End of July.
A hike at Craggy Pinnacle on Friday–on the Blue Ridge Parkway outside Asheville. Misty, foggy morning starting to break when we reached the top. I’m reading Lee Smith’s work now–her novels that focus on life in these parts. Oral History for one. True to place.
So–Two things from an on-line class I’m taking with Jude Hill–“considering weave.” Threads were compliments of my sister–my sister the weaver–I mean as in a real weaver. A vintage weaver. A weaver of heirloom patterns. Big looms with many moving parts. Mind-boggling designs laid out on paper. I marvel…because we’re related…and because I clearly didn’t inherit the “weaving” gene and everything else that goes with it.
This tapestry figure is about 1.5 inches wide and about 5 inches long. I spent many hours on it. Asking myself from time to time during the process, “Why?” I still don’t know why. And I don’t know why I continued except that after a point, I was curious to see the result.
It’s been one of those odd summers for me. Quiet. Internal. A lot of processing and “looking at.” Then looking at what comes up while I’m looking. Following breath.
When I started this little not-much-of-a-post, an old Dylan line was running through my head…”you don’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows.” I deleted it at the beginning, but it wants to be heard.