Curiosity is an Irksome Itch
On making flying leaps onto piles of fleeces and whatnot.
Curiosity is an irksome itch at times. It is one thing to appreciate, for example, a good marshmallow floating on top of a rich hot mug of cocao. It is another thing to research and then put together a pan of homemade marshmallows from scratch. For who is to say that you might not read the recipe incorrectly and instead of unflavored gelatin use beef? And can we say that those might taste…gross? So.
Years ago I had friends who were interested in knitting. Unfortunately/fortunately, I was curious enough about it to try it myself. The angst I put myself through to get my fingers to do what my mind demanded! Over time, those digits acquiesced and, sure enough, I ended up with a scarf that looked fine enough to wear, and scruffy enough to prove I had made it myself. And then, unfortunately/fortunately, knowing how to knit wasn’t enough. We all signed up at the local yarn store to have Amanda teach us all how to spin our own yarn. On our own spinning wheels. With full body (and great mental gymanstic) sweaty-from-concentration effort, over time, I actually made a decent yarn that didn’t look like a twisty hash of bird nests. And then I used it to knit a pretty variegated green hat, which I still proudly wear.
The problem was, the itch as it were, is that making the yarn itself then wasn’t enough. I wanted to know not only how to dye it the color I wanted, I wanted to actually grow the plants to give me those colors (check and check). And then I wanted to research and buy the actual fleece off of an animal (check times half a dozen), which led me to figuring out how to clean and prepare said wool. Which led me further in to where in the world my wool was coming from (you saw this coming, didn’t you?) and now I eye my newly acquired pasture and see multitudes of lambs of all colors romping down the rolling hillsides and providing me with enough fleeces of my own to take a flying leap into.
And that’s not all. It’s the same with cloth. I’ve learned to weave (yes, even with nettle). Art journaling? Making homemade ink. Scratch cooking? Gardening and milking my goats. Medicine? Preparing my own formulations. Clothing? Sewing my own pants and tops. Linocuting, calligraphy, writing books, crochet, HAM radio, quilting, beekeeping, propagating, rug hooking, soap making, painting, and who knows what else. I haven’t done much woodworking or metal work, but I’m still young(ish). I freely admit I have books on woodfired pottery and outdoor oven baking (must be something about fire these days) in my cart at Amazon.
It all sounds fascinating (or horrific, depending). It’s sort of like noticing that nettle patch outside and having enough knowledge to know how nutritious or strong they are for rope, but forgetting to put gloves on for harvest because I only have a minute. I just go for it. And then, eventually (promptly, in this case) and consistently, I’m reminded.
Reminded I only have 24 hours in a day. Reminded I still have to do laundry, homeschool, take my girls to their therapies and occasionally mop the floor. Reminded I am not as energetic as I used to be. Reminded that in none of these things do I feel The Call to be An Artist or A Farmer so I usually end up with plenty of goods for our family (dozens and dozens of handwoven kitchen towels, check) but with no desire at all to fill up an online store or to (shudder) market anything. It’s like I’m allergic to mastering anything in particular.
So maybe this is where I’m at in the downsizing/being present with my life journey. Maybe figuring out “how things work” is enough for me, because once I get there, I get listless, maybe even bored. Maybe I’m a serial sampler, an appetizer kind of gal. Kind of like making marshmallows twice was enough for me (once with beef—barf emoji—and then properly with rose essence, happy yum emoji). I’ve baked the homemade hot dog buns. Once. Maybe I’ll have to be a happy Maybe sort of woman, especially given how many times I’ve used that word in this paragraph alone.
I decided to sell my spinning wheel to a delightful young lady whose enthusiasm and time will be ample enough for her to far exceed anything I’d ever accomplished with it. But I did keep a small bag with enough wool and my favorite spindle to enjoy. Time will tell if I keep my floor loom—I’m wavering on that. But if you’re following me on Instagram, don’t be surprised if you see a handmade pottery mug someday created with clay I dug from the earth, colored with botanicals, and fired from a pit in my backyard.
If you’re looking for a simpler, more purposeful life outside of the rule of technology, perhaps you can glean from my experimentations in seeking a more present life. Learn more about the book (and how to get it) by clicking on its image.
