leap

It’s one thing to wind a New Year warp—

—choose some weft—

—and tap it into place.

It’s quite another to weave a word that, noun or verb, seems to demand some kind of action.

leap; hand woven tapestry; milkweed, wool, silk; lichen, indigo; 3” x 5” 2024

Leap?

Leap where?

Onto the roof to clean the gutters?

Into my watercolor box to see what hue sticks to my butt?

Or across town to find out if the odd strand of milkweed wants to follow me home?

Perhaps I’m expected to leap into something I don’t want to do.

No. That would be mean.

And tapestries aren’t mean.

Maybe my loom just wants me to notice the way that, like it or not, New Year expectation energy has infiltrated my brain.

To acknowledge the annoying and persistent little itch of wanting—nay expecting—these January days to offer up fresh beginnings/ideas/projects/points of view all by themselves, and to concede that when said flashes of inspiration haven’t shown up in living color, I have been succumbing to the urge to chase them down.

Not that I don’t relish a little idea exploration.

I mean checking out wild possibilities usually offers up some kind of information (often of what I don’t want to do).

And rearranging the furniture (internal and/or external)¹—is almost always satisfying no matter how it turns out.

What ends up in the center of the room? What is relegated to the side? What do I reach for when when all the surfaces are cleared off?

Huge changes rarely ensue—²

tapestry in progress; mill spun linen, hand spun sewing pattern paper; cotton warp

—but light from a new direction can really give the “same old” a fresh glow.

A glow that reminds me how much I really like most of the things I’ve already got going.

So when my loom tells me (with wool and indigo and milkweed and silk), to leap—

—it might be trying to say that cavorting about where I am is the most radical act of all—

—and I might as well revel in the mind-blowing notion—

—that at this moment, I actually can.

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1. I actually do this a couple of times a year, and have for decades. Though I rarely change everything—and there is always a super messy point in the middle where I wonder why on earth I began—I’ve never regretted it. A big re-arrange helps me notice the dust bunnies in obscure corners (much fluffier now that I have a dog), and brings neglected materials, or stalled ideas to my attention. “Do I really want that in here? Does it clutter up my thinking? Is it stored energy and full of possibility? Do I still find it enticing?” I don't always know the answers, but by physically moving/ removing things, or finding homes for them elsewhere, the process usually brings some clarity to creative shifts (or lack thereof). And that is always helpful. Besides, as I said—dust squirrels.

2. With a few exceptions it has been the long, slow—almost glacial— ideas that have actually had long term effect on my life. As with the mycelial network though, most of the work is hidden.