on waking

Such mornings are these- a long slow blur from eyes opening to take in blue sky, a breeze lifting the curtain and soothing the face. And drift back, curled into my partner again, a warm tangle of legs.

The breeze blows me out of bed and in the bathroom, the water I splash on my face is heading under the city to the lake.

I tumble outside to spray water from the mountainside on my garden. Strawberries, endive, cilantro, they are surrounded by wild mint, yarrow, vetch.

As the day pulls me downtown, I pass striped cats in frame-less windows and walls of drooping hydrangea.

A stranger says hello and a funeral procession travels in scattered bursts out of town. At a coffee shop, I am letting the day and I catch up to each other, a long slow blur of blue sky.



creating space for new adventures

_MG_9801 Please believe me when I say that a huge weight has been lifted from my shoulders. Or rather that I put down that weight and am walking away. Please don't be sad because I wasn't having fun anymore.

There is something about a process so tedious, and so much work, that takes the fun out of creating. Like I'm so busy scrubbing and steaming and rinsing and ironing that there's not a whole lot of room for creativity anymore.

I want to be able to spontaneously sketch and scribble and twist wires and beads together without feeling like I am wasting my time and ignoring the real work art that needs to be done. I want these dabblings to be my art.

Part of me knew it all along, but I stubbornly continued headlong towards the foggy notion of a successful craftsperson, of sustained craft in my life, under my roof. I gathered supplies earnestly, gleefully hoarding all manner of dyes and squeegees and fabric scraps, and I built a functional studio of it all. Functional, but not functioning. My studio has been hauled on many moves, and it seems like I leave a little more in boxes every time.

I'm ready for my loom and printing table, buckets and dyes, screens and rolls of fabric to stop looming in the corner of my eye making me feel guilty for not having the time and energy to plod away at them.

So, where does this leave us? I am selling my studio equipment to good homes. I do still have a lot of printed fabric in (ugh) various stages of completion. When it is ready and finally done, I'll sell it or give it away as gifts. As for this blog, I imagine it'll follow me on to new adventures. I'm excited to see where creating so much space will lead. And I'll always be creating.



the month that flew

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April was the month that flew by. At some point the shade began to feel deliciously cool, though I remember shivering in the sun when the month began. O we had sun, we had snow, we had rain, sleet and hail, and April she changed her mind often. Green has come to us here now, and it is so welcome.

Somehow, with the long bright evenings, I have been pulled back to the studio. I had forgotten how quick it is to hem a few tea towels.


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This spring has brought lilacs on every corner, and slightly spicy apple blossoms. I've rediscovered nail polish (eco water based), which sounds silly, but turns out to be one of those occasional small pleasures. I'm enjoying windows opened wide to the green maple canopy and iced coffee in the afternoons.

We're having a cool reprieve now (in the days since I began this post), and last night I watched the sky flash with lightening and drifted off to heavy pattering rain.

I have new macro tubes... trying to get some details of my fabric out to the world. Cheers!

An old garden shed

_MG_7034 Several weeks ago, I walked home in the daylight. Reluctant to leave the mild fresh air, I decided to explore the yard. We moved in December, and several feet of snow has kept us from taking advantage of the half-wild slope below our house, and the ramshackle shed that perches there. The snow is receding now, and I trotted down to poke my nose into the little building. It smells like skunks live there under the patchy floorboards, and mice too, judging by the droppings. An old lawnmower sprawls out from piles of junk left by other tenants, occupying most of the standing room. Despite this, or maybe in some ways because of it, the whole place had the feeling of a rough hewn treasure. In essence, it would make a good fort. A secret shelter apart from the quotodien house, where I could stand dreamily at the old potting bench, tending seedling onions and gazing at the lake through wobbly glass. When it warms up some, I'll clean it out and claim my territory, so long as the skunks don't mind my visits.

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Oh February

_MG_6950 I can feel the return of the light. The sun arcs higher in the sky, and races in windows, spreading across rooms like a blanket thinner than air, sweet and clean and joyful. It slides in golden pools all afternoon, enticing us all to rush forth into it. But the light is cold; you can barely feel its touch on your skin. It's still too far away to be more than a bright vision in the afternoon. In a glorious distraction of gold and rose on the mountaintops, the light slips away. We are left to wander home in the dark, with wind prickling ears and fingers. The windows of houses at night are like warm chasms spilling light to their edges.

There is such yearning, hoping, reaching at this time of year. Such impatient anticipation of the unknown, a terrified hunger for the year to come, at once wide open and clutching tight. A sense of vast potential anchored by cold nights and icy sidewalks. Buds are knobbling naked branches, but still holding everything inside for longer days.

Emptiness is at odds with collected clutter and vying for my thoughts. Each year at this time, I question urgently the distance between doing what I love and this working, treading water. With the season also come urges to start fresh with a small suitcase and a clear mind in a new city. Some years, I let go of everything that I knew and that held me back, and move. Other times, I do my best to stay put and let restlessness pass through me. Spring is like a strong wind, demanding change. It cracks open resistance and scatters it, leveling out ruts and encouraging new pathways.

Oh February, all ice and cold and fragile hope. Once this wild, reckless beauty has blown all over and woken all of us indoors and underground to stirring, then comes the calm of mild days and little flowers cupping the early warmth.