I Really Want to Come Kick It with You

He stares over my shoulder at his phone while I am curled up on his lap.

He scrolls while I stroke his arm.

I could say,
"I love you"

And he would say,
"But what about me?"

Security

Stability
Safety
Belonging

I'm afraid, all the time. I'm jumpy. I'm alone. I'm scared of all the possibilities. I'm scared of the realities. I'm scared for myself and for mine.

The sense of calm I find here and there comes in brief, lapping waves, that never submerge me.

The sense of peace I seek out is as ephemeral as the seabreeze. As unpredictable and short lived as the spray.

When I think I'm at the shore, my feet are dry.

When I think I'm resting on the warm sand,

I'm in the undertow.

Twist, Grist, and WPI.

There's more to spinning than it would seem.

You can delve feverishly into the intricate nuances of handspinning. The mechanics and measurements. The vocabulary. How to draft, ply, balance, wash, and set it. Dyed vs ecru, fingering vs bulky, roving vs batt vs rolag and so on and so forth.

There is a whole world of interesting textile talk backed by history and tradition blended seamlessly with respectful innovation.

But in the living room, with my feet on the wheel and the roving wrapped gingerly around my forearm like a gauntlet, there is so much more going on.

Spinning is for the senses.

And memory is rooted in senses.

While the modestly prepped llama fiber breathes through my fingers, I watch the twist travel up toward my left hand. I hear the treadles pump, the wheel rotate, the flyer spin. I smell the wool and its wash. Feel the bits of VM flick to the floor.

Part of my mind goes to peace. Smooth, repetitive, artistic motions. In one way precise and monitored, in one way relaxed and accepting of flaws and slubs.

Part goes to the movie on the screen, recognizing that in the gentle motion of the growing bobbin, I am rooted and connected to the space around me and the creatures and people who give me this hobby. To those in the room who watch the graceful cycle with me. To the hum and sounds of the room. Like watching a relative cook on a lazy morning - wordlessly, familiar, with love.

Part of me reflects.

That morning at 6 am in 2012 when I had finished two ounces of karakul, rough, grippy, and smelly. Yarn that felt like straw and must have been strong. Yarn spun in a panic, in denial, in pain. Bent over toward the wheel when I could no longer sit up straight. Crying as I spun yard by yard closer to not being able to ignore it. Yard by yard toward the inevitable. The phone call. The ER. The morphine. The ultrasound. The blood on the ground, on my legs, on the toilet seat, on the gown.

Missing the fiber bar and spin in at the yarn shop.

The bag with the circular needles and handspun that I'll never touch or pick up again.

The two days in fugue.

Thinking about getting back to work. Buying more fiber. Refusing what happened. Too much to process. Just spin. Just feel that peace. Just feel, smell, touch, twist, grist, wpi.

This is my full circle. In the moments that the wheel spins, I am peacefully nodding to those moments and acknowledging that I am still that woman, the wool is still wool, the earth is still the earth. It won't be right. But look at me - I am still.

I still am.

And the wheel spins.

Three Bad Haikus, But

The sound of you
A warm echo
Across my cooling mind
To which I can stumble
When my day exhausts me
More than I have ever conquered it
More than I have ever wanted
You are more
Than I have ever deserved
And I
Am more
Than I have ever been

Moving Is Tough

Moving my fingers, is tough.
Moving my legs, is tough.
Moving my

Things out of a house

I once got excited about

And now I tap my fingers and breathe quickly and rub my hair and feel my throat close

When I turn onto the street

When I pull up to the drive,

Is tough.



Being in this house feels like standing inside the skeleton of a massive, dead beast.  I can see where the heart used to beat.  But it lies, swarming with fruit flies, in the crusted dishes and damaged toys.  I can feel the air that used to push through the rooms like living, pulsating breath, hanging heavily around me.

I feel deeply sad.

Unspeakably sad.

Not guilty.  Not angry.  Not confused or frustrated or lost.

Well, maybe a little lost.

Mostly, I'm dismayed, I'm sad.

I used to survive here.  I used to struggle here.  I made some of my best and some of my worst memories in this old, dead beast.  But maybe it's been dead all along, and we just moved into this carcass, wanting to believe it was salvageable with a little clutter here, a little stain there, a little fighting and screaming over in that area.

The illusion is gone.  The screen is down.  I have a lot of things to pick up off the floor.  A lot of things to push into boxes.  A lot, and I mean a lot, of things to leave behind and slough off like scabs.



Moving my things... is tough.

Moving my legs, is tough.

Moving my fingers

Is tough.