it's a string thing

Beautiful new places—

—have so much to look at and absorb—

—that sometimes the only way for me to avoid overwhelm and visual paralysis—

—is to anchor myself to one thing.¹

Or perhaps I should say one kind of thing: an idea, a medium, or even, as the case may be, an unfathomably abundant plant that just happens to produce gorgeous fiber.²

For somehow focusing on that one thing—or rather looking at everything through its lens—creates a kind of spaciousness that allows me to settle.

Of course it could be merely a fiber thing.³

It could also, sigh, be a slightly obsessive workaholic maker thing.

Either way the benefits of being in this land with milkweed’s help included noticing how much more-than-usually-at-ease I could be on a Hovenweep cliff edge⁴—

—or meandering (slightly lost), through a very old piñon–juniper woodland.⁵

Because somehow, with the help of this plant (and a bit of cordage-in-progress always in my pocket), I felt myself not only to be the slightly befuddled tourist/visitor I so patently was, but also a human in a very long line of humans who are making-things-up-as-they-go-long while living and working with the materials at hand.⁶

You know. A slightly muddled person—

—who wanders around with a dog⁷—

—gathering friends—

—gathering material—

—and making string.⁸

1. This happens to me in museums too. And cities. And crowded events/parties. And, truth to tell, on instagram (though it is hard to find an anchor-point there so these days I rarely even try).

2. I had been told that there was a lot of milkweed at my friends’ place and that it thrived alongside the native grasses they have been working for decades to nurture (so I came prepared), but I had no idea how that abundance would feel. For along with the word-centric pleasures of friendship, there was time to experiment to my heart’s content (given that I only had a couple of days), with plants in several different stages—and still have an almost invisible impact on the myriad stands. To my delight, I found that the best fiber came from the end-of-season yellow/brown plants—those that were beyond their useful insect-nurturing life yet still moist enough for the fibrous bark to separate from the inner stalks with relative ease; a perfect bast-weaver’s window. For once the plants dry out (and in the arid southwest drying out is what everything seems to do best), there is nothing to do but wait for winter to do her clever freeze/thaw field-retting best, and gather the silver-grey bast in the spring. And I doubt I’ll make that long drive again so soon…

3. I say “merely” but in point of fact this textile-centric making thing is pretty central to my way of being in the world (as you might have noticed :-). Give me something to twist or stitch or loop (you know, all the categories in the poll), and I’m fine. I can knit my way through a traffic stoppage on my way to Colorado for instance, or twirl a spindle through all kinds of of awkward social situations. It’s my version of the comforting teddy bear and always (as far as I can remember) has been.

4. Hovenweep was built in and along the edges of a steep canyon and I do not usually have a head for heights. Beryl either, apparently. This national monument is—well, astonishing —and as a monument rather than a national park I could bring Beryl with us (on leash) and she (as usual—see footnote 7), connected us still further to the people working to support/maintain the soul-satisfying stonework structures. Please click the link above for more images and information about it all.

5. piñon–juniper woodland

6. As much as possible at any rate. I cannot begin to pretend to rely on the materials at hand for my every need as once would have been the case. But it helps to feel it even the tiniest bit.

7. …or cat or gerbil or daemon .

And by wander I of course mean wander around one’s mind, back yard, and neighborhood (as is usual for me), as well as further afield.

Also—those of you who wander with animal companions, have you ever noticed how much easier it is to make friends, or have conversations with strangers when so accompanied? Beryl, indeed, is a kind of conversational magnet. People sometimes shout “Nice Dog!” out the windows of their cars as they drive by. Or in gas stations. Or walking wherever. I’m always amazed; she takes it in stride.

8. Strands of thought, lines of words, ribbons of ideas, skeins of yarn, balls of string, clews of thread, cords of friendship, braids of connection…

For the first half this trip, my string-making was more wooly and/or idea-driven (how not when with the wondrous Rebecca Mezoff). For the second, the milkweed definitely held sway. Now that I’m home—well, I’m thoroughly tangled up in all three.

BTW—Rebecca wrote a wonderful blog post about our recent visit, twining it with her time the week before with the very talented Cornelia Theimer Gardella who I someday hope to meet.

And while we’re thinking about threads of connection, I’m delighted to welcome all of you who came here because of Clara Parkes’ kind words on her most recent Wool Channel newsletter. What a thrill—both to see my name there and (as ever), to sink into the world-wide wooly goodness she shares.

Oh, and speaking of wool, I forgot to mention that the fleece I wrote about in the post a couple of weeks ago is from Ranching Tradition Fiber in Whitehall Montana. I bought two pounds of Targhee/Rambioullet to see what I thought before investing in a whole fleece—and so far I am delighted. As the website says, it is a range fleece (so VM is definitely present), even it was also easy to prepare and is LOVEly to spin. I also see that they have roving if you’re not raw fleece inclined (though I haven’t tried this so can’t speak to the preparation from experience). Coincidentally, they are also featured in the latest Farm and Fiber Knits Newsletter.

And last of all I feel like I should apologize for this endless footnote but there are so many great people and things and fibers that I simply couldn’t help going on and on. I hope you’ll enjoy then all much as I do and have.