I thought I knew where I kept what I’m looking for, but apparently not. It’s not there, and it’s not anywhere as near as I can tell. I pulled the studio apart. I even put things away. Some cleaning happened. A whole bunch of things I hadn’t even noticed I’d lost were found, and I can’t imagine how I’ve survived without them. I gave up. I walked away. Two weeks later an epiphany struck. I opened the carriage house cupboards that line the back of my studio, and there it sat prim and proper and reporting for duty. That was my missing thread.
I have recently come to the conclusion that much like good wine, stash is best when it has been given time to age, ferment, breathe. We add to our stashes because we see potential and promise in the materials. Perhaps the sun, the temperatures, the rain were just right for the grapes this year and we buy on speculation, but we don’t drink it right away. We let it develop into its best version of itself. Stash, too. It needs to evolve and interact and be inspired by the amalgam of materials around it. The insides of my studio cupboards are my version of the charred oak wine barrels. All ingredients are waiting for the best versions of themselves to be enticed to blossom. Just as it would be foolish to expect an infant to contribute to the household, it is equally foolish to expect the new aquisition to the stash to be immediately helpful. We just know and love it and see what potential it has. Perhaps, in that way, it is even more like choosing a husband–they too need to time to grow and mature.
I spent the morning adorned in a paper dress. I wasn’t terribly happy about it. Actually, I was a wee bit offended by the whole thing. While I’m no fashion diva, I am a fiber affcianado. This was not a nod to avant garde alternative fashion. I bet you it wasn’t even an earth friendly recyclable. This was an atrociously ill fitting, ill-conceived insult to my $35 copay. Miffed.
As I was saying—-For the record, my husband is crazy. But it is the best kind of crazy you could ever hope for. At the moment, he is intent on saving us from being washed away in some very heavy rains. Noah doesn’t need to be called in for a consult by any means, but it is charming to see his sweet intensity to divert rain and gutter run-off as if Satan himself had come calling. It is late, dark and (obviously) raining. I will prep warm clothing, get dinner to the brink of serving, and ready a hardy hug. Tomorrow will hopefully be drier and his attentions will once again be directed to the true craft at which he excels: turning old salvaged discards into useful and beautiful treasures.
As you know, we are always on the lookout for great vintage finds at yard sales and flea markets. The thrill of the search never diminishes for us. This year was our first visit to the annual Grand and Glorious Yard Sale and it is sure to become a lasting tradition for us. We left the hall with many a treasure, but most triumphantly we tucked this oversized wooden train engine with two towed cars securely under our arms. I have visions of an extensive display at our shows, this choo choo set up on a rustic antique workbench next to the 1930s hoosier. Stuffed toys, yarns, kits, and vintage laces, baubles, and other vintage oddities in tow, each car overflowing with goodies.
It’s a rainy gloomy day, but that’s okay. My head is brimming with ideas. I can’t decide what to work on first. Of course, the things I should do are not the things I want to do. Conundrum. But I’ve been feeling beaten down lately and spread too thin and would much rather pursue a little self nurturing today. I think some of my new yarns from Manos del Uruguay will have a visitor today.