On Spindling...

Every once in a great while, I will pull out my spindle. The reasons for doing so usually have to do with the mood I'm in, the fiber I am spinning, or the state of my spinning wheel. Right now, my wheel is still loaded up with the grey corriedale fleece that I had processed from two years ago. (Got that? Two YEARS ago. I'm kinda....TIRED of it!)

So, when I picked up two gorgeous balls of swirled alpaca roving from Wooly Knob Fiber Mill, at the Michigan Fiber Festival, it was destined to be spun on my spindle for two reasons. Firstly, there's the problem of my wheel being occupied with grey corriedale. Secondly, I wanted to spin it extra-fine, which always is easier on the spindle, at least for me.

The roving is a beautiful swirl of green, blue and black, and it spins up into a lovely forest-marl.

My spindles aren't fancy at all. I don't feel the compulsion toward owning a mitt-full of fancy ones, nor do I feel unfulfilled without a fan-tabulous Golding spindle. I own two very simple Ashford spindles; one for spinning, and one for plying. Total cost for them both was probably only $25, but it hardly matters. What matters is the simplicity of using them; the connection to centuries of spinning this way, before wheels existed, before anyone knew of any other way to create a simple thread. Of course, in some parts of the world, the spindle is still the only way to spin, although we know "better" here in the Western world.

But in my case, is it really "better"? My wheel, as much as I love it, has only one ratio. It's a 5:1 wheel, which means that fine, thin yarns are a labor of love to create. On the spindle, this same fine, thin yarn is much thinner, and much finer, and much higher quality. Is it as fast as the wheel? Of course not! But that's only because I am no prize-spinner! Watch someone from the Andes spindle-spin, and you will see how fast and beautiful it can be. It's like watching poetry, really.

I try not to think of how my arms ache when I spin on the spindle. I wonder how people through the ages spun so easily, quickly, and perfectly for hours and hours. I think of how every single thread of every piece of cloth was spun this way, and here I complain of my arm and shoulder aching after a short while! Perhaps it is just the western mind; always wanting things to be easier, quicker, and without effort. We no longer have the primitive society around us where there is no other way of doing the spinning task at hand. In our world, spinning yarn really isn't even a task any longer, unless we want it to be.

So, the grey corriedale will have to wait a bit longer to get finished. I'm almost through this 4-ounce ball of alpaca roving, and I have another to go. On the wheel, it would've already long been spun up. But it would not have been spun as fine. It would not have as much character, and I would not be as intimately familiar with every strand of fiber. Drafting out each short length, I enjoy releasing my fingers to let the twist enter the loose strands. Like a little flurry of energy, the alpaca fibers swirl around the air and mesh together. I marvel at the way the twist becomes the "glue" that holds everything together. Such a simple thing, but so magical!

The whole process is a practice of patience, concentration, and timing, and yet it remains all the while absolutely relaxing. First, there is the slight pulling of the yarn to release some of the twist into the drafting zone. Next comes the first, gentle roll of the spindle against my thigh; not too much spin here, as there still isn't enough yarn made to hold onto. Draft and pull out with the new twist created, carefully holding the new yarn; catch the spindle again and roll it hard against my thigh. Higher and higher my arms go, keeping up with the twist, carefully pulling out the fiber as thin as I want it to be. Must keep watch on the spindle and make sure it doesn't stop spinning! Before I know it, a long length of fine, thin alpaca yarn is pulled out, and the spindle is nearly to the floor. Evening out the last bit of yarn I can reach to create, my right hand grabs up the spindle again, and the new yarn gets wrapped on the spindle shaft.

Before too long, the spindle begins to get too heavy with yarn; the fiber drafts unevenly, and PLUNK! My spindle drops to the floor. The yarn, broken now, has to be pieced together again, which is no problem. It's only fiber, and twist will mesh it and "glue" it again. Magic!

Over and over again, these same movements, same artful port de bras of my arms, like a dance of elegance that creates something. No wonder spindle-spinning still remains with us. No matter the fancy wheels we have, the machines, the industrial equipment. Without the spindle, we simply cannot dance in quite the same way with our fiber. The spindle is the dance, and the fiber is it's partner. A perfect match.

Summer!

Yes, summer is on it's way out, and here I am just now writing about it! You all know me. I'm a slow blogger. One of these fine days I will write with some sort of regularity. (Dream on, suckers!)

My summer began in....Barcelona! Yes, I went to Spain with my George, my sweet professor, and it was the best week of my life. I did tell him so; he said that was "cool!", and of course, his ambiguity amazes me. No matter; I had an incredible time, and I wish I could do it all over again. The Mediterranean sea was magical for me. Just to touch those waters where so much history has happened, so much myth and magic; it was nothing short of a dream come true for me. I thought of the legends of Mary Magdalene drifting across those waters to the shores of the south of France, just over the mountains from where I lay on the beach.


My favorite place in the city was the Barcelona Cathedral. I was able to see it twice; once during a walking tour we took, and again on my own, while George was working. I've never seen anything so beautiful! It was so peaceful and serene, and of course, I thought of all the history there, and tried to imagine the people through the centuries who had visited there. I thought of the intent of the clergy to astound people with the power of God through this amazing architecture.

The beaches were amazing, of course:

And they were also topless! George said he fully intended on "going topless"...what a goof! But I did...and it was a very liberating thing. In Europe, these things just aren't a big deal. Why we Americans have to be so uptight is beyond me. George and I took a dip after our bike tour:

Now that we are home, I find myself going back to Barcelona in my mind. I loved the city, the food, and everything about it. I don't think I could live there, but I could most certainly enjoy living in Europe. I have George to thank for showing me so many new things in my life, and Europe is a gift I never thought I would ever see...

Kitchener is a Bitchener...

Well, happily I knitted along on my sock. And the inevitable loomed in front of it all: KITCHENER stitch. So named after the smart-ass British general who decided that his soldiers needed a smoother finish on the toes of their socks. Well, excuse me, but it wasn't him knitting those socks. Thanks for the "great idea" dude.

I just can't do it. Period. At least tonight I can't do it. Children coming down into the room and throwing stupid questions and petty arguments at me didn't help a bit. After reading numerous tutorials on how to do this technique, not one of them missed the important point of not being interrupted while attempting! So, with that in mind, I decided to wait until the kids were in bed. Because if I don't, they're going to die.

The first tutorial I used had the yarn coming off the wrong end compared to where mine was located. That made things quite confusing. I also was using one of those tapestry needles with the bend in the end. Whose idea was this? Every single time I've used these needles, it's been annoying! I don't know what that bend is good for, other then to aim in the opposite direction than where I am headed. Stupid.

So now I'm chugging a Minute Maid Lite Lemonade, waiting for the kids to go "poof" into the night. Then I'll attempt this bitchener Kitchener stitch again. Don't worry, my attitude will be stellar. Promise.

On Knitting Socks

Yes, I am finally knitting socks. It's been said that any knitter worth her salt simply must be able to knit socks. I am not sure if I agree, but hey, they will say anything to drive you to do something before which you'd normally have to smoke a joint to get the gumption to do!

I tried to knit socks over a year ago, and ended up casting on a total of three times, getting the stitches twisted on my DPN's every single time. I gave up. Of course, I should mention that I was sitting in a smelly Blazer in the middle of winter, trying like anything not to inhale as much exhaust as I knew I was. But that's beside the point.

I put that ball of sock yarn away, thinking that "another time will be better". Since then, I've taken a gander at sock patterns here and there, got the concept of sock shaping down in my brain, and still didn't think enough of it to pull that ball of sock yarn out again and give it another go. I don't know what prompted me to do so this time, but I had success!

Knitting a sock is a whole lot like building a house, I've decided. Shaping as you go, decreasing, short rows, changes in stich patterns for different areas of the sock; well, it all makes me feel very intelligent. When I turned my first heel and saw the little pocket it made, I was floored that I had done such a cool thing.

The teeny tiny size 1 needles should have put me off, at least a little. But I was actually excited. They feel delicate in my hands. This tiny yarn, when knit with these tiny needles, is actually dense and lush. There will be no other sock quite like this one...with the exception of the second sock, which in a perfect world should match it, in some way, shape, or form (but I'm not holding my breath).

So, I've come to see the vast appeal of sock knitting. I am understanding the incredible addiction that knitters feel for this nifty little project, and I am determined not to succomb to the obsession. A pair of socks here and there is fine. But carrying a pair-in-progress with me everywhere I go is a bit over the top. Or is it? They are the perfect portable project, if you don't mind showing off what it's like to knit with porcupine-like needles sticking out in every direction. Or if you don't mind odd looks and stares from people who actually realize that, yes, you ARE knitting a SOCK. I can read their minds. "Is this chick crazy? Why doesn't she just go to Wal-Mart and BUY her socks? She's crazier than a bag of hammers...."

Fact is, what do these people think we did before Hanes and Fruit of the Loom? I doubt they'd ever stopped to think about it. Knitting socks seems to be yet another way a person can link up to the past. Just like spinning, weaving, and a myriad of other seemingly dying arts (thankfully not so much anymore), knitting a sock takes me to a place in the past where a husband would wait patiently for his new pair of socks that his wife was knitting by the fireside. And that first time he pulled them on, he smiled. Because there was nothing like the feel of a new hand-knitted sock on his hairy 'ole pioneer foot. And there still isn't anything like that feeling. In this age of moisture-wicking socks and high-tech fabrics, we've lost that simple, heavenly feeling of the hand-knit sock. Such a shame.

My socks are a blend of wool, bamboo, and nylon. Still a far cry from the simple, scratchy wool that our fore-mothers knit with, but hey, that was a long time ago, and advances have to be made, right? But if you really want that simple, scratchy wool, you can still have it. You'd better have the 'ole pioneer foot to go with it, though.

So, here's to the humble, hand-knit sock. I'm going to love these. And I'm sure I'm going to join the ranks of all the other sock-knitters who have an obsession for these little architechtural wonders. I needed another hobby like a hole in the head. Thank goodness that it's still just.....knitting!

On My Lack of Blogging...and George

I know it's been months. I KNOW. What have I been doing?

Well, I've taken a detour. In September, I decided it was time to "date" again. Not that I needed to, really. I just decided that it would be fun, and I wanted to. To make a very long story short, I am now seeing an interesting man who I think is just marvelous. Trouble is, he's extremely guarded, and I don't believe for one second that he should be dating at all. My work is cut out for me...I need to escape from my feelings for him before I get really hurt badly. And that's not an easy thing for me to do.

I firmly believe that as emotionally guarded and detatched as he is, he needs someone just as much the exact opposite as him to love him. I am not sure if he would agree, but these kinds of people never see what they really need. They can only see what they don't want.

I care about him deeply. The loss would definetely be his if I walked away, but I am the only one that would feel the pain. Just to be fair, I will say that he has been straightforward and upfront with me from the very beginning. He wanted to "have fun", and of course, so did I. It's a known fact that men can "have fun" WAY longer than women can, and so here I am, wondering where the "fun" is going to backfire on my heart.

Why am I so wrapped up in this man? Many reasons. He's got my respect, for one HUGE thing. He's a PhD associate professor, an expert in his field in the USA and Europe, a musician, and a writer. He plays piano with the notes flowing from his fingers, and singing with him at the piano is nothing short of magic for me. I keep thinking it's the music most of all, but it's more. I love watching him think...watching the process, his face, his eyes. He is a brilliant man, and I love his smile, his laugh, and his quirkiness. He is the "fuddy professor", and I adore it.

So, the quagmire of emotions that he isn't able to feel is all over me. Because I can feel them all, no problem. And it's very dangerous.

I've decided to throw myself back into my work. Every indication has told me to do this all along, and I've trudged my way through, agreeing completely, but not being able to separate my thoughts from George in order to buckle down and get things done. This isn't healthy for me, and I have to knock it off. I am suffering, my resources are suffering, and why? It's ridiculous.

Working is good for me; it always has been. But in the back of my mind is this:

Counting Down the Days...

I simply cannot believe the summer is almost at the end. It seems like it never really came, come to think about it. The weather only got hot a handful of days, and a majority of those days, I was in the hospital, so I missed it all. Sheesh.

The kids will all be back in school next week. I can hardly get over it. I am a bit nervous as to how transportation will go; three kids in three different schools. I can get Rehanna and Conner to school, but Alex will have to be dragged along, only to come home and have a 45-minute-wait until his bus picks him up. I really hate dragging him out of bed for all that, but, as a single mom, this is what has to be done. Last year I had the wonderful blessing of respite care coming for an hour in the morning to stay with Alex, but she ended up getting herself fired after I found nude pictures of her on one of our computers. (sigh). I didn't mind her using the computer, but this was the kids' computer, and apparently those chats she was having online must've been pretty heated! I tried not to imagine what Conner would have said had he accidentally opened that folder of photos, which sat proudly on the desktop, bearing her name!!! What am I, a magnet for these people? I swear...

So anyway, I lost my "morning helper". Pfft. Yeeeaaah.

So, what have I been up to? Well, besides getting ready for the back to school rush, I have been working more hours at work, and there will be more to come. I have piles and piles of $150 jeans to hem. And after this weekend, there will be even more.

I've also be itching to knit something...anything! Every since my last shawl had to get dropped because I (gulp) ran out of yarn, I've not wanted to start anything else. All I have to do is just order another ball of the stupid yarn. Not hard. But I can't being myself to just order one ball of yarn from KnitPicks. It's just not done. KnitPicks orders always must be at least $50. It's an unwritten law. Now of course, there's like $300 I could spend there. But it just isn't the right time for that.

However, I came across this pattern today on Rav:

Now, I have like over 1000 yards of new handspun that I recently finished up. It is screaming to be this shawl. I swore I didn't want to make another shawl. I really wanted to do a sweater, even the one I've been designing. But nooooo. This pattern had to come along and change all that. Maybe if I at least get that last ball of yarn ordered for my other shawl, I will feel better about starting this one. Good logic? Maybe!

That's all for now...I know, terribly exciting, no?

Never Give Away Your Fat Pants...

I don't care how big they are. You will need them again, trust me.

I have two main pairs of fat pants. The biggest are black (of course) and made out of stretch terry knit (of course!). The second are some too-big blue jeans. Last Thursday I was very grateful for both pairs.

I hadn't been feeling good, and thought for sure that if I could just go to the bathroom, all would be well. You know how that story goes. Well, the bathroom was not my friend. I went to Wal-mart, school shopping for the kids with my mother, and thought to hit the pharmacy area to find some sort of medicine. I knew I had laxatives at home. So, I bought some anti-diarrheal. Figured I'd approach the problem from both sides, right? By now, the entire front of my torso was either stabbing in pain, or was so sore from being in pain that I could neither stand up straight or walk very fast. Walking, in fact, was a feat.

So I vowed that if it wasn't better by thursday morning, I would go to emergency. Well, it wasn't any better after a long sleepless night, and I went in. How I drove there, I have no idea. All I can recall about getting there was that someone saw me outside my car and brought me a wheelchair. I was standing there, clutching the car door, wondering how the hell I was gonna get from "A" to "B". But hey, if I keeled over in the parking lot of the emergency room I couldn't possibly be in a better place, right?

Long story short, I really had this thing all figured out before I went to the hospital. This was a kidney stone. HAD to be. I had all the right symptoms. I felt very positive that the doc would give me some pain meds, nicely tell me that I had to wait it out, pass the stone, and life would go on. Follow up with your doctor, miss. So I thought.

But my fave emergency room doc, Dr. Zuckerman (yes, just like the famous pig), sat down and informed me that "Ms. Benac, well...your a mess..." That was not a cool thing to hear. Turns out that something was possibly wrong with my gall bladder, I had an acute case of diverticulitis, and on top of everything, an ovarian cyst the size of a golf ball. When he told me they were going to keep me for "a couple days" I simply looked at him and said "WHAT???"

You see, this was NOT part of the whole kidney stone diagnosis I had done on myself. Damn.

So, in I went, and I was not happy. The Michigan Fiber Fest was in two days. I'd never be able to go. All of my saving and planning, down the tubes. What a total bummer.

It was a confusing time, to say the least. I waited to hear from doctors what on earth was happening with my body. Friday evening, I got up yet again to go pee, fed up with the damned IV and all the fluid it pumped through me. Of course, I had no complaints about the pain meds and antibiotics it also delivered! But sheesh, I was peeing like every half an hour. It was getting old. I had just gone, and the nurses arrived with a sheepish smile on their faces. "Do you think you could pee in a cup for us?" I wanted to snarl. But I was kind. It was only a matter of time before I could go again, anyway. The nurse said "well, it's just standard pre-op procedure, you know, they have to have a urine samp-...."

"Excuse me??" I said. "Back up a minute...did you say PRE-OP????" WHAT OPERATION?

The nurses got wide-eyed and looked at each other. "You mean, no one told you?" they asked. "Well, oh...we can't say anything else! The doctor hasn't been here?"

Noooo, no doc had come. No one except a charge nurse who had informed me that I couldn't eat anything because I might be having more "tests" that evening. Right as my dinner was being placed in front of me, it was wisked away. Buggers. But somehow the "test" had become surgery. and I had no idea for what. Well, soon I found out that they wanted to remove the ovarian cyst, and I was fine with that. Just wish I would've known. That would have been nice. I was in the hospital for a total of five days. I couldn't read, had no internet other than on my phone, and could do nothing but just lay there. It was worse than prison.

So, I now have two neat little incisions. One in my belly button, and one about three inches below it, each about one inch long. They are healing up very well. they glued them shut. Just amazing.

My fat pants have a place of honor in my life. When my tummy swelled up and hurt after surgery, my fat pants were there, in all their non-binding love for me. I'm doing fine now, and all my buddies and customers online were sending all the well-wishes they could muster. I felt them, guys! I really did! Thank you soooooo much!! You all made the pain and bitterness of missing the Fiber Fest a little easier to handle. Now it's back to life as I know it...