In many ways this has been a week in which pent-up frustrations (previously hidden, at least to myself) become increasingly manifest. And yet it was also a week of steady progress, of good times, and continued new beginnings. Like a puff of smoke, those frustrations were freed, apparently only beholden to my own unwillingness to let them go. For that I can thank the power of the spoken word, of naming problems rather shoving them back into the hidden drawers of my psyche, where they had no choice but to fester.
And yet I must also thank the power of handwork, even slow and at times tedious handwork that was not always meditative. I wound skeins of yarn into balls. I did it manually, by draping the yarn around the chair pictured and cannot pretend that I was always happy with the slow process of winding five skeins, five skeins each containing 580 yards of lace-weight linen. I should have done it weeks ago -- I could have been knitting, but my darker frustrations were too busy nibbling away at my energy. Of course, now that the yarn has been wound, it is possible that I may move into the studio next week, and that ball winder may be unpacked. It is only a month after move-in, after all. But promises have been made before, and the ability to knit, to knit something I am actually eager to wear, is both a gift and a therapeutic balm.
The yarn is Prism's Euroflaxx Laceweight Linen Layers and it will be used to make Laura Bryant's boxy linen tee from the summer Vogue Knitting magazine, pretty much exactly in the color as shown. I don't subscribe to Vogue Knitting anymore, after being a devoted subscriber since they began publishing again in the 1980s. I have enough knitting patterns, and it is rare that enough appeals to me to keep the magazine. Summer sweaters are difficult given that I live in a place that is both hot and humid in the summer and I prefer neither. But I can wear most "summer" sweaters in the winter here, and perhaps this one even in the warmer transitional months of early summer and fall. Perhaps this is all just an indulgence in wishful thinking. Perhaps I need to travel someplace cold and drafty for the winters so I can wrap myself in wool.
The winding itself was slow. I admit to being spoiled. I miss my yarn winder, and in the missing began to fret about all the unpacked things that I miss, almost all of them are tools for handcraft. The missing fed the sense of tedium and frustration, reminding me of the fragility of our perception of the world, that the difference between tedium and mediation is purely state of mind. Once I was willing to let go of my own perceptions of the self-importance of my time, it became evident that this yarn was probably best being hand-wound. The linen tends to grab onto itself; I myself tend to push myself, and inner demon crying "harder" and "faster" -- the combination could have quickly spiraled into a massive tangle. The quickest skein took me a little over an hour, the slowest, most grabby and somewhat tangled skein, took two.
And so it seems that despite my initial petulance, the bitter muttering and grumbling, by the end, the act of winding itself had become something that offered time for quiet and reflection. For all that I say, and do believe, that it is the slow work of our hands, of sustenance and existence, of slow moments with friends that bring meaning, I am also a product of my time. I want instant gratification, easy access, more and more and more. Time and again I have to slow myself and give in to the process itself. Time and again, I must relinquish and be relinquished from the bonds of rushing.
Is in this, the process of living, of doing, of making, that peace is found, in our connection with this place that is actually home, this earth. Perhaps we have fallen too much under the spell of "life is brutish and short" mentality about labor, about the slow physical acts of feeding and clothing ourselves. Joy is in those moments with friends, in the actual labor of our hands, in the making, both of things and connections, not in the consuming. And yes, in this world, consuming isn't just about things, but also about busyness and experiences, about being more and more and more, when what our souls really want is less and even less.
Every day I drive under this crape myrtle, into the construction site that is my backyard. The construction site is filled with busyness, and often ugliness, but also promise. The crape myrtle simply hangs there, and is.
