Feelin’ the love
Summer’s flying by…..amidst the business of summer, there is productivity; the whir of the spinning wheel, the rhythm of the beat of the loom…miles of yarn spun, and yards of fabric wove. and piles of cukes and tomatoes and melons and fragrant herbs and buckets of blackberries to can. I love the cadence of summer…simply trying to keep up with abundant inspiration all around.
But today i am feeling the love…the love of crafting in a way that inspires others…. I recently had a visitor at the studio. a lovely intern from a neighboring farm…she blogged about her visit. Lovely.
I also recently received a mysterious letter in the mail. I opened it, and found an intriguing poem, written just for me by a lovely lady who purchased handspun yarn from me at last winter’s Holiday Faire at the Schoolhouse. The yarn i spun, had inspired the words, and also a scarf which she lovingly knit for her husband. This is the gift of craft….to make yarn that inspires someone else’s creative muse. What a blessing. here’s the poem:
A skein of yarn;handspun and hand-dyed.
As I cast it onto my needles it cast me
out into some world beyond the scarf i begin
and the blue and green collide like some kind of
magical map she spun into existence.
nights before the fire
the magma mixing with the oceans,
now the caribbean,
now the seas around fiji
now the crystal blues of the Artic
now the waters swirling around coral reefs
colors deepening as the seas sweep away from shore
periwinkle turning into cerulean
and now a touch of ochre for the dry hills
and the desert and the tumbleweed in the Eurasian plains
and now the seas green of the Aegean transmuting into
the dark green of the pine forest punctuated
with the brown shaggy bark of the redwoods
along the coast leading me out
and onto the moors their gorse of green moss
after a long rain and now a splash of vermillion
the hummingbird’s throat vibrating in my hands
and now cerulean celadon chartruese live agate aqua
the Amazon river weaving its way the the rows
the world she spun slipping now between my fingers
each knit or purl wrapped inside the other and then turned
around the one before it awaiting the next as the needles click
as her spindle whirs
mama spider spinning the world
the colors she painted drying by the woodstove
wound and bound together with pieces of string.
these are the colors of the planet
seen from reaches of space
these are the colors of the earth
seen from cabin windows and bridges
these are the colors of the land
as I walk between the trees
and stop to dip my fingers
into the stream.
—Laura Pendell, for Rowen White.