into the forest of moss
When all is brown and grey and forest green—
—and lichens and mosses are the jewels of the woods—
—the little girl who once conjured fairy houses with sticks and bark and nestled them between the roots of trees while dreaming of living there1 —
—finds herself reaching for the mossiest yarns she has.
Not that the little girl (or the hag she is growing into)2 is not enchanted by greys and browns and forest greens—
—or, for that matter, any color I/she can make,3 grow or find.
It’s just that when things are toned down and no one is talking (including the sun), there is more room for lichens and mosses and yarns and wee blue dogs to shine while still being utterly themselves.
More room too, perhaps, for a human person to remember that she’s part of it—is in it. Or can be, when she lets it be in her.
Whatever it actually is.
Next week (21 February) I’ll be getting together (virtually) with the marvelous Anna and Irene of Nearly Wild Weaving for our live Tapestry in Conversation.4
In preparation, I’ve been looking through decades of tapestry images, trying to figure out which few to include.5
It’s been exciting and a little overwhelming.
To sort through the physical (or at least photographic) manifestation of a kind of devotion I barely understand that I have — well how can that not be overwhelming. Did I really make all this? No wonder my hands hurt.
And given the pace of tapestry weaving, if most of them weren’t about my life, a person might think I didn’t have one—or at least not away from the loom.6
More to the point and given such abundance, how to choose which to share next week, and why?
Because in the process of sorting, I realized I love them all—even the ones I ultimately composted.
For between the pools of image overwhelm there ran an unexpected rill of pleasure—a visceral sense of delight and well-being that caught me unaware again and again as each stored nugget of reciprocal energy between the work and the body that built it was released.
Who knew that times of absolute engagement—even with works I had forgotten —7 could be stored like smell memories? Tucked between tree roots they have apparently lived quietly and happily for decades, only to emerge at an inconvenient (if deeply pleasurable and perhaps necessary) moment. 8
I’m mixing my metaphors here, but so what? For even as I’m trying to narrow down the images so as not to overwhelm you, is a fine thing to remember and understand that while I may strive for a sense of belonging amongst the lichens and mosses—
— I belonged absolutely in and to the things I make.9
It’s nice to know.
As for the talk— I’ll narrow it down somehow. Luckily next week is mostly about the spoken word (who knows what I’ll actually say), and the delight of chatting with other devoted tapestry weavers across the pond.
In the meantime, there are image-making, shape-drawing, lichen-finding opened-hearted Valentines connections to be had.10
The forest of moss awaits.
Remember to comment with the button above rather than by hitting reply, for if you choose the latter I won’t see your lovely words.
And if you know anyone who might enjoy these meanderings—or likes to make things out of felt— please do click the button below and see what they think.
Ok yes, living amongst the tree roots is not the most practical thing in the world for me just now—not, at least, until I get a good deal better at making pieces of felt big enough to build a ger— or more proficient at constructing Eyore/Fairy houses out of sticks.
hag as embraced by the amazing
in her marvelous book Hagitude and on her Substack that is!Also, for no reason other than that Sharon Blackie and Caroline Ross’s words and ideas remind me of one another, I highly recommend Caroline’s latest post— most particularly her simple guidelines to make your fortune writing on Substack, which comes about half way down the post. All worth reading as ever, but in case you only need one nugget of delight.
I say make as though I am doing it, but the watercolors I use every day are actually created by my amazing friend K. Jodi Gear, who makes lakes and pigments from plants and minerals she gathers in the country around Butte, Montana and turns into watercolors and what she calls pigment drawing sticks.
You can get tickets for next week’s Tapestry In Conversation (Wed, 21 Feb 2024 PT 11:00 - 12:15, GMT-8) HERE. It is filling up nicely (hurrah to all have signed up—see you there!) and as there are a limited number of “seats” for the live event, don’t dilly dally too long if you’re thinking about coming! Happily, the event is viewable afterwards if you have a ticket and can’t make it at that time. You can read more and/or see the other wonderful things Irene and Anna are doing at Nearly Wild Weaving if you click HERE!
Because it will be an actual conversation it seems best not to bombard you with pictures (as I tend to do here). Also, it is altogether too easy for me to get caught up in ideas and words in the moment and forget to advance the slides. I write this as much to remind myself as explain to you, for I still have about twice as many slides as Anna and Irene recommend and need to get back to pruning..
This is where the pace of weaving bumps into the Hourly Comics problem I touched on last week, wherein a person scarcely has time to do a thing to draw/write/weave about before it’s time to draw/write/weave the next.
And it’s not like I really forgot them — it’s just that quite a few sold before I had good photos taken of them so they haven’t ended up in my digital archive and only appeared when I dug deep into funky little folders deep inside other folders — all of which is a great reminder that I should really label all my digital images (As if).
Snowdrops have begun to bloom all over town and it is still only mid February. Hopefully they’ll be Ok.
It’s hard not to explore this idea further and dive into my parallel belief that the things I make also get to have their own lives away from me—that I don’t need to have them physically present to be connected energetically. But these footnotes are long enough already. And so is the post. So best to leave that for another day.
Beryl has been wild with the colors this week—she keeps taking over. Last night she made me blue and herself yellow ochre. Perhaps the influence of all those old and colorful tapestries?
Oh my YES to all of it! These mossy months are my favorites, and plump moss in morning sunlight after the rain a song of joy in the color of life. And how patiently it waits out the hot, parched, droughty months. Ah, MOSS! .... And thanks for sharing more of your enchanting creations and Tuesday rabbit holes for exploring, and thanks to Beryl too!
It’s always a joy to read and view your drawings and tapestries.