And Now for Something Completely Different

Here is a recent bit of work from my "metal as a fiber" venture. This is ultra fine gauge fine silver. Like so many of my creative pursuits, my jewellery work began (last year) with the inability to find exactly what I wanted, followed by the fateful thought "I bet I could do that," and shortly thereafter, "what would happen if...". It has been great fun, and an enormously valuable learning experience parlaying a creative pursuit into a business venture.
I finally got going on a sock yesterday - my first try at the Harlot's swatch and go recipe. I'm very excited by the notion of finally understanding how to make a sock that fits My foot. I have made a couple of pairs in the past, and they were just OK . I have very slender ankles - apparently more slender than what typically goes with a size 9 foot, because sock patterns invariably slouch on me, and I hate that with a passion.

Is it wrong that I find the self-patterning yarn so terribly entertaining? I'm suffering a bit of yardage anxiety - the ball band has a little picture of two socks, confirming the webstore's assertion that there is indeed enough to make two socks, but it doesn't say how long or how large. I'm trying to tell myself that these are prototypes - after this, I will know forever and always how much yardage it takes to make socks for Me. Besides, it's a readily available commercial sock yarn, so it can't be that difficult to order another ball if I do run out. Nevertheless, I hate the out of control feeling of not Knowing For Sure.

I Knew This Would Lead to a Life of Crime

said my husband this morning, pointing me to this story. Is it possible even knitters could have a dark side? Perhaps the proliferation of expensive luxury yarns has created new levels of addictiveness comparable to the tobacco industry's ramped up nicotine levels, or super potent crack cocaine. Lured in by a simple ball of wool or even acrylic, fiber lust takes root and rapidly outstrips one's ability to pay. I suspect that there was likely some psychopathology going on in this particular story, although the bit about the husband calling the yarn store to come and get it struck me as funny - I wonder how many spouses have looked at their loved one's stash and thought "that's insane - s/he couldn't possibly have bought all that??" Food for thought when sneaking fiber into the house.

The story did make me think about the virtues of knitting: connectedness to the past and the natural world, creativity, patience, generosity of spirit, slowing down - I think of knitting as analogous to the "slow food" movement - "slow garments" - as opposed to instant gratification. What a pity if consumer culture were to overshadow these things, making knitting and its accoutrements just one more commodity to acquire. I wonder if theft of yarn on such a scale is symptomatic, if the humble act of creating beauty from simple materials is being lost to industry fueled consumer envy.

Paradoxically, knit blogging appears to both feed and mitigate this consumerism. I had no idea I needed hand painted luxury sock yarn before entering the blog world. On the other hand, there is a great deal of generosity in the sharing of patterns and techniques, as well as an encouraging number of small "cottage industry" fiber producers and designers. Hopefully the organic (or at least eco-friendly) fiber and textile movement will gather momentum here as well.

Interestingly, I discovered this story just as I was pondering with some trepidation our impending drop in income, and wondering what I would do if I someday ran out of yarn. Or more accurately, ran out of the kind of yarn I have come to believe I need. I don't believe that love of beauty is unhealthy (quite the contrary), but I think a little introspection regarding what leads me to believe I need certain products may be in order.

Recycled

As I have mentioned before, we are soon (less than 2 1/2 months now) moving to the incomparably beautiful town of Whistler, BC. We are also moving to a place with one less bedroom and less than half our present square footage, consequently I am taking the opportunity (like I have a choice) of severely culling our belongings. While compiling a stack of overly worn t-shirts, I had a brainwave. This was inspired, in part, by a number of blogs I've been reading dedicated to recycled and otherwise eco-friendly fashion. So, in characteristic impulsive style, I grabbed a pair of scissors and a nearby circular, flopped down among the heaps of sorted objects and produced this:

Even better, this photo was taken after subjecting the swatch to heavy machine washing and drying, and there is no discernable fraying. The swatch is fantastically elastic in all directions. I envision a very form fitting sweater, with a bit of fashion forward detailing. It's my aim to produce something that one might find in a funky boutique (as opposed to the "I hacked up stuff and made a craft at summer camp" look.) I'm thinking I may have to bleach and overdye the shirts to achieve a semi-cohesive color theme, since one t-shirt will make an inch or two (at most) of knitting around the body. I'm also compelled to ask myself whether this represents a virtuous investment in the planet, or just a more sophisticated variation of the packrat personality trait I'm trying so hard to shed. Well, the point is moot - the compulsion to create is in full force now, and skeins of dismantled t-shirts will be joining the stash.

Speaking of impulsively started projects, my DD's summer top is coming along. The fancy edge is complete, and now it's just knit, knit, knit to the armholes.

Dulaan 1 Finished

It's a lovely, sunny holiday Monday, and time to regale the kids with my favorite Victoria Day long weekend song : "The Pits" by Buddy Wasisname and the Other Fellers. I did, in fact, go gravel pit camping once during my two years in Newfoundland and Labrador, although not on the May long weekend and not exactly by choice. I was in Cornerbrook for the summer of 1991, doing the Obstetrics portion of my residency, and decided on a whim to drive north to the tip of the province and have a look around for the weekend. (Funny, it's been a lot of years since I did an 8+ hour drive on the spur of the moment.) Fortuitously, I arrived at L'Anse Aux Meadows just as the Gaia was sailing into harbor at the end of her historic Atlantic crossing. She was a sight to behold (as were the host of icebergs lining the shore) and I had the wonderful experience of being able to go on board and look around. After touring the Viking settlement at L'Anse Aux Meadows, I thought I would look for a campground to stay the night. The gas gauge was reading close to empty, and this was when I discovered, to my horror and amazement, that ATM technology had not yet reached that part of the province. Being Sunday, the banks were closed, and I did not own a credit card (having decided that I was already far enough in debt with student loans.) After a hasty bit of scrabbling through my wallet and between the seat cushions of my little pickup, I came up with enough loose change to buy just enough gas to get home. (And I do mean "just" - the last bit of the trip was exciting, and not in a good way.) Having no money for lodging, I found a nice little gravel pit by the side of the highway, and slept in my truck. That was my first and last foray into that particular provincial pasttime.

On to the sweater. My DH read yesterday's post and professed complete amnesia with regard to his alleged input on the cuffs. (He also presented a somewhat convoluted rationale of why this did not, in fact, constitute yet another failure to listen to me.) It turns out that, having spent several years sealing himself into an immersion suit against the likelihood of ditching in the North Pacific, he is of the firm opinion that snug cuffs in inclement weather are a Good Thing. So I redid the cuffs, and I have to say, he was right.

Simmering

The long weekend thus far has been rather cold and windy (I would love to say "unseasonably", but this is Saskatchewan, after all) so I took the opportunity to focus on a bit of thick wool knitting.

Now I'm in a quandry. The cuffs are really rather looser than ideal (DH thinks they look fine, but what does he know - Mr. Not A Sweater Kind of Guy.) Since I have a wee bit of a personal inclination toward letting perfectionism get in the way of finishing anything, I need to let this simmer for a day or two before frogging and redoing the cuffs. In any case, this has been an excellent learning experience in children's sweater design. I think in the next iteration of the Swatch Sweater, I will make the sleeve wider at the armhole and start tapering toward the cuff sooner. I will also make the neck opening bigger, thus allowing more of a collar, and consider using the stabilize and snip method for cutting out the front neckline, thus eliminating all flat knitting. "The Opinionated Knitter" recently arrived on my doorstep, and in my first quick scan I believe I saw EZ discuss that very notion. I'm also toying with an idea of my own for giving the shoulders a slightly fitted slope without ever sacrificing circularity.

While the cuff business simmers, I couldn't resist another quick cast on:

I know, I should be finishing one of my UFO's, but I've been dying to get on with trying one of the edgings from Nicky Epstein's books - the second one arrived Friday, and I haven't even knit any of the edgings from the first book I got last year. (Actually, that's not true, I knitted one of the ruffles in enamelled copper, but that's another story.) Also Lewiscraft is going out of business, and a couple balls of "machine wash and dryable" pink cotton for next to nothing jumped into my arms as I wandered by. This is another "don't want to have to plan ahead too much" kid design. It's going to be a funky little summer T-shirt for my DD. The plan is to knit the sawtooth edge until it goes around her "about right" and then pick up along the top edge and knit upwards in a circle to the armpits. At that point I have a general notion about short sleeves joined on in circular raglan fashion - I'll figure out the details when I get there.

The photo also illustrates my latest lace knitting brainwave - that is, to type the pattern into Word in BIG print and highlight the bits that are different each row in a different color. I think (hope) this will help me get the rhythm of the pattern more quickly, as well as preserving my eyesight and sanity.

Sexy Little Knits arrived in the mailbox today. I can honestly agree with the word "little", and there is definitely some knitting in it. When I ordered it, I harbored delusions that it might be along the lines of White Lies Designs. It is decidedly Not. The write-up at Amazon mentioned that she had "celebrity clients" - not normally something I take into account, but VK has of late been mentioning celebrities who knit - ie. Sarah Jessica Parker, Courtney Thorne Smith, so I thought perhaps there would be some classy, fashion forward, shapely (my definition of sexy) designs. Turns out, according to the book jacket, that her celebrity fan club in fact consists of Brittany Spears, Christina Aguilera, and the Hilton sisters. I could have used this information back when I had my credit card out.

Angora, if you were wondering. I'm trying to tell myself that I could learn some terribly useful shaping techniques from the pattern. Just as long as I don't have to actually make it. I quote "..doesn't a soft, fluffy camisole and panty set sound ten times more intriguing to knit than a winter sweater?"







For the record, the caption says "Faux suede is super sexy." I like to think I learn something with every new knitting book.










No. And I actually have long skinny legs - but.... No.










And you thought that 1/2 skein of yarn leftover wasn't enough for a garment.

I particularly like the "not for use in water" disclaimer on many of the bathing suits.







In spite of that extended display of cattiness, I am not in fact, going to return the book. (Postage back to Amazon would make it not worthwhile for one.) It does actually have a couple of cute mesh tops that would be OK over a camisole, and - hey - perhaps my DH will be inspired to take up the needles when he finally retires from blowing up stuff.

What I'm Looking For

It was gloriously sunny and hot today, with just a hint of a breeze to carry the delicious scents of spring across the fertile fields. Running into the wide blue sky scribbled with soaring contrails, a driving beat blaring in the ipod, I felt, for that moment, strong and optimistic and happy.

The truth is, right now I deeply envy my husband his profession. To leap straight into the sky with all that speed and power at the command of your fingertips, to blow stuff up - loudly, decisively and to unmistakable effect - well, it has a certain appeal.

What have I done for the last decade and a half? I've been Nice. Day after day, I've practiced Active Listening and Infinite Patience. I have educated, encouraged, pleaded, cajoled and begged patients to eat real food, quit smoking, exercise, ditch the jerk and generally DO something - anything - positive for themselves. And when they came back visit after visit to complain about how they still didn't feel good and their lives sucked and they hadn't taken even the most elementary step we'd talked about - I would patiently educate, trouble-shoot and encourage all over again. With very few exceptions, it was in one ear and out the other. I totted it up once - thousands upon thousands of hours of my life spent earnestly saying stuff that nobody listened to. It's enough to make a girl feel ineffectual.

As far as Good Listening and Empathy go - lets just say I still believe on some level in that lighting candles vice cursing the darkness business - but the darkness doesn't look any less dark then when I started, all the candles I lit seem to have gone out in a hurry, and I'm just about out of matches.

So what's a liberal peace-loving, gay-friendly, feminist, tolerant, breast feeding, kind and sensitive girl to do with all that righteous fury boiling a hole in my gut? Not this, apparently.

"But", to quote a song that brings me to tears every time with its way too close to the bone truth, "I still haven't found what I'm looking for."

Short and Sweet

As always on Mondays and Wednesdays, my marathon office days, this will be brief. Yesterday, while continuing the daunting process of sorting and decluttering in preparation for our upcoming move, I ran across this:

It's one of my very first garment designs - I believe I must have been 6 or 7 at the time, and decided my teddy needed a vest. (Actually, I still have the teddy - one of only two childhood toys I have kept for myself. She is in a rather delicate state, having undergone considerable love over the years, so she lives in the Christmas trunk and sits under the tree every year.)

Bags and Sleeves

First, an update on the progress of the Dulaan sweater. I picked up the front loops of the first column of steek stitches, which makes the steek flaps fold back nice and neatly against the body of the sweater. I am inordinately pleased with how easily this is coming together, despite being my first attempt at steeking. Assuming I have not called down calamity upon my head with that uncharacteristic display of hubris, I think I might try writing out and posting the pattern once I've finished. (Not that I have many readers, being new to blogging, but if I can work out how to put the link in the sidebar, someone may eventually find it useful). It lends itself well to using up leftover yarn or experimenting with two color patterns; in essence, it could be a sort of large swatch to play with. The two stranded format is a particularly good choice for the Dulaan project because of the warmth factor; I also expect it would be more wind resistant than a single strand bulky knit of comparable thickness because of the layers created by the inside strands. (Having been marooned on the prairies for six years now, I am painfully aware of the effects of a howling wind at -30 C).

Now, the bags. I've been looking for a knitting bag that would hold a small project (socks, or a baby sweater, or a little lace scarf), have pockets for the scissors and other bits, sling comfortably and unobtrusively over the shoulder while chasing the kids or going for long walks, and be dirt, water and weather resistant enough to drag around anywhere (pubs, playgrounds, mountain tops) while keeping its contents safe and pristine. Also, be inexpensive enough that I could have more than one and still afford to buy yarn to put in it. Drum roll...... my favorite gear store....... Mountain Equipment Co-op had the answer. These were $15 each, exactly the right size with a long adjustable shoulder strap and loads of useful pockets. MEC products are always top quality, I have the satisfaction of knowing that the materials and labor were responsibly sourced, and it's a Canadian company. (No I don't work for them, I've just spend the equivalent of
the GNP of a small country there on backcountry camping / hiking / running gear over the years.)

Guinevere Knits

The lovely and talented Guinevere, the Irish wolfhound.

Perhaps feeling a little intimidated by the virtuosity of her hero, the inimitable Gromit.

Mother's Day

Today was a lovely Mother's Day. Mimosas in the tub, with a little treat from LUSH to perfume the air and soften the skin, while the DH cooked brunch.

Despite the "help," it turned out spectacularly: Eggs Benedict with lox and Hollandaise sauce - made by the Man himself, from scratch - smooth and creamy and perfect. No, you can't have him.

No Mother's Day post would be complete without a tribute to my own mother, although I won't encroach on her privacy with pictures. It was she who taught me to sew, as early in life as I can remember. She invited a friend over to teach us both crochet when I was six, and encouraged me as I taught myself to knit a few years later. Most importantly though, she taught me not to be afraid to try anything that caught my eye. She instilled in me the notion that there was nothing I couldn't make if I just took my time, read the instructions and worked at it patiently. And if there were no instructions, or we couldn't afford to buy a pattern? That just meant some careful measuring and a bit of figuring, that was all. Although she delegated the task of math teacher to my father during the early home schooled years, it was she who taught me the "can do" approach to problem solving that resulted in my aptitude for algebra. Her seemingly inexhastible stash cupboard always yielded up just the right bit of fabric or yarn for my projects, and though money was tight, she was unfailingly generous with materials.

Arthritis prevents her from doing much needlework any more, but as always, she has adapted and moved on - painting now. I hope with all my heart that I can pass on her legacy to my own children.

Steek Snipping

I unearthed my baby from the studio this afternoon. My mother bought this little Elna Lotus in Switzerland in 1966, a year before I was born. I learned to sew around the time I learned to walk, and its velvety hum was part of many of the happiest hours of my childhood. To my utter astonishment, she bequeathed it to me when I left home. I couldn't imagine how she could ever part with it, but unconditional love is a powerful thing. It has never failed me, never fussed, jammed or broken a thread, and runs as smoothly as the day it joined our family - truthfully, I have never met a quieter machine. It has sewn drapes, doll clothes, quilts, graduation dresses - and now, steeks.

Stabilized, snipped, and the shoulders grafted:

My daughter demonstrates, to my relief, that the neck is appropriately sized. I'm thinking it shouldn't be any smaller, though - perhaps this would be a good opportunity to try a simple rolled edge.

Blue Heaven

I am in love. (Yes, with that guy too, but this is different.) I was, until today, a Fleece Artist virgin - an admiring onlooker, but not yet consumed with the heady lust of hand dyed wool. Then Yarn Forward had their 25% off sale and praise be, it was not excluded from the sale items... and I dipped my toe in the ocean.

I wonder, did the mailman have even an inkling of the glory contained in that plain brown box? Did it perhaps make him tingle inexplicably, flush just a little as he held it?

But how to use such a treasure? Only 250 gms (125 yds). Observing the outcomes of others' hand dyed projects, I believe it will likely be happiest in a very plain scarf, as close to the the natal glory of the simple skein as possible. Perhaps a funky / loopy edging on either end à la Nicky Epstein. The universe will reveal in good time whether there is enough for a hat.

Paying Attention

Early this week, after a few deep cleansing breaths, I ventured into the territory of lace and discovered, at last, an antidote to monkey mind.

For as much as I like to sanctify my knitting habit as a form of meditation, the truth is that I have achieved sufficient technical proficiency to permit me, in most cases, to Not Pay Attention. I knit serenely in the rocker by the sunny window and contemplate: what's for dinner, what on earth could be causing Mrs. B's elevated potassium, and whether the odd whirring noise in the next room indicates irrevocable harm being inflicted on the CD Rom by my three year old. All perfectly valid avenues of intellectual inquiry, but missing the point of mindfulness.

After ripping back to the beginning four times over, two wonderful things happened: I sorted out the mystery of chart reading, and I began to Pay Attention. Thankfully, the Jaegerspun Zephyr retained its essential being and remained unfuzzy.

In lace knitting, the consequences of monkey mind are concrete and irrefutable - none of this "gently and uncritically draw your awareness back to the breath" business. While I make an effort to be gentle with the ripping, I simply can't be uncritical of the crooked set of eyelets five rows back. So I Pay Attention. To every stitch.

How many shawls to enlightenment?

Wild Rover

And it's no, nay, never......

Dumpster Diving

And it came to pass that the Dulaan sweater reached the top of the shoulders and, wishing to postpone the task of unearthing my long disused sewing machine in order to stabilize the steeks, I turned my gaze elsewhere. And it became apparent that somewhere in the long mists of the last ten days, the current Vogue Knitting had passed out of all thought or knowledge. Things were forgotten that ought not to have been forgotten, and though I searched high and low, yet it eluded me.

Then the Man arose, and said "I tell you, the giant stack of paper recycling which thou hast been sorting these many days resides yet in the big blue dumpster by the garage." And being consumed with my need for the patterns to two half-finished sweaters, I did venture into its depths. As I pawed through the murk, my inner eye became aware of a strange flashing behind me, and turning, I beheld with dismay that the Man stood with camera aloft and a strange smile - nay, a leer - of triumph on his visage.

"Man," I said, "doubtless thou art fond of thy sword and would desire future occasion to unsheath it. I have, therefore, a proposition. Ere thou return tomorrow from thy labours in the sky, thou shalt venture - in uniform - to the Drugmart of Shoppers and purchase a replacement copy of that which I seek. For such is the doom of Men."

Sitting

Falling down and falling down,
pebble in the azure sea.
Weightless as the sum of being,
falling to the end of seeing,
lucent blue lucidity.

Good Enough?

The Dulaan sweater is almost ready for neckline shaping. You can see one of the steeks in all its glory on the left side of the picture.

Now the dilemma. I can only presume that it was a stray electron jumping the wrong synapse in my brain, because I decided, two rows ago, to start a new pattern off the top of my head. By halfway through the second row, it suddenly became blindingly clear that this was not going to be the pattern I thought it was, and I would have needed a 6 stitch repeat, not the 5 I had established. Still, if I press on, I may have serendipitously invented a thing of beauty. Or not. I hate ripping two color knitting (OK truthfully I hate ripping), and you can't exactly tug on the Lopi either.

But what if it's Not Perfect? My logical brain points out that this is for an orphan trying to keep warm while living on the street - this sweater will not likely be judged on the finer aesthetics of two color knitting. But my inner child, the one who had to attend an affluent school clothed in the hideous cast-offs that were "good enough for poor people" has a hard time giving away anything substandard.

It is also entirely possible that I am WAY over thinking this, and will miss the deadline for submitting it at all if I don't press on.

Womanly

With all the spring fervor percolating lately, Madrigaia (Viva Voce) has found its way back into the CD rotation. This is an incredibly talented seven woman vocal / percussion group from Winnipeg. What I love about them is the voluptuous, raw womanly energy that permeates their songs - the very antithesis of insipid, male-created girly pop.

The album never fails to remind me of a pivotal experience in my sense of what it means to be a woman. It was a bridal shower, given by a patient of mine in honor of her eldest daughter. She was Syrian, a single mother and devout Muslim who had taken her children and fled for her life from a bad marriage. The majority of the guests were women who had immigrated from Pakistan, India, and other Aisian and Middle Eastern countries. These were not women with easy lives - many were my patients, and I had spent a great deal of time observing and working through the pain and isolation of cultural restrictions magnified by language barriers. Many had non-specific chronic pain conditions that I believe were their only viable means of expressing distress.

In that hall though, filled only with women, they seemed lighter - embracing, laughing - Sikh, Muslim, Hindu - there were no barriers. We shared a wonderful feast... and then the dancing began. I suppose it would properly be termed belly dancing, but it was not about costumes - it was spontaneous, unselfconscious, joyful, and thoroughly, vocally, loud. I was drawn into a sense of strength and community that I had never before experienced. My constricted, "escape oppression through achievement" idea of feminism had never entertained the possibility that being "womanly" could be anything but a state of socially imposed deficiency. I felt at once ashamed for having underestimated them, and tremendously privileged to be included in such a sisterhood. I began to see myself and the women I cared for with new eyes, and to celebrate things womanly. I began to see the tremendous creative power in childbirth, and the curvaceous beauty of milk filled breasts nourishing a child.

Innocence

Today was the best sort of running day - warm, sunny, lightly breezy, and best of all, fragrant with spring. Through the fields where the warm earth cushions my feet, down to the creek bottom where pairs of geese glide serenely to and fro between ecstatic choirs of frogs. My favorite, though, is the green of the barely-new leaves, a miracle of painfully intense purity like new love and baby skin. It lasts only a few glorious days, before settling into multihued maturity, sobered by dust and insects and the tasks of bearing fruit. And like mature love and growing children, the foliage will be beautiful in a different way, but always there is that tiny pang of loss.

Junior Knits by Debbie Bliss arrived yesterday (along with one or two or.... um three others - did I mention I'm on a bit of a book buying bender?)

Perhaps ill advisedly, I elected to give my children some say in what I make for them next. "I want the purple one" said my daughter. "I want the blue one" said my son. End of story. "What about the darling Guernsey hoodie that I've been dying to knit for years?" "But it's white." "I can knit it in purple." "But I want the purple one." And so on. There's nothing wrong with the sweaters they chose, I was just hoping they'd explore their options, perhaps opt for something a little more challenging for me. Well, here they are.