of milkweed and mending

in which Sarah patches some worn spots

My spinning group went off on a jaunt last weekend. Well, we call ourselves a spinning group as making yarn has been the ostensible reason for getting together every week for the last 32 years, but only a few of us still turn fiber into yarn on a regular basis.

We’re also a little more flexible about meeting every single week. Though we did a pretty good job with zoom spinning for a time, it can take a while to rebuild a once-a-week habit. We’re getting back to it though, and our slow return to more in-person sociability made this visit to the Camas Prairie extra special.

We were only gone for a couple of days, but the nine of us did our level best to have a grand time and by golly I believe we did. Books, beverages, making, mending, food, fiber and lots and lots of chat — well you know how it is. After 16 years we know exactly how, within five minutes of arrival, to transform a spare prairie farmhouse into an ode to materials and making.

In other words, we bring a lot of stuff. Who knows what a gal will want to make until immersed in the moment? Of course after all these years most of us have one or two things we always prepare for, as certain kinds of projects only seem to appear when we are together like this. Still, it behooves us all to be ready for anything.

My planned projects generally include something infinite (yarn making), and something finite (ideally finishable in the time we have), and this year was no different: along with my ever-present spindle, I packed a bit of milkweed fiber to twist into cordage—

--and the studio jacket I’ve been patching/propping up for the last couple of decades.¹ It was sadly in need of attention.

To save on space (and for extra chatting time), we cram as many of us as we can into each vehicle for the drive. This makes for thoughtful packing esp when you are passenging² and know your back seat area is to be shared with a pair of magnificent pies (not made by you).

So it felt clever to choose projects with a smallish footprint: the jacket I was actually wearing (a gal doesn't want to freeze), and yarn that is twisted into existence one strand of fiber at a time.³ Also, I wanted to leave more room for snacks. I love snacks.

I also love these projects— and was particularly excited about the milkweed as it has been a couple of years since I’ve made more than a yard or two. My mad pash for the stuff a couple of years ago led to some major hand pain and I ended up giving most of it away to save me from myself. This time I only had a handful or two of fiber, so had built in some restraint—and also assumed/hoped I’ve absorbed the lesson of the intervening years: stop when it hurts. Or just before.

As things unfolded I gave just the early mornings to milkweed; I could twist in the half light before the sun was fully up—for who can bear to turn on a lamp with such a sky out the window—and thread needles once it got light.

Plenty of time then (between snacks and spindle twirls), to devote to mending the jacket.

It is truly a beloved garment: warm, wearable, ever at the ready, and I spend a lot of time working in it, both inside and out. I’d not worked on it for several years though, and constant wear meant the tattered bits had grown almost overwhelming — both sleeves so bad in places that to my dismay I almost couldn’t face it. Where to even begin?

The first evening, in fact, I was ready to let it go, to give my all to spindle and milkweed, hands or no hands, and let the jacket sink into graceful retirement. With mended mends worn away, and holes everywhere, perhaps the fibers were actually longing to decompose quietly into the earth; perhaps it was time for both of us let go with loss and relief.

Planning to mend didn’t mean I actually had to! I could, after all, watch the sky and the birds and eat pie and twirl my spindle and hang with my beloved companions with great content.

But on Saturday morning in that astonishing sunrise, I found there was life in the old girls yet. Tattered we might be, but the insistent calls from the bag of scraps-and-bits-of-cloth-too-precious-to-discard, were unignorable. Embroidery experiments, fragments of inherited fat quarters, funny shaped sewing scraps and well worn masks hastily-sewn-in-2020-then-rendered-obsolete-as-we-learned-more-about-what-was-and-was-not most-effective-in-filtering-our-breath, were ready for action.

So I opened my mending box with its motley collection of yarn, thread, needles, thimble, and sharp little snips and began to transform fear-fueled stitches and carefully folded pleats into a new kind of protection against cold and decay.

For some reason I feel the need to pause here, and point out (in case it is not obvious), that I am not a tidy mender. Spontaneous, slap-dash and persistent, yes. But meticulous Sashiko or tiny, even stitches— not so much. I do try for semi-invisibility on some garments, at least for a time, but eventually the patches come too fast and my scribbly combination of hand and machine stitching becomes part of the historic beauty and utter lovability of whatever it is. Doing whatever it takes to keep things together and wearable until we reach the era of the compost pile—that is the point.

And really, who wants to break in something new when this perfect pair of pants is practically molded to my butt?

the pants, once almost invisibly mended, are now completely lined with myriad colors so that as the original linen wears away, the cloth beneath will slowly be revealed. The more I wear them, the better they get.

Believe it or not, the studio jacket also had a moment of carefully mended glory when once upon a time I replaced the original malfunctioning snaps with a silk velvet band and a zipper, then dyed the whole thing in indigo. Indeed, for a year or so it looked downright snappy —so satisfying that I wore it constantly, which meant, ahem, that before long the cotton fabric grew thin and it was time for the next phase. I actually tried embroidering across the translucent spots for a while but simply couldn’t keep up and was almost ready to give up, when—

-- I saw an image of a Japanese Boro⁴ jacket and was utterly smitten. Boro had not yet grown into the popular thing it is now in the internet sewing world, so it was a rare find. Transformational too, and that year at the spinners retreat I packed a stash of blue scraps--as now, wearing the jacket I planned to mend. Once home I again dipped it in an indigo vat which gave it a certain harmony, and until this weekend I have not doubted that I could do this stitch and dip dance every few years forever-- an infinite/finite retreat project. And what do I know about the future? Maybe it's possible. Maybe this was the last time.

the paisley embroidery was from I know not how long ago; it actually would’ve been amazing to have stitched this piece into place with the same care. But I didn’t. It’ll make a nice blue/grey with the next dip.

Either way, for now the jacket is refreshed — weightier than ever and still ready to drape across my shoulders as we dump the compost or snip some thyme, to keep me cozy when I wind a warp, or to pose for a slightly smug selfie as I admire the solid state of its sleeves and all the pretty patterns.

In honor of the first anniversary of Dan’s death, I asked a friend to chop my hair its shortest yet. I had no idea how fun it would feel!

Actually, an indigo dunk is probably in order when the weather warms up a bit, but I just noticed that the jacket matches my coffee filter tapestry—and I rather like that. Besides, I’m home again and other ideas are asking for attention. Time for me and Studio Jacket to get back to work.

I wonder what we will do?

1. It turns out that I blogged about this subject in March 2016 ( Weekend Mending), and the jacket was already seriously patched then, so I’m guessing I’ve now been wearing it for at least 20 years. I also wrote about it in Thinking about Cloth (2017), Bonding with Cloth (2017)

2. “passenging” is not a word I can ever find in a dictionary but it makes sense to me: driver/driving; passenger/passenging

3. Here are a couple of links to milkweed posts if you feel like a deeper dive into that process: Milkweed Blows My Mind—Again , Milkweed—What Can I Say (2020). There are actually quite a few more, but I won’t add them here cuz too much, eh? But you can find them by typing “milkweed” into the search bar at afieldguidetoneedlework.com

4. Japanese Boro Garments at Sri Threads