Triple time

When I count I automatically group the numbers in clusters of four – counting four steps and then another four in the staircase, four stitches in a pattern repeat, groups of four breaths in the cold bath. Also, usually four treadles at a time on the spinning wheel, as if I were spinning in common time. This yarn, though, wanted to be spun in triple time, a waltzing yarn.

I spin in triple time, treadling each wooly part through dancing hands
Trip-le-time, trip-le-time,
trailing wool, back and forth
One-two-three, four-five-six, gather twist,
seven-eight-nine, make the draw, arm's length back,
thirteen-fourteen-fifteen, yarn slides through
gather twist four-five-six.
fibers live, open up the twist,
finding space in the yarn, yield to the twist,
four-five-six, make the draw,
back and forth, leaning in to gather, back to draw the yarn, floating the twist, live in the fibers, between my hands, leaning forth again.
Once sweet locks of Icelandic wool
pulled apart,
overcoat left, sparkling of charge
undercoat right, hair on end like the morning after
orderly piles, one for each
tease by hand
arched fibers stretched, layer by layer
Welcome air!
to breathe, to puff, and gently let go.
A handful of wool
offered to the card
softly-softly brush,
one-two-three
transfer wool
four-five-six,
shape the roll
promising loft
carding a waltz.
Trip-le-time, trip-le-time,
swaying and dawning a promise of yarn
seven-eight-nine, pulse of the twist eager to rush through
How can't I see it, that dazzle of fibers?
ready to catch the yarn,
make the yarn,
strengthen, soften
to the tune of the waltz.
Trip-le-time, trip-le-time
swaying the waltz,
softly.
Gently.
Fiber and yarn, that sweet spot between,
free to glide,
free to twist,
stay in the space, conform to its shape
Once there, inviting the twist back in
to seal, to protect the strength,
to surrender to the yarn.
A woman spinning from a rolag on a spinning wheel. A basket of carded wool in the background.
Bildtext
Four-five-six
make the draft,
shooting the fibers into its power,
still somewhat fiber, still somewhat yarn,
in limbo,
suspended between airy and dense,
between soft and strong. 
Hands in conversation through the yarn,
the bubbling
of the fire
in the point of twist engagement,
a point that is no point,
but a context of in-betweenness,
neither rolag nor yarn,
yet both, and still none,
open and close,
until my hands feel the spot to settle in, allow the twist back,
to seal, to confirm, to conform
in a newborn yarn, 
to land quietly, gently on the bobbin,
strand next to strand,
an arm's length from the rolag they were once part of,
yet a lifetime away,
a new shape, a new purpose.
Reading my words
makes me see
that I write
in clusters of three,
to the beat
and the sway
of a
tri-ple-time waltz.
A woman spinning from a rolag on a spinning wheel. A basket of carded wool in the background.
Still somewhat fiber, still somewhat yarn.
Trip-le-time, trip-le-time,
the dance in the yarn
in my hands
in my mind,
in my words and my soul.
The echo of three
as the yarn moves through me,
rippling the sway through my sizzling skin,
leaving a smile in my face and a song in my heart.

Buonanotte fiorellino was the waltz that breathed through my mind as I spun the yarn and wrote this piece (you can see a waltzy spinning reel on my instagram. What is your favourite spinning beat?

Happy spinning!


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