What’s it for?

How many times have you been asked that question, ”What’s it for?”. To me, it’s for love, for flow, for the connection between hands and mind, for the memory of the process.

A little ball of blue yarn, packed with adventures and so many tales to tell. It could never know what the world had in store for it. I am grateful for its gifts, for its stories and for the memories still vibrating in my hands.

Norwegian rains

It all started with white fleece from a Norwegian sheep. Long staples, showered with the misty mountain rains, lanolin pushed out to the tips. I picked it out among a flock of fleeces on a woolly journey many years ago.

The tips a while later – solidified and gunky. Fighting me, tangling, not allowing the combs through. I go for the flicker, gently open, break the solid grease and release, fibers fanning out into the air like branches in the autumn winds. Combing has turned into a creamy dream. Gone is the fighting, the struggle against the elements, here are only smooth fibers gliding gently into the dance of the combs. A bird’s nest of gentle shine and soft evenness, like a silken salon for the sweetest baby birds.

Drafting a dream

I spin and dance, hands in the wool, a dialogue back and forth. The fibers whisper to me, guide me through the draft. Hands softly mumbling, guided by the wool, listening to it, hearing its every whisper. Roll the thumb here, allow more fiber in there, stop, breathe and wait for the twist to settle. Let the fibers flow, glide past each other, keeping the rhythm, the smoothness, the ongoing process in my hands, the settling of the fibers into sweet yarn of mine.

Weaving with the trees

I weave a dream with a tree, the both of us tensing the warp, the movement of the up and down, talking to the tree, my partner in warp. Gently pulling away to tense, coming closer, inviting the slack, moving gently with the tree to allow the weft through the shed, the batten to beat, the cloth to take shape, grow and mature. Woven in the sweet shadow below the century-old linden tree, under its sprouting sticky light-green leaves in the pale May sun, brown leaves still covering the ground, the sky blue between diamond holes in the lace canopy.

Stitch by stitch I shape a bag, purposely planned, nothing wasted, nothing overflow. Just a strap and a body of sweet blue. A blue I always long for and against all expectations get just right this time. Kindly framing the natural sheepy white, soft and gently shining. A couple of stitches to assemble it all, roses in the belly, a pocket for heddles and sticks for other weaves, other trees.

I can’t leave the yarn, I can’t leave the weave. I need more and I keep weaving. Even slower now, a pick-up pattern, a camera strap for Dan who so generously shoots my crafting, the bag, the sheep and the wool. A camera guard in gratitude for his eye for beauty, light and angle, his art in my craft. White hearts winding down the strap of blue, pitch black rya to frame, thin bands to hold it together.

What’s it for?

My hands are cold on the keyboard, says Dan. I knit him a pair of mitts, tiny blue dots embraced by gentle grey. The blue ball is back, warming, embracing his hands. What are they for? they ask. Well for dancing across the keyboard as he types his brackets, darts and commands to turn the world around underneath his fingers.

Little band, little, band, I need to braid you. Darts and arrows, blue on white, white on blue, winding down the band. What is it for? they ask. Well the band is only the reminder of the process that goes through my mind as I braid, over two under one, left to right, right to left, keep moving the strands across until the band reveals its pattern, keep moving the process in my mind.

Hands warmed by tea

Just a couple of balls left now, still usable though. A white for a seaweed hat, a blue for another, a bubbly sideways stripe.

Smaller and smaller, a short strand for reading the sweetest words, a kind reminder of where I finished the last sentence, hidden between the pages, keeping the words in order when I am not there to inhale their beauty. What’s it for? they ask. Well, for words to enter my heart and soul, for inspiration to flow and for hands to be warmed by tea.

A ball of yarn is all that is left, a little blue ball, reminding me of its adventures through the Norwegian mountains, the rains, the flooded ballerina skirt wool before it landed in the twist into the yarn into the weave of my heart. What is it for? they ask. Well for love, for beauty and for the vibrating memory of a process, of creating the sweetest little blue ball of yarn.

Inspiration

My friend Anna sent me this essay by Barbara Kingsolver that may be some of the most beautiful words I have read. It inspired this post, together with a skin thinning meditation by Beth Kempton.

Projects mentioned:

• The wool journey where I bought the fleece from my wool friend Kia.
• Flicking the solidified tips to ease the combing.
• The weaving of the weaving bag
• A camera strap for Dan
• Half mitts for cold hands
• Hats
• Little braided band

Happy spinning!

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