It is all that is left, the sad and puny remainder--yet still appreciated and cherished. I've been reading with interest Lolly's adventure in weaving and her trip to learn with classes and the rich environment at The Manning's.
Among those things over my shoulder, one of the names I used to describe myself by was 'weaver'. When you have not used a skill and have none of the necessary accoutrements any more, do you lose the moniker? Or once you have soaked in a skill does the muscle memory alone allow you to keep that descriptor? I'm pretty sure I could still warp a loom and know that I'd fall into the seductive rhythm of weaving very quickly.
I miss it. It's one of those things that I could reach back into time and snatch back---- pulling it forward to reside with me now, ahhhhhhhh my floor loom. It was a tall pale birch loom with 8 heddles waiting to receive the firm strands of yarn that would make up the warp of the fabric.
This is the only project left. Nothing at all fancy, or even my best work by a long shot. The other runners, scarves, cushion covers, mats and even early bookmarks have somehow drifted away leaving me with my only memory.
It's a patchwork of sorts, a sampler of pattern and different weft yarn that has been stitched together. Beautiful perhaps only in my eyes because I remember.
Almost all of the weft (filler) yarn in this project came from my spinning wheel. The gray was a natural gray fleece (from a type of sheep I've long forgotten) and the natural yarn and the bits that were naturally dyed were (I think) from a sweet Corriedale. I remember cleaning and scouring that cream colored fleece for what seemed like ever, it was not one of the nicest fleece I'd seen. When it was nice and dry, carded and made into an army of neat little rolags, the fibers were so soft and fluffy!
This (to me) sweet little snippet of handwoven patchwork is glorious. It serves as both a reminder of the days when my loom lived with me and among my skill set I was a weaver and a spinner. The 9 patch currently resides on a table top, a little mat that makes me smile. I'll have to move it by the time the seasons bring the sun to the front of the house with enough strength to fade the yarn, but for now I see it often and enjoy it when I sit in the loveseat there in the nook to read.
It's unlikely that I will purchase another loom, I may never spin again (with my own wheel). But at the risk of sounding like one of those old ladies who spend their time recalling former days of glory-- I do remember.
The rain fell yesterday, long hours of driving rain, sometimes pelting the area with sideways sheets of wetness. The planned walk to the polling place was replaced with a drive and my trip to take my Bernina to the shop was slower than normal. Unhappily, I discovered a bad leak had developed in the roof, water was pouring into the 2nd floor bath from the ceiling and shortly after from the outside wall, under the leak. Ack. I only wish that insurance would cover this, but I don't think so. Living in a 100 year old home always has something going on but I'm really not thrilled about this latest development. As a matter of fact, I'm wishing that the housing market was better because I'm pretty sure that I'd happily take off for a condo with no maintenance and no yardwork---- and definitely no space for a floor loom!
For the first time in a VERY long time, since I can remember actually, there was no nothin' last night. No knitting, no quilting, no sewing, no reading, not a single activity. Nada. Because of the writer's strike there wasn't anything viewable on tv, I watch Idol but am not rabid about it----- I just sat.
Maybe it was the doughnuts and the associated guilt. Could be I'm tired of the cold and gray and rain. Maybe I'm beyond depressed about the roof leak. Nothing a session on the treadmill, a good day at the studio and a bit of work on a project won't fix.