yarn

This is How We Make the Yarn.

| Betsy

Since textiles have been around forever, there are a heck of a lot of ways to produce yarn. And after being lucky enough to have seen wool processed with machines pre-WWII a few years ago, I’ve been fascinated with the different modes of production.

Here are some of the more interesting videos I’ve come across…It’s amazing to me how alien and foreign the big factories are and how unlike craft as I know it to be. With all the tactile, love and creativity that I’ve seen modern day spinners use, it’s almost like watching something from another planet as it churns out skeins in rooms devoid of people.

1. modern day mill, Germany (complete with David Hasselhoff-esque soundtrack!)
2. traditional mode of wool processing in Serbia
3. totally wierd promotional video for silk wool production company in India
4. wool production as was done in early 1900s in Germany
5. making “fancy yarn” with big scary machines

Spinning?

| Betsy

Last week I took a spinning class. Excitedly, I told a few people about it, most of whom thought I was going to go ride bicycles in a little room with a screamy instructor. I paused for a moment when someone asked, ‘do you mean like telling stories?’

Because in a way, learning to spin fiber is a story. It’s a story that extends way beyond us, into our genes, tapping a part of us that may very well have been dormant beforehand.

In telling a story, we ‘spin’ tales with our mouths (or hands in the case of deafness), casting them as loud as our voice will carry. Making sure the plot weaves in and out, with various twists and turns in character development. Sometimes we don’t always know where a story that we are telling us is taken, we just run with it. Then the story takes on a life of its own, allowing the listeners to create a whole new world, eager to hear what’s going to happen and (if you’re good) not just waiting for the end.

The same thing happens when we spin yarn. Currently I’ve changed from a bottom-whirl spindle to a top-whirl spindle and have been reminded how mesmerizing it is to watch a bit of fluff turn into yarn. The joy in the knowledge that this yarn you are creating can be as long as you desire, in the colours and textures you choose. It can be whatever you want it to be.

And I can’t help but get a little giddy in this creation of something new and alive, whether it’s yarn to work with or a story to mull over. They each speak of new possibilities, directions and concepts, which may weave together over time or simply just float by.

Each time I work with fibre or tell tales, I wholeheartedly enjoy the way that something deep in my genetic makeup sparks. It’s a feeling of familiarity, of welcome, and of a happy reunion.

enough.

| Betsy

Today’s officially the worst day of the year. Which got me thinking…

I have a lot of shoes. Especially black ones. Sometimes I look at the floor of my closet and am abhorred at the number of black shoes I own. Some are for work, some are for play, some are for parties and others are just plain lovely.

000_1003.JPG

I also own entirely too much yarn. It’s spilling out of baskets and peeking out of drawers all over my house, like little woodland creatures from a children’s storybook. A tiny bit of pink fluff here, a wisp of bright green there. Of course, I haven’t knitted anything for myself since a still unfinished sweater from 2003. I currently have a list as long as my size 19 needle of knitting projects I need to tackle, bits and bobs for family, friends and charities.

When I first moved into the house I decided to nail some fabric and yarn to the wall. I fear I enjoyed the process entirely too much, and that if I live here very long my house will become covered in 3D textile projects and I will finally turn into that crazy lady I always feared. That crazy lady with all the yarn and shoes, aimlessly wielding a hammer.

000_1004.JPG

With all this accumulation, however, comes conflict. How can I write about issues stemming from ethical living and have so much, well, crap? It doesn’t seem to gel, really, here I am writing about trying to live your life openly and ethically, writing it atop a mountain range of yarn. But I’ve come to think that maybe it’s this internal conflict that makes us human. It allows us to become fully cognizant as to why we are making the choices we are making.

And in becoming aware of our choices, it’s hard to not to feel like we are not enough, that we never do enough, care enough, give enough. Even though this is universal, especially as women, we never feel enough.

I am tired of not feeling good enough because I can’t fully identify as a vegetarian or vegan because fish keeps my serotonin levels up and I work with wool. (Although it is my hope to work one day with wool that is ethically produced.) I feel conflicted when I wear my leather belt that I abhor because it is leather, but adore because it was a gift from my father. I feel like a bad feminist as I try and cover my fledgling wrinkles with foundation. I feel like my convictions aren’t strong enough when I eat dairy at my grandmother’s house because I know how hard it is for her to cook for me seeing that I think she thinks that chicken is not meat. I feel like I’m not punk rock enough because I really like Lionel Richie. (The man is a genius, I tell you!)

I have all these shoes and all this yarn and yet I walk a lot in lieu of driving and make things for others instead of myself. But I still feel like I’m not enough because 100% of my choices aren’t ethical. I sometimes shop at Target, all the toilet paper I buy isn’t recycled, every now and then I’ve been known to squash really terrifying looking spiders when they refuse to be captured and escorted outside. Even though I do a lot by some standards, for my own it will never seem like it’s enough.

Being aware all the time hurts my brain, but not as much as not feeling enough. I feel like my spirit was trampled for years underneath this weight and that it’s freed itself only to get frustrated by seeing how much everyone is struggling, too. At the moment, this is particularly resonant because I see all these glorious things that people have made around me, and I wonder, “why didn’t I think of that?” and “why don’t I have time to make that?” And immediately, I find myself back in the same vicious cycle telling myself I’m not this or that or whatever.

Which is why this time of year turns me into a hermit. I stay indoors and drink tea, watch bad television and make things for people. I read and absorb and try to refuel myself for the new year after the excesses of the last one. Come February, I begin to crawl out from underneath my heap of yarn ready to fight the good fight, cup of coffee in hand, and a pair of black shoes on my feet.

So today, just a little bit of comfort on the Official Worst Day of the Year.

May you always feel enough.