Getting a Sample of my Mojo Back

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This past weekend was the DFW Fiber Fest. I’ve been on the board of this annual event for three years now; it’s a LOT of work, but it’s also a really great reminder of the fantastic fiber arts community, and the power of getting together to do creative things with string. We hire both local and national instructors, and we draw over sixty vendors from the region and across the country.

I had gotten cotton yarn a few months ago to weave a sampler, but just hadn’t ever gotten around to it. I finally sat down and warped the loom on Friday during the event, and sat and wove, and talked to people about weaving, and showed people how the weaving worked, until I finally finished it on Saturday. It was good to visit with everybody, and it was satisfying and pleasing to weave again.

I normally don’t title “pieces” of my weaving, unless there’s something going into a show that needs a title. A sampler, in particular, wouldn’t get a title – by its very nature, a sampler is a process piece, a test, a recapitulation of technique and pattern. But I decided that because of the unique situation, and the fact that it’s more of a way of brushing off my weaving skills, than a set of pattern sketches, this piece deserves a title. I’m calling it, “Fuck That B.S.” Because it’s bullshit to let somebody stomp on your joy, and it’s bullshit to doubt your worth because of petty things people say, and I just don’t need that kind of bullshit in my life any more.

Used to do

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I woke up this morning with sad thoughts… thinking about when to go from “I do these cool things,” to “I used to do these cool things.” My feet hurt so I can’t dance. I haven’t woven anything in years; there has been a single project since 2013, and that one was like sleepwalking. I haven’t made soap, drawn anything noteworthy, sewn a costume, made silk. I’m wondering if I’ll raise silkworms this year, or if that will go into the pile of things I used to do. I contemplate tearing out the roses and passionflowers, and letting the yard go back to grass, or just letting it grow up like a jungle.

I know that some of this is a natural result of getting older, but I feel like I’m tottering around in two rooms of a mansion, with many rooms locked up and the once-beautiful furniture under sheets.

The embroidery project that I did last year gave me a burst of energy, and I’m hoping that I can jump-start the creative engine somehow… but it’s becoming, more and more, the creative life of somebody I used to be.