all about wool & words

ooh la la

Gorgeous autumn days are full. Cool breezes blow through green and yellow leaves, magpies clonk and murmur mysteriously, ravens are ubiquitous and noisy, we need a warm blanket at night, and every morning we see at least one more rabbit on our land than we saw the previous day.  With white cottontails.  They are getting to be as numerous as prairie dogs once were on our land. I learned that they often take over abandoned prairie dog burrows and that is hopeful since we have had an ongoing war for two decades with those rodents (who have been known to occasionally carry bubonic plague!) and maybe now they're moving out. You may ask: aren't rabbits rodents, too? I just learned that they are Lagomorphs -- hares and pikas (remember the invisible giant pika Harvey?). I know. I have to get a life.

At present, life is chock full of knitting and felting like mad to meet the deadline for the RuYi Fiber Arts show opening this weekend.

I'll be teaching a two-hour mini-workshop at RuYi Studio on Thursday afternoon, October 11th,  called Woven Words Journaling. We will talk about combining a passion for craft with writing  memoir and personal essays, and have fun doing it. This is a shortened, tweaked version of an intensive called Writing & Knitting Memoir.

If you're in town and would like to participate, please contact me so I can add your name and reserve a spot for you. The cost is nominal and space is extremely limited.

so Emily Dickinson
I'm increasing my inventory of handwarmers for end of November when they usually sell out.

It's been fun this year as I make each one a bit different and a bit wilder (see previous post - the ones pictured above are rather conservative).  A way-cool clothing boutique in town wants them, but I'm not sure it's a good idea.  I don't want to become a one-woman knitting factory. There are poems to be written...
 These are the days when birds come back,
A very few, a bird or two,
To take a backward look.

These are the days when skies put on
The old, old sophistries of June,
A blue and gold mistake. 
            Emily Dickinson, Indian Summer, stanzas one/two)