Dreams and the Ram's Horn

Happy Mother's Day to all those who all those who are basking in the arms of  familial love today.  Please know and appreciate how truly lucky you are.

Like Valentine's Day and Charlie Brown, to me all holidays serve only to remind me that I am not one of those lucky people.  Thanks for the Christmas card, Violet.

As I ooze into my mid-50's, the realities of life are unavoidable at best.  At their worst, they are pointing at me and laughing behind my back like all those kids at every new school I was dragged to throughout my young life.  When you are young (at least when I was young) I was able to pretty much make up my own story in my mind about how life is or how life should be.  But time and age strip off the false veneers worn by all your relatives and all your experiences.  They shed, like snakes skins and you are never very sure which was the real thing.

One thing that I have become sure of, is that if you were not loved by at least one of your parents, you will never know love.  Not love of self, not love of a companion, forget about love from your family of origin and you will never be loved by the ones you thought for sure would except you, embrace you and call you their own.  It just doesn't work that way.  When you are raised in a cold, unloving environment, that becomes the worn in path of your life.  It is a negative that will suck the blood from you everytme you try to rise above.

However, I did have another revelation last night.  As my sister fills in the missing pieces of the puzzle that is my life; as my daughter continues to punch holes in my heart . . . I realize now that life really is a dream. Nothing makes sense, nothing adds up . . . things happen randomly and some of it is nightmarish. Some of it is beyond our wildest imagination. But none of it is real. It's all in your head. It has no relevance really. To be truly happy, you have live in the moment of the dream and hope that it turns out good. Make up whatever story you want about your life. It really doesn't matter. We're all just kind of drifting around, trying to make sense of things that are senseless. There is no purpose, there is no justice; not even a true moral compass. It's like an acid trip with things appearing and disappearing out of your view. All you can do is try to keep your head in the right place because it will all be over soon anyway.

On that note, I'd like to leave you with one of my favorite poems by John Hewitt

The Rams Horn

I have turned to the landscape because men disappoint me:
the trunk of a tree is proud; when the woodmen fell it,
it still has a contained ionic solemnity:
it is a rounded event without the need to tell it.
I have never been compelled to turn away from the dawn
because it carries treason behind its wakened face:
even the horned ram, glowering over the bog hole,
though symbol of evil, will step through the blown grass with grace.
Animal, plant, or insect, stone or water,
are, every minute, themselves; they behave by law.
I am not required to discover motives for them,
or strip my heart to forgive the rat in the straw.
I live my best in the landscape, being at ease there;
the only trouble I find I have brought in my hand.
See, I let it fall with a rustle of stems in the nettles,
and never for a moment suppose that they understand.

The Downside of Being Crafty

Long time, no blog.  And I am inspired to write not by yarn but fiber of a different nature.  The Evil Dust Bunnies!  I come to you triumphant, but exhausted.  I have finally . . . FINALLY . . . cleaned my bathroom.  I hate to clean my bathroom.  I hate cleaning anything.  I can think of a thousand crafty things to do instead of cleaning.  I can stare at the wall rather than cleaning!  No problem.

The problem is . . . it gets bad.  REAL bad.  Like SCARY bad!  My mind keeps going back to a line in my favorite movie, "The Edge."  Anthony Hopkins and Alec Baldwin are stranded in the wilderness of Alaska.  Alec is the bad guy, antagonist.  Anthony is the strong silent type who is a calculated survivor.  He barks at Alec, "Why do people die in the Wilderness?"  Alec, who is already feeling he may not make it, heaves a sigh, looks at Anthony with mocking eyes and sarcastically replies, "I don't know.  Why?"   "Because they are ASHAMED!" snaps Anthony.   Well, I think this applies to cleaning too.  My place is just soooo bad, I can't stand to climb the mountain and dig out.  I look with shame at what I have let happen and skulk off to happier things (yah, crafting).

But sooner or later, even I can't deal.  So I used the "tackle one room at a time" method.  Which sounds all good, until you have the kind of hippity hoppity mind that says "but this needs to be done, and that needs to be done . . . and that there is just awful!"    This is the hardest battle to win of all.  To just do "one room".  Especially when you know the whole place looks bad and, worse yet, I can't find anything.  Oh the disorder.  I never used to be like this.

So I tackled my biggest shame today, the bathroom.  My worst nightmare, the bathroom!  It's not that I'm squeamish about cleaning toilets.  My Mom put a toilet brush in my hand as soon as I was old enough to use one.  Then there is all the the time I spent praying to the "porcelain god" in my lifetime.  Between the bulimia and the drinking and then just plain old flu or stomach issues.  No . . . that doesn't bother me.  What really kills me is the size of the bathroom.  By far, this is the smallest bathroom I have ever had (and that's saying a "lot").   For me to clean my bathroom is comparable to putting an elephant in a telephone booth with a broom.  But I did it.  It nearly killed me.  But finally "this bathroom is clean" (visualizing the midget woman in Poltergeist saying this!). 

All I can say is that in the next life, I want a bathroom like Tony Montana in Scarface!  Oh yah, and a housekeeper!  

I became enchanted with the idea of spinning while reading Marion Zimmer Bradley's "MIsts of Avalon" about 20 years ago.  Spinning has always been linked to fairy tales, skill, and mysticism.  I would read of Morgana falling into a trance while spinning and having visions.  I became spellbound by the story of the Druidess.  I had read just about every version of the King Arthur story I could lay my hands on back then.  But the story as seen through the eyes of women seemed much more compelling and believable to me.   After reading that book I would always be drawn to demonstrations at festivals where a woman sat spinning her wool into yarn.  The spinners seemed trance-like as well.  I could never tell exactly what it was they were doing, and they never would stop to show you.  These women would talk to you, occasionally, but the secret of turning bits of fluff into yarn was never revealed.  

The more I delved into knittingand crochet over the years, the more aware I became of the variety of yarns, glorious, expensive, colorful yarns that are available.  Yarns are made of every fiber under the sun:  plants, wood, silk from cocoons and spider silk, milk protein, and any animal that can grow fur.  Curiouser and Curiouser . . . I began to really want to know those fibers more.  I never touched a spindle and it never occurred to me that one day I would own a spinning wheel.  Then one day I saw it.  On the magazine rack in a Wegman's supermarket was a magazine that had a picture of two wooden bobbins of spun yarn in beautiful shades of green.  They were nestled on top of the most amazing yarn that I would learn is called "beehive" yarn also known as "corespun".  I was shocked that in this day and age there was a publication devoted to what I considered an ancient art.  I had know idea that this purchase, Spin Off, Winter 2009, would be the gateway drug to my new found obsession.  

As the mysteries of the universe conspired to lead me forward on my new path, I also subscribed to a site called "Local Harvest".  This is a great web site.  You can narrow it down to your area and they will email you local events related to organic foods, farmers markets, and more.  The "more" happened to be an Alpaca Day event at the Worthington Acres located in Unityville, Pa.  My girlfriend (who will brave any of my eccentricities for a road trip) and I went to the farm.  It was a tiny festival but there were lots of animals, a few spinners, bags and bags of fleeces, roving and hand knit items.  That was the day I got sucked into "fiber world".    I wound up going back to that farm to learn to spin from Craig Johnson.  He got me started and was kind enough to actually lend me a spinning wheel so I could practice.  I was so blown away that anyone would actually "loan" a spinning wheel out.  Before long, I owned that wheel when he bought himself a more expensive one and I was the recipient of a very good bargain.  

Before I received that good bargain, I went to see Phylleri Ball at her Steam Valley Fiber Farm to see her spinning wheels for sale.  I fell in love with a Schacht Lady Bug which I couldn't afford.  But it was wonderful to see her self-sustaining farm.  Goats, sheep, pigs, and chickens outside in barns and coops.  Inside her home were spinning wheels, spindles, dyes, and baskets and baskets of the most beautiful yarns I had ever seen!  This year, I decided to spend a little money on myself and really learn to spin a decent yarn.  So I invested in some classes taught by Phylleri.  I am still yearning for one of the Schacht wheels (only now I want the newer model, the Sidekick!).  But what is the point of owning an expensive wheel if you you don't have real skills.  So, that's what I'm doing.  I took my first class last Saturday.  I drove an hour to meet a guild member.  She kindly drove me the remainder of the way to the Guild meeting place, a coffee shop in Vicksburg.  It was a total of 2 hours out there.  It seemed rather odd that the coffee shop was in Vicksburg.  It was very cute with that bohemian feel that any old hippy loves.  It was surrounded by farms, not the usual urban venue.  There was a small group of senior citizens (like, 5 to 10 yrs. older than me!) who drank their coffee and gabbed while myself and three other ladies sat with our spinning wheels in a semi-circle around Phylleri.  Class was from 9:30 to 4:00.  I won't bore you with details but I learned so much.  I couldn't believe how that day went so fast!!!  I learned how to improve my spinning, how to fill my bobbin to the fullest, how to card fiber and make a fat fluffy thing called a rolag and how to spin it.  I also had a lot of "aha" moments (As opposed to my usual day of "senior" moments).   I went into the classes feeling very unsure of myself.  I had spun for three years by myself and figured I would have to unlearn more than I was learning.  I was thrilled to learn that spinning is still a forgiving craft and you can only improve with knowledge and practice.  Phylleri laughed when I told her was I kind of afraid to learn from her because her yarns were so gorgeous.  She said to me, "After 30 years I better be!"   I hope I can say that one day.  Three down, twenty-seven to go!  

PHYLLERI'S YARN AT THE 2011 RHINEBECK FIBER FESTIVAL:

Like the true Pisces that I am, I am always conflicted between that which is practical and that which is desired.   Practical always seems to take precedence over desires in this world.  However, as I grow older and indulge my creative whims, I yearn to throw off the yoke of “sensible choices” and embrace my dreams.  It’s kind of scary when you’re in your mid-50’s and the maladies of old age begin to erode your energy, your finances and endurance.  Yet none of these frailties have touched my heart which still yearns to dream and be free.  Mentally, I am sticking my toe into the fire, hoping that one day I will have the courage to walk through the flames and into the world of possibilities.

My journey starts with a thread.  A golden thread.  The fibers are in my heart and pour through my fingers   Dreams, hopes, desires, visions of whispered possibilities, my hands and fingers now spin them, caress them into shape.  My imagination spins them into actual possibilities.  My desires and hopes ply these threads into dreams that have substance.  Now, the path begins to take form from these dreams as I knit and weave them into a cloak.  I will adorn myself with this cloak and eventually allow myself to walk through the fire to freedom.