Rosa Parks died today.

On a day I stood on a foreign seafront with my hood up and squinting, as rain pelted me and wind almost knocked me over. I stood and listened and watched as the waves hit the pebbles and roared a giant roar, although a roar that was barely audible over the grey wet weather.

Years ago someone sat on the very same beach with me and paraphrased the Bjork lyrics, “I tip-toe down to the shore, Stand by the ocean, Make it roar at me, And I roar back.” We were talking about our lives one night on those sea-strewn pebbles trying to make sense not only of the world around us, but of ourselves as well. The seaside has always had a restorative power for me, and today was no different. Except I remembered that conversation and wondered what the roar of every creative soul would sound like if bellowed simultaneously, how it would carry all over the world like a hymn or lullaby.

The words here are not for confessional. Although the internet has brought voyeurism to new heights, the issues I mention regarding my own life are not because this is a daily journal, I have other places and papers for that. I mention them more because they are central to how I am processing life, to how I am increasing my own roar at the sea, not out of anger, but out of hope. I am one of those incredibly stubborn individuals who cannot properly understand anything until I have fully comprehended every aspect, just as my fingers are often busy with yarn, my mind is often racing with questions.

I started this site/blog because of a connection I saw between creativity, craft and ethics. I was tired of channeling negative energy into a seemingly vacuous place and energized by the notion that I could put my creativity to good use. And I still am. I’m even happier to have discovered that I am not alone. While the focus has meandered like a country stream, creativity, craft and ethics are still at its heart. When I began, I had little idea that the path I was on wouldn’t change entirely, so I am happy that the core remains unchanged.

I am also not alone in trying to figure out how to weather my own storm, this tumult that seems to have descended among most of the creative souls in my life. As more and more people share with me their own creative journeys, pitfalls and triumphs, I am not only honored and humbled, but also curious. Everywhere I turn everyone seems in a state of flux, but thankfully not of frenzy, and most conversations I have these days are born of creative frustration, thankfully not just my own.

But, what does this have to do with Rosa? Circuitously, it is a reminder of two things:

1) Small actions/choices can do great things.
In making a choice to sit down on the front of the bus, a choice to sit down, quietly, Rosa Parks started something big. Every action is important, especially if born of courage and honesty.

2) We are not alone.
Not in a “there is life out there,” kind of way, but that if you, too, are reading this and frustrated and mad and scared and bursting with ideas and hope, it’s not just you. I’m not sure if maybe it’s some weird generational fluke or just the state of the world today, but it is regrettably all too common.

Rosa Parks has always been a heroine of mine for her way of creating change via a simple thing. Although there are many more whom I admire due to their refusal to react violently or negatively, Parks reminded us every thing we do holds power. Every choice we make, every word we speak, every creation that springs from our own two hands.

I am writing this by the fire in a 16th century farmhouse in rural England, surrounded by an ancient forest and fields of sheep. In a word, it’s glorious. I’m here in England learning to spin and dye wool, as well as weave and felt. The past week has reminded me of the incredible bifurcation between rural and urban craft, as well as how in reclaiming the domestic, we don’t always acknowledge the wisdom of our elders as much as we should. More on that on Monday, when I return from a few days away in London. Last week my webhost decided to change servers, causing weird things to happen. Thankfully it has been mended by someone very smart, someone I can’t thank enough! This entry by Shannon was for last week, but here it is, the 3rd part of her correspondent duties…I also highly suggest reading about what my friend Arthur is doing, as his walk from London to Rome is almost over!

It’s Friday again and there is no tension in my soul. The day is balmy with little wind gusts that tell us a storm is coming. The wooly bear caterpillars are on the move, and the air smells dry and spicy.
Yesterday we went on a short mushroom walk. There were mushrooms everywhere! russulas, clitocybe, shaggy manes, cowboy’s handkerchiefs (earning their name due to their viscid quality), mushrooms whose names I don’t know.
The air smelled like Matsutake, with its cinnamon perfume, but I had no idea of where to look for them. We haven’t found them here before. Instead we found chantrelles.

Opal has the day off of school, Alice is always home, Mark is hanging out at home this morning, and it all feels so peaceful. I don’t feel driven to do anything in particular, just putter along.

As the temperature drops, my mind turns to the woodstove and to wool clothes (I designed my winter skirt a couple of days ago; now I just have to make it out of one of my blankets.)

It’s nice and cozy, but I know it won’t last! The weather is turning and soon the end of October will be here with it’s proximity to Death, and we’ll all have to contemplate that. Who knows, maybe the coming storm will blow this contentment away like so many fallen leaves.

Here are some thoughts I wrote down the other day. I would love to elaborate on this, but I can’t do it while I feel so placid. It is an ongoing conversation I would love to have more of on the internet. Any thoughts on the following?

I am currently reading Women’s Work: Textile Artists of the Bauhaus. by Sigrid Wortmann Weltge. The Bauhaus School and Workshops were looking for “young people who take a joy in artistic creation and once more begin their life’s work by learning a trade.” These are words that speak to me strongly, and state succinctly the hopes I had when our generation “discovered” the joy of craft.

I had hoped that there would be paradigm shift built into the reemergence of the handmade life for a large number of people, and that this shift on the personal level would lead to changes on a societal level. Several years after the NY women started knitting and the media spread this news like wildfire we can ask, has this happened?

slit tapestry created by Gunta Stölzl at the Bauhaus Weaving Workshop, 1926

1. amulets.
For years I wore a bracelet around my wrist given to me on my 16th birthday by a boy who turned out to be a mistake, among other things. It was a Doc Marten shoelace that he tied around my wrist on the day we met. I wore it everywhere I went for entirely too long, after he repeatedly hurt me and was reckless and floated in and out of my life. The sap in me wore it because it reminded me of someone and at that point in time, I needed to be reminded that there was someone there, even if I hated him and his self-destructive streak that seeped into my life. Even if it was a weird platonic cacophony of random run-ins that always ended in me getting hurt in some manner or other. It was a false talisman that I embraced because of the angst we all seemingly go through in our late teens.

Eventually I got rid of it and even now, almost a decade later, I look down expecting the bracelet to be there and sometimes take a second to really feel the breeze hit the skin on my wrist that I so long kept from view. While it still took years for me to become whole again, there’s something about my right wrist feeling the air that at times stops me cold. Instead of the rush of air chiding me, it never fails to imbue me with strength of where I’ve been and where I’m going.

So it is all the more powerful now when someone chooses to give something that they have handcrafted out of care or love or kindness or joy or respect. Instead of holding me down, these new delicate amulets radiate strength and happiness and courage along my path. Quietly, they continue to shine a light on my life, empowering me to continue on. Such is the power of handmade items. They contain a buoyancy that nothing storebought can ever touch.

Today I sat in a clinic waiting room with my mother, and we talked about the lucky items she had on as she waited for the doctor to call her back for another test. She had a sparkle in her eye, separate from the look of fear that has been in her eyes for days now, as she spoke of the amulets she carried with her into the doctor’s office, unsure of what the future will hold.

And it reminded me undoubtedly of all the talismans I’ve carried in my life, and how it has always been the handmade ones that have given me strength and courage. And how unlike store-procured pieces of faith, the items that have been passed along to me by their makers have never led me astray. True, maybe it has something to do with my own making, but I trust in the notion that things that are forged by a person instead of a machine will always hold a bit of the maker inside them. And by continuing to pass along handcrafted items, we not only ensure our own perpetuity, but we also remind those in our lives how they have touched our souls.

2. blurry.
Due to another move, I’ve been gleaning again. Going through all of my old belongings and figuring out what to chuck, what to donate, what to keep and what to mull over for a bit longer. One of the biggest themes in my life is holism. In my refusal to obtain a job where my ideals are conflicted, I have repeatedly skipped from job to job, like a skipping stone trying to figure out where to land. The result of this search being a long continuum of adventures as well as failures and deadends.

As a kid I never quite knew what I wanted to be when I grew up. The only thing I was sure of was that I wanted to be happy. That was the only thing that mattered. Ironically, I spent the majority of my teens and 20s ridiculously unhappy, and made myself even more miserable by being unable to make wise decisions. Sometimes I wonder what my life would be like if being rich was the only thing that mattered. Would I still be constantly weighing my options and following my heart?

But instead of money, I deal with ideas and thoughts- which due to their abstract nature sometimes have me longing for concrete, but not too often. Our world has come to the point where ideas are devalued instead of seen as an important part of society. We have become so micro-managed that whenever we have a second to ourselves we feel guilty and wondering if perhaps there was some errand that needed running or email that needed sending.

Due to the fact that I have bills to pay and ideas to peddle, I find myself constantly at war and a bit blurred between the lines. I couldn’t help but find a recent self-portrait apt as for once my hair was perfectly in place, but the picture itself was blurred. I seem to be entrenched in doing this back-and-forth dance between what I loathe and what I love, wondering which one is wiser.

Lately this new footwork has become crystal clear at work as time seems to slip away once I start talking to someone about books or thoughts or essays or genres. When the talk turns to money, I am jolted back into reality- or atleast the notion that such conversations regarding Burroughs or Benjamin or Dostoevsky for more than a minute are frivolous and time-wasting. After a moment of engaging in thoughtful conversation about new ideas with someone whose eyes are lighting up with interest, it’s back to cash and credit.

As I get closer and closer to leaving for England (4 days!), I can’t help but wonder about this schism. I wonder if I will spend my entire life juggling two sides of reality (one spent working a job I hate in order to do the work I love), never quite managing to reach the holism that I so very much long to achieve.

If you happen to see this magazine cover on your local newsstand, please do take a look. Because inside its glossy pages, you will find the first-ever magazine interview with me! I am particularly proud to be in the “Guts” issue of Pistil because, the publication is one after my own heart- tackling fashion and activism!

Now that I’m done tooting my own horn (!!), here’s a little update on my crafter documentary project, which has been slowed down due to my own computer incompetence…but each time I steal a peek at all the awesome submissions that my fellow artists, crafters and makers have sent me, I’m fuelled anew. I am honored that so many of you chose to help me in this little project depicting ‘the new face of craft.’

While I’m calling the actual collection (once I get all the pictures and text online) “The New Face of Craft,” I actually see craft as part of a long continuum rather than a slate that keeps getting erased and remarked. Part of what drove me to craft in the first place was the idea that by participating in crafts I was continuing a tradition that extends long beyond anyone currently here on earth.

Thankfully, I’m more adept with textiles and words than I am with computers, which tend to frustrate me because they are so forward-thinking! (Although Sadie Plant might disagree with me…which reminds me I need to reread Zeros + Ones!) I like the notion that I can create something new and old simultaneously within one individual action…it just makes more sense to me to bridge two dimensions instead of always trying to re-invent the wheel. And I’m overjoyed that I’m not alone in this.

Seeing that I head to England in a mere six days, I have a lot to do this week, but that’s all part of the fun of things, isn’t it? Keeping busy?! For once, I won’t have to pack all a half suitcase of wool to take with me, as I will be learning how to spin it…and will subsequently have to figure out how to dye it all hot pink!

Second in a 4-part series from Shannon, who continues to inspire me to have faith in the creation of my own path!

How ironic. I was up late into the night, needing to write this piece about chasing the exotic, but instead I spent the time reading about (and shopping for) foreign scents that would transport me away from the mundanities….
When I finally stepped away from the computer screen and went outside, I walked right into a night so richly scented with fog, fall, and some spicy floral, that I had to laugh. Shopping for the exotic indeed!

So, yes, I want to write about creating bridges between the Exotic and the Familiar.

When I was younger, I had a fantasy of being a travel agent of sorts. It went like this: I would have a little storefront, with a doorway so tiny you would miss it if you didn’t know what you were looking for. If you were destined to find your way in, you would find that the space was much larger than it seemed from outside, and full of artifacts, from all over the world, from every era. I would be sitting in there somewhere, in a comfortable chair, knitting or reading, waiting for you to come and tell me your story and look into my eyes.

I would then direct you to just the piece you needed to take you where you wanted to go– a old woolen paisley shawl to wrap around you in front of a peat fire, a pair of cool tortoise-shell sunglasses to shade your eyes from the glare of pale stone in the hot hot sun, a collection of battered matchbox cars to drive you right back to empty suburban lots of childhood summer.
I didn’t turn out to be that travel agent (although one could argue that I attempt to open horizons through writing and craft), but I am still hungry for fresh perspectives, new tastes, different light qualities. One way to see things through new eyes is to travel, of course. I have done the tiniest bit of traveling, and enjoyed myself and learned a lot, but it is not something I can afford to do often.

Besides, I find myself a bit frustrated at the concept that we have to go away from our locales to expand our perspectives. This is exacerbated by what I perceive as people’s need to have the Exotic packaged and presented to them in a safe way. It irritates me that we approach experience as consumers.

We have to find some way to travel while standing still.

(at the international folk festival in Prague, May 2005)

That which is Exotic is the opposite of that which is Familiar. When something seems exotic it speaks of our relationship to that thing; we are standing a little apart from it, observing it. This creates an edge between ourselves and the observed, and I think that new ideas and even increase come out of the edge spaces. (If you look at edges from a Permacultural angle, you see that there is a greater diversity of species in the place where two ecosystems meet then in either of the ecosytems by themselves.)

It is possible to stay on that edge and keep experiencing the familiar as Exotic, but that experience comes at a price. That price is this: we may cease to be comfortable in our own skin. The Familiar is, for that moment, alien, and there is the temptation to long for that space and time when we fit in.

Nostalgia is an extremely counter-productive force in my life, addictive even, and I have had to work on finding ways to loosening its grip on my creative energy. One way that works for me is to strive to become comfortable outside of my native surroundings, at ease in the space between. Homeless perhaps but for my ability to tell the stories of my life, the stories that I at home within.