On Letting Good Things Go

Nothing is Wasted in Eternity

I sold my floor loom.

(breathe)

The thought to do so began about a year ago or so. I was getting ready to move (again) and I didn’t feel the same love for all of the yarns and patterns and tools and wool that I had. It all felt …cumbersome. Maybe, I thought, this too has waned.

After all, many, many creative endeavors have come and gone. As I mentioned in a previous post (“Curiosity is an Irksome Itch”), it is a blessing-curse to have such a wonderment about the world and about how things work. Also, I have a love for home and for the homemade, so anything that adds to my nest teases me with possibilities. Thus, I dive in, read books, take classes, interview whomever I need to, and somehow, the necessary accoutrements come my way, usually through the most generous of people and/or Craigslist. And then, somehow (always somehow), those things slip out of my life in the softest ways, like a dream fading into fairy dust to fly in the wind.

I decided to wait, however, until after the move, just in case exhaustion was obscuring my brain cells. I found a lovely corner to set up a studio in the new house, and reintroduced myself to all of the lovely yarns I had gathered. Over time, however, I kept looking at that area and wanting to do something else with it—like put an extra chair, or even a puzzle table.

Also, I didn’t have the same enthusiasm anymore. Instead of looking at my supplies and getting excited about the next project, I felt an obligation to Do Something with those things because—after all—they were there. It began to feel like I had a huge “to do” list attached to that area of the living room: mainly, to make something and continue making somethings until all of that good and beautiful supply was completely used up, at which point then I could be released from the necessary pressure of Not Wasting Anything.

Also (always also), and speaking of Not Wasting Anything, there was the question of letting go of that which I am good at. Not a perfectionist, mind you, but good enough to weave wedding shawls and kitchen towels and baby blankets that were pleasing and thoroughly useful. Some people might say I was “throwing away” my skills. I say nothing is thrown away—those experiences simply recycle and build into my life in ways I cannot foresee as of yet.

The young woman who bought my loom was over the moon. I asked a fair price, and although all that morning before our meeting I was second guessing my decision, a deep sense of sadness, regret, or disappointment never showed up. Instead, as I filled her truck with reeds and shuttles and bins of yarns, I felt…relieved. It was definitely time to let it all go. She promised to send me a photo of it all set up in her own studio space. I believe she will.

Perhaps now I should mention I also (there’s that “also” again) sold my spinning wheel and all of the bags of prepared wool I had. At this point, I am perfectly content with my little table top copper loom for small bits of weaving, and with my spindles for small amounts of yarn making. All of the sudden, every bit of my textile work fits neatly into two small baskets by the chair near the window overlooking the back garden. I bought a large Boston fern for the corner, and, yes, there is now an inviting puzzle table nearby.

I don’t know what’s next. Right now, my energy and enthusiasm revolve around not only getting my Ruby able to communicate (see “Unfolding Glory”), but in preparing garden beds and sketching out plans for a goat shelter. So my intention is to take hold of the plow, work to serve my family and community in different ways, and not look back. The bonus for me is that should any of those interests from yesterday woo my attention, there’s an eternity ahead. It’s good to have a soul that never dies.