different, and the stress of ramped up expectations and scaled back supports.

It is all too easy some days to slide back into that scary place where failure is unthinkable, but the imperatives pressing in on all sides are vastly bigger than my internal resources feel. I've found though, that when the big picture is just too big, a great deal of solace and fortification can be found in the particular.

 

There is a kind of strength in small things that is still and accessible, that speaks of perseverance and constancy.

Living in the presence of raw power and drama, periodically trampled by it, yet never overcome - just quietly, irresistably, continuing to be.

 

I forget the lesson regularly, but thankfully, the reminders are never far away.

Mercurial

For the record, I am a complete non-believer in astrology. I have an open mind and all, but the logical scientist in me simply can't see any plausibility in the notion that everyone born at a particular time of year has the same personality, destiny, etc. - there are way too many biological variables with far more immediacy than the nebulous emanations of an indistinct blip in the sky. Nevertheless....

Aug. 1: the Shadow phase of Mercury's retrograde progression begins. Soon after, our beloved 16 year old stove blows up, with a dramatic display of sparks and spitting. This is suboptimal for a home dyeing business, but in the interests of saving money, we try various fixes with diminishing levels of success, until at last the corroded wiring harness tells us in no uncertain terms what to do with ourselves.

Aug. 20: Mercury's retrograde phase begins in earnest. Rob researches, I concur, we order a new stove - flat-top, since that's just about all that is available anymore if you don't have gas and want a decent quality oven. 

Aug. 23: Computer monitor begins to act strangely.

Aug. 25: Computer monitor goes to sleep for the last time. Problematic, since many critical business things can only be done from the PC to which it is attached, and the laptop is a convoluted workaround at best. (My father is reading this and thinking "if only she'd gotten on with solving the full networking issue like I TOLD her to, she'd be able to access all those files....")

Aug. 26: Stove arrives. After installation and celebration, we read the instruction manual and discover a plethora of restrictions that were not apparent anywhere in the sales information. These restrictions will cut my dyeing efficiency in half, as well as forbiding numerous forms of cooking we enjoy and promising dire consequences if you so much as look at the damn cooktop wrong. I do further internet research and discover that hating flat top stoves is not an uncommon scenario. Tears and recriminations and feeling stupid ensue. We discuss the possibility of exchange with Sears and are cheerfully advised that it will be an expensive logistical nightmare. Undaunted, we peruse the coil top possibilities and find three acceptable options, all of which are labelled "in stock" but can't actually be delivered for several months. With the business at stake, we have little choice but to make do, and begin researching hot-plates with which to augment our brand new techno-stove and regain the level of usefulness provided by the extinct one. (I have a serious rant in the works about cooking devices designed for the needs of a consumer base that rarely cooks and is predominantly concerned with appearances. Later.)

Aug. 27: Having decided the stove issue, we take a deep breath and turn our attention to ordering a new monitor. I do many hours of research, determined not to make another expensive error. Choice made, go online to order - the website shuts down for 24 hours for technical difficulties just as I reach the checkout page. Starting to feel a nagging sense of doom.

Presently: still waiting for the monitor to arrive, and until it does, I am on gmail, which is forwarded with considerably less than 100% reliability from my regular mail. If you need something urgently and I seem to be inexplicably ignoring your emails - try robruth DOT cox AT gmail DOT com. Just for the next few days, though I wouldn't entirely rule out a landslide crushing the truck in which our monitor is travelling - after all, Mercury is still in retrograde until the 27th of September. Not that I believe in that superstitious crap, of course.

Life goes on, dyeing has resumed, the tantalising promise of 5 productive hours a day is just around the corner, and I'll get back to proper blogging once I can download the camera to the proper computer.

As the Canadian Air Force motto says: Per Ardua Ad Astra (colloquially translated: Do It The Hard Way.)

I Write Like....

Addendum:

Sigh. Never mind. I knew it wasn't a serious analysis, but I thought it was at least one of those marginally functional and amusing meme gimmicks. However, as Making Light points out (via astute reader moiraeknittoo), it is a little more pernicious than that. The algorithm (if there indeed is an algorithm, as opposed to a random number generator) apparently isn't even making a rudimentary attempt to sort language features, since a random collection of letters is assigned to the style of James Joyce. It appears to be nothing more than a lazy instrument of flattery to lure the unwary into parting with their money.

As dumb as I feel for writing about it, I will point out that there was a fairly compelling (though likely unintended) result that lured me into thinking there was some sort of actual algorithm at work: The samples of my own writing which I considered to be bland and second rate were all categorized as Dan Brown. Ahem. If all the comparisons had been flattering, I might have been more suspicious....

Have you seen the I Write Like site? I discovered it making the rounds of Twitter, and while I'm sure there are biases in the selection process, I found it both amusing and instructive.

Here's what happened when I entered samples from a number of my own blog posts:

When I'm writing about hope and beauty, taking time to craft each turn of phrase for melodic flow, to choose words for precise meaning and nuance, to revise and prune and edit and proofread, I come out as James Joyce or H.G. Wells.

When I dash off a quick and functional note about prosaic stuff like holidays and plans and purchases, or a whiney rant about domestic woe and frustration: Dan Brown.

The more thoughtfully edited posts wherein I work through angst and neurosis: David Foster Wallace.

Although I suspect the algorithm was designed with an intrinsic marketing agenda, it was still a potent reminder to me that the form and quality of the words I put out into the world.... matters.

What about you - did you discover any patterns or insights?

(By the way, this blog entry is apparently channelling H.P. Lovecraft. Go figure.)

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6/69: Independence

Since the girl is sick in bed with what looks suspiciously like flu (sigh), Liam and I headed out for a wee mother-son excursion to the library this afternoon. There's an "Adventure Zone" that sets up at the base of Blackcomb for the summer months - trampolines and various climbing structures, and a maze, and it's located such that we have to pass it to walk to the Village. This invariably provokes a great deal of longing in the young ones, and a great deal of eye-rolling in the elders, who think that $8-12 for five to ten minutes of bouncing or climbing is a LOT of money.

The kids do have a wee bit of savings now, as we have a point system for chores and earnings, and they work very very hard for every dollar. I put my foot down about blowing a year's worth of savings on a handful of "rides," but we agreed that over the course of the summer, they'd each pay for one and we'd pay for one or two. 

Just before we left for the library, Liam presented himself to me with a sly, ear to ear grin, and ten precious dollars burning a hole in his pocket. Recalling the several instances where he has lost money while toting it about (the worst of which being last summer, where he accidently left his entire savings at a bus stop on a babysitter outing), I was initially inclined to suggest he leave it with me, or better yet, leave it behind altogether and pay me back when we got home.

"But Mom," he said, "it just wouldn't be the same."

So I satisfied myself as to the depth of his pockets, and we walked down to the Zone, perusing every activity and debating the relative merits of each, until he made his choice. He strode up to that booth, slapped down his money, fixed the attendant with a steely-eyed gaze and declared, "I believe you owe me two dollars in change."

He played his heart out for the alloted time period and left completely satisfied with the value he'd obtained. Which, on reflection, embodies much of what I hope to teach my children about money: to take responsibility for your choices, and to be fully, mindfully, aware of the tangible and intangible value of the things for which you exchange your resources.

It was a good day.

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In other news... the packing and shipping is almost done - I just have a few multiple choice estimates to pull together for the overseas crowd and then the last packages will be on their way.

Life as Art: ill-matched threads

She who reconciles the ill-matched threads of her life, and weaves them gratefully into a single cloth.....

Rainer Maria Rilke

That line of poetry has been rolling over and over in my head for a week now. It speaks to me for obvious reasons as a maker of textiles, but the sharper truth is that I have a great number of ill-matched threads in my life, and I struggle - often neither gratefully nor gracefully - to reconcile them.

The demands and the joys of motherhood, the imperative to make us a living with a complete lack of sovereignty over my workspace, laughter and play and muddy feet and carpets and elderly cats with bladder issues. Etcetera.

The hope I find here, though, is possibility. I have been guilty at times of assuming that the best I can achieve with the threads available to me is a skewed and lumpy rag, fit only to be hidden under the sink for private and menial use. I've wished for different threads, felt ashamed to hold mine up alongside the smooth, glittering perfection of others. I've managed little sections of silky loveliness, only to feel despair and frustration when all that's left to continue with that day is a kinked and prickly hemp twine. 

The hope I hold on to is the image of the weaver (and it might just as well be knitting, crochet, or any other means of creating cloth), not judging her threads, grateful to have them as they are, using her creative soul and skill and ingenuity to work them into a unique and lovely textile; a sturdy, yet flexible cloth with fascinating textures and mesmerising eddies of colour. A cloth that is, like any great art, exactly what it needs to be - no more, no less.

Aftermath of Sunshine

 

(Elderly white cat, who rolled in the dirt this afternoon. Because it finally stopped raining since the snow went away and he could.)

It was a difficult spring. I swear it has been dark and deluge-ional for at least 40 days (and nights, but I really don't care if it rains at night.) At first I was philosophical (can't have a rainforest without rain), but as the days wore on, the cold and dark began to seep into my bones and from there, little by little, into my very soul.

Today, I sat in the sun for hours, and I think everything might just be OK after all. Now to tackle the email queue (orders have been going out on time, but the social niceties have suffered.)

Crimson

"She was bareheaded, and her splendid hair, more than ever like Browning's 'gorgeous snake,' was bound about her head with a crimson ribbon. She wore a dress of some dark material, very plainly made; but swathed around her waist, outlining its fine curves, was a vivid girdle of red silk............. She had told Anne that she never felt satisfied without a gleam of red somewhere about her, if it were only a flower. To Anne, it always seemed to symbolize Leslie's glowing, pent-up personality, denied all expression save in that flaming glint."

     L. M. Montgomery in "Anne's House of Dreams"

I've always been captivated by that image of repressed creative passion; distilled and channeled into a fierce, crimson textile, speaking the volumes that cannot safely be given voice.

In Silken Mystic (Red poses such a challenge to capturing both the intense depth and saturation and the reflective properties of the silk, which render the photo lighter and pinker than the yarn truly is):

Merely Lace:

 
 
 
and Blissful Sock:

 

Muddy

Sometimes the mud wins, and all you can do is wait for the rain to subside and make a new plan.

  

Laughter

My daughter and I had a wee spat last night. It was pretty basic stuff, beginning with her present tendency to find all aspects of her brother's corporeal presence unbearably irritating, and brought to an abrupt climax when she punched him to make her point. She put forth an impassioned defence based on the assertion that she was merely "swatting" him, swatting being a benign, non-punishable action completely different from the punch of which she was so unjustly accused. I, the implacable judge, pointed out that she was three feet away from me when she struck him, with a fist, hard enough to hurt, and no amount of semantics was going to commute the time out. She pronounced me the Worst Mother in the UNIVERSE, stalked to her room and dove under the bedcovers.

Normally at this point, I disengage. She grumbles for a few minutes, picks up a book, regains control, and all is well by the time she emerges. Nothing further said. Lately though, I've been increasingly aware that the golden age of my absolute authority is quickly winding to a close and the scary vortex of puberty is looming. I wondered if I could find a way to stay engaged in the middle of her anger, to do something wise and wonderful and Good Mother-ish to ease her way back to self-control. (And truthfully, there are some very good reasons why this is a particularly thorny challenge. Mainstream parenting advice works brilliantly on my son; on the girl - not so much.) 

I walked to the side of her bed. She shouted at me to go away, buried herself in the duvet, and I stood there, trying to imagine what I could say. What one of those really Good Mothers with the perma-smile and perfect children would say. (The intellectual comfort of a legitimate diagnosis doesn't stop me from judging myself against their scrubbed and polished soccer-mom perfection.) Totally blank. A minute went by, and still nothing. And then I had a completely childish impulse of my own to just stay there, quiet as a mouse, and see what might transpire.

The minutes ticked by. There was a little wiggling, and finally a curious face poked out to see what was going on. A moment of stunned silence... and then helpless giggles at the absurdity of the whole thing. She threw her arms around me and we laughed until the tears ran down our cheeks.

It was magic. I'm not sure why I feel compelled to write it down here, except that I want to mark the moment, remember that sometimes it can be this way.