I have been spinning yarn every night this week. And often at a point in the day when I need a break. And sometimes when I am supposed to be doing something else. Like working on my new class.
I have no real plan for these yarns I am making. I guess I should try to keep track of how many yards they are? Or the weight? Because that would be helpful later. But honestly, I am falling in love with these different color combinations. I am pulling apart multi-colored roving to isolate or combine the colors I like, or combining single-color roving into combinations that I adore.
Why the sudden urgency to make yarn that I have no plan for?
All my creative mental energy is going into creating a journaling class about using mind maps. Its a technological and professional stretch for me - every time I think I have it sorted, I realize how far I have to go. So, even the progress can be a little demoralizing. I hope I can bring forth the ideas in my head, but it is definitely a creative stretch.
And then I go back to parenting, homeschooling, animal wrangling, cooking, tidying, and all the other assorted work of the day.
And so, I spin my mental wheels for as long as I can, and then I sit down at my spinning wheel and release a lot of stress into that fiber. It’s ridiculously metaphorical and literal all at once.
And tactile. Did I mention how squishy that yarn is?
In truth, I am at my threshold for uncertainty right now, and I have no mental space for extra artistic leaps or creative risks. I want predictable - which is a unusual way to look at a creative project, but what is more predictable that a craft that has you sitting in the same spot, repeating the same motions for hours? Maybe the end result isn’t predictable, but there is no decision-making beyond choosing some colors, and it’s easy to get excited about these colors. I just play with color, watch the bobbin fill up, and then get so excited when it’s time to ply the yarn. Instant gratification and low risk. It’s a little vote of confidence every day, and I am soaking it up.
I am listening to audiobooks while I spin, which is also part of the pleasure. Or usually is. This Bird Has Flown by Susanna Hoffs was painfully slow and the main character was childish and the suspenseful build up lead to very low-stakes discoveries. I ended up skipping 4 hours in the middle and listening to the last three chapters just to find out how it resolves. Which was also unsatisfying.
The true hero of this story is the flat in Oxford, UK where one character lives. It sounds magical and I am now fantasizing about renting a house in Oxford for a month - writing by a window, reading in a cozy chair, walking to town for tea.
But now I have started Romantic Comedy by Cutis Sittenfeld and last night I stayed up too late while listening. So, clearly much better.