While no one could really figure out what exactly my uncle’s invention is from this picture, we all sat around the table in mutual agreement that it was amazing. We passed it around my grandmother’s kitchen table, each adding new quizzical looks to the conversation where we tried to decipher what looked like a windmill on top of antlers…

My grandmother’s side of the family is full of inventors, artists and mad scientists. Being somewhat kooky was just a fact of life, creativity was embraced. I have no idea what happened- except that somehow the excessive quirkiness of my generation isn’t as celebrated, just seen as, well, weird.

The phrase I hear most often from my family is, “You’re going to do what?” Lately I have been brought to tears of laughter trying to explain why I am packing it all in and moving to a sheep farm in southern England in 2 weeks. Because my family has embraced this next move, instead of blocking my path, which is what I thought would happen when I divulged my next move.

Their questions come from a place of love and happiness instead of disdain and annoyance- something I had never prepared for as I rehearsed the lines I was going to share with my grandfather, a U.S. Army Colonel whose story about watching someone’s foot fall off a guerney in Vietnam terrified me as a child. He’s a lovely lovely man, just a much more practical and realistic person than myself.

So, I took a deep breath and said, “I’m going to spend the next two months writing and researching traditional textile methods.” The response was predictable, “Who’s going to pay you?” As was my answer, “No one. I’ll be just getting room and board.” What wasn’t expected was the immediate response of, “You’re going live on a farm? With sheep? And no money? That sounds really interesting.” And he was serious.

I was so terrified that this next chapter of my life would seem so ludicrous and off the map that I would be bombarded with queries about 401ks and insurance and the future and why I was single. I hadn’t even envisioned the notion that he, too, would agree that this is something that I need to do, steady paycheck or not.

Lately the saying, “leap and the net will appear” has been my mantra. Who knows if the net will cradle my footsteps, I just know it’s time to take that first step. It’s time to remember that sometimes, like in old photographs, life isn’t always clear from the first glance.

Yesterday I had the pleasure of going through a century and a half of family photographs, some of which had seen much better days. I was given the ones that had textile or otherwise crafty significance, including one of my Aunt Edith knitting in 1953 and my Aunt Corinne standing by a spinning wheel while on vacation in Holland in 1930.

Both of these photos are currently refusing to cooperate with my scanner, so I bring you the photo I like to call “cake, turkey or more cake?” It’s the fruits of my great grandmother’s home economics class labor sometime around the beginning of the 20th century. One assumes that they hopefully learned how to cook more things in the kitchen besides dessert and fowl, but I digress.

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Yesterday afternoon was a true gem, sitting in my grandmother’s bedroom bathed in rays of sunlight from the window uncovering dusty history spanning generations. Reading inscriptions on the back of photographs, tearing up over old love letters, holding war artefacts, swooning over the elaborate wardrobes of time past.

It was one of those magical days that transports you back in time without your consent, taking you on a journey through eyes and ears that resemble yours. Along with the crafty photographs, I was especially drawn to the myriad pictures of my relatives houses, old handcrafted houses in the heart of Boston and the backwoods of Massachusetts. It reminded me again and again of why my work so frequently reaches into the past- because all of our current trends are little but recycling history with a little bit of foresight added in for good measure?

There is little denying the soothing quality aspect to craft that allows us to constantly straddle the past and the future. With one foot firmly planted in each dimension, we are properly armed for the trials of the present, whatever it may bring. Each time I pick up my knitting needles, I am comforted in the fact that these little sticks passed on through history have been held by strong, creative, working hands all tailoring the exact same movements to each person’s personality.

By using the same techniques to exert our personalities, we allow ourselves to honor all three- crafts past, present and future. The trick is becoming aware of all the history you are holding in your hands as you create something new from something very old.

And speaking of something new, two websites dear to my heart have been brought to my attention, Threads of Compassion (a site collecting scarves for victims of abuse) and Stitchlinks (a site about the therapeutic benefits of knitting). As both sites are dedicated to issues very personal to me, if you have a minute, they might be worth a look.

Today I welcome in a new Craftivism correspondent for the next 4 Fridays! Hurrah! Graciously agreeing to write some on living life fiercely, independently, creatively and full of love is Shannon from Five Gallon Bucket, who I am thanking my lucky stars I’ve been introduced to as she is amazing! And in case you’re wondering about the picture below, Shannon noted it “was the only that came out of the garden. Passionflower vine taking over my trailer porch.” Thank you Shannon!

Today I am thinking about art, craft, and home economy. I was talking to a friend about the folk artists who create amazing works of art in their spare time, often in the moments between other tasks or the few hours after work and on weekends. The people who paint small pictures all over the outside of their homes. The people who assemble mosaics out of broken toys and used up pens and sacks of concrete brought home from work. The people who build gigantic sculptures with driftwood and garbage on the mudflats outside of the City. The people who transform the contents of their rag bags into quilts that bring color to into a difficult world. This art is not just art or craft or personal hobby, it goes way beyond that. It is a gift to everyone who stumbles across it. It is consumable but it is never used up. It is priceless and it is entirely free.

Much has been made of the unpaid nature of what is traditionally known as women’s work. When we consider the value of this work, it is usually from the perspective of how much the labor is worth. What I wonder is how much it is worth when it is full of spirit. If I live an artful life, should not the value of my achievements be comparable to the value of artworks that we see for sale in galleries, rather than simply paying me the equivalent of what a laborer would earn?

The truth is, I find that my craft combines with activism much more readily when I am not going to ask a price for the finished project. Activism is largely Intention and if my intention is to make money from what passes through my hands, than I find my creations to be less likely to be paradigm-shifting in their nature. Somehow, the commercialization of my produce robs some of the essence from it, and it just doesn’t sit well with me. I want everything I make to be magical!

Today was a really productive day here at my house. I unschool my oldest daughter, Alice, who is 12. She is of the age that kids used to be when they would leave home and go out to learn a trade. It is only recently that she made that shift and she has become much more receptive to learning skills and understanding Big Picture concepts in a rational way. It is a very exciting time to be her teacher! Together, we made a batch of pickles, worked on some erosion control in the barnyard, discussed the connections between anarchy, veganism, and the personal politics of power while we collectively cooked a meal and cleaned the kitchen. Then while she read and did her own stuff, I worked on a special project I am making for a swap, did some darning, hauled manure for the kale beds and did a passel of other gardening in the rain. It was lovely time spent.

I just try to live my life as if it were a piece of folk art, designed by my heart and hands, and hopefully humble. Every day brings a new discovery, usually more than one; every day I attempt to create something that will feed my spirit, and hopefully the spirits of the people I live with. I know I am not even close to doing it well, but that knowledge doesn’t stop me from trying!

Lately I’ve particularly peeved by upselling. I honestly cannot think of any one thing that elucidates the American shopping experience any better. Along with having everything branded (Welcome to GE Bowl! This film brought to you Coke! Toilet paper donated by Charmin!)* everywhere we go, it is assumed that we are no longer able to purchase the right size drink/muffin/latte. We need assistance.

If I had wanted the larger size I would have asked for it, it really doesn’t matter if it saves me $.03 if I mega-size. I have weighed my options, and I’d like what I ordered and not be pestered for my zip code or phone number and if I would like to join your email list, I’ll go online and sign up.

Each time I buy something and get upsold, it’s like capitalism is smacking me on the head reminding me *why* I often feel infantilized when I step out of the mall. In the name of customer service, I no longer have to open doors, grab for my own basket or worry about having more than 1 item per bag. I probably could send my neighbors dog into the store with a note and a $5 bill on his tag, therefore allowing me to use my time more wisely and catch up on Tetris on my phone.

One of the most refreshing things about buying indie is that I am treated like a customer with a brain *and* adult decision making skills. Ladies like Dayna and Linda and Susan don’t ask me if I want matching earrings with my necklace. In fact, they may even add an extra pair of earrings or a few cool stickers just because they are greatful for my business. Shocker! Because they are happy you are choosing to not spend your hard-earned cash under creepy fluorescent lights and on tile floors (And watch out! the floors that have been mopped in the past 48 hours will have a sign noting this so you don’t fall and sue. Sadly, there is no sign to warn you of the sign that’s warning you, so be careful!).

Don’t get me wrong, I love this country and I sure as hell love to shop. But what I don’t love is going to store and being asked a billion times if I want to save 20% on all my purchases today or told when I reach for my coffee, “Now this is hot.” I just want to shop in peace and be allowed to well, shop.

Remember when you used to buy batteries at Radio Shack at everyone thought it was weird that they asked for your phone number? I pine for those days when such actions were the anomaly. But those Radio Shack guys were onto something my friend, if they could have found a way to trademark that idea they would be richer than the Google guys.

Thankfully, there is a way to drown out the advertisement of the future, the selling of modernity. By exercising your choice in which shops/boutiques you patronize and purchasing products from buy and sell online sites like Shoppok, you are making a bit of headway against being upsold. While sometimes I feel awfully curmudgeony when I complain about such aspects of modern times, I remember all my friends and neighbors who are creating and making so many amazing products and pieces of art/craft and fighting against the dumbing down of America and know that there is a better way forward that being asked if I want fries with that.

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There is a new Friday correspondent starting either tomorrow or next week, so keep your eyes peeled! I’m already excited!

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All the talk of the farm has been confirmed today- I head back to the UK to start some ethnographic field research (ie, living on a farm and learning traditional textile techniques) October 16 – December 13th. I still can’t believe the dates have been confirmed, and I just keep reminding myself of the power of the Zen saying, “leap and the net will appear.”

*Yes, I’m making these up. Although if Tampax makes special-themed Post-Its for the next breast cancer walk or something, I’d be the first to sign up.

Yesterday I made the mistake of allowing myself once again to be devoured by a novel. In fact, I got so into it that I couldn’t get started with anything else until I finished it an hour ago. Reading like that makes me feel really incredibly super-indulgent and lazy. Guilty, even, as I know I have other things I need to do.

Getting sucked into a book only happens to me like that maybe once or twice a year, where I *have* to finish it. It’s like a crush. An all consuming obsession that leaves you constantly wondering ‘what’s going to happen?’ along with ‘where is the author taking this story?’ Thus was the case with Zadie Smith’s newest work, On Beauty.

I read White Teeth voraciously, too, in 2000. I started The Autograph Man, but never could quite give myself to it, even though I tried a second time after I saw her read at a bookstore one afternoon. Everytime I picked it up, Smith’s horrible rendition of a Southern American accent that day in the bookshop left me cold and reaching for the next book on the shelf.

But the transatlanticism of On Beauty gripped me as it went between Boston and London, two cities I unabashedly adore, as the story winded itself around the dangers of academia and the fire of the culture wars and ideosyncracies of being human.

Having spent a good portion of my adult life either studying or working in various universities and popping back and forth over the Atlantic, this book resonated. It reminded me of how insular and frail the walls of our universities really are once you step out of their hallowed gates. How if you’re not careful, you could very well find yourself a tenured professor with no idea how to use a stapler.

Equally frail are the walls between the liberal and conservative cultures, even though we often construct them tall and looming like prison fences. We’re all so stuck in our respective camps and digging our heels in, so incredibly unwilling to concede to the other side that continually we get nowhere- whether it’s academia vs ‘the real world’ or Republican vs Democrat or Tory vs Labour.

Somewhere in our quest to be cultured and refined we have forgotten the delicate intracacies that define being human. I am reminded of this when I talk to someone about my ideas on craft theory and the moment I mention the word “academic” their eyes glaze over. Or when I talk to someone academic and fail to use the right vocabulary words for the season. Or when I talk to an artist about craft or a crafter about art. It’s like our quest for individuality has done little except left us preaching to our own little choirs instead of being challenged or debating.

On Beauty reminded me just how much we create fiction in our own lives by clever self-definition. The fact that I can be whomever I want to be is both a blessing and a curse. And what is excessably irritating to me is how we got to this point in the first place. As I read stories from individuals regarding their disdain for elitism or hierarchy in current craft circles, I see little forward group action to combat it. I see many people who feel the same way but feel somewhat powerless to outwardly voice their opinion and a bit reticent to challenge their own creative output to something besides ‘what’s in for the out crowd,’ ie, what’s hip at the moment.

And the more I think about it the more annoyed that I get and wish I hadn’t finished On Beauty yet and was still somewhere deep in the novel thinking about the protective seal that we put around academia that is alienating- despite the perverse fact that what most academics want more than anything is public approval.

But somehow, like we manage to cockup everything, we have also managed to hyperpreserve higher education in a will to obtain the cream of the crop. We have become so compartmentalized and specialized that there is little left for the world at large. What happens when you would like to transcend the barriers between? As Smith touches in the novel, it’s not always the chosen ones who burn the brightest.

Somedays I fear that in my own elitism, I miss out on the work and input of some of the most glorious stars, because of my own self-crafted bubble, constructed on little else except books, yarn and hope.