{"id":52357,"date":"2019-05-29T13:20:35","date_gmt":"2019-05-29T17:20:35","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.lionbrand.com/community/blog\/?p=52357"},"modified":"2023-03-03T16:04:37","modified_gmt":"2023-03-03T21:04:37","slug":"carpe-filum","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.lionbrand.com/community/blog\/carpe-filum\/","title":{"rendered":"Carpe Filum"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

I had intended this month to continue the series of little knitting memoirs that began with my first scarf<\/a><\/strong>, then continued with my first yarn shop<\/a><\/strong>,<\/a> and the first (and last) time I was held captive by one of my own projects<\/a>.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

But life had other ideas. Instead of firsts,\nI\u2019m thinking about lasts.
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\nI\u2019ve spent a great deal of time in the past several weeks attempting to\norganize the possessions of a prolific fiber artist\u2013she was a knitter,\ncrocheter, spinner, weaver, lace-maker, rug hooker, and beader\u2013who died after\nlosing a painful battle with cancer.
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\nShe was a frequent student of mine, often appearing at weekend retreats in\ncompany with her beloved corgi. I was always happy to see both of them. She was\nat once very outgoing and very private\u2013quick with a joke, comment, or opinion.\nSlow to tell you anything about herself or her life.
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\nBefore she died, she asked if I would look after her things when she was gone.\nI was astonished. She lived far away, in a country place none too accessible\nfor a city dweller without a driver\u2019s license. And I could scarcely claim to be\nclose enough to her deserve the honor. Surely there was someone else more\nsuited to the task?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There was not. She was without family. While she was not entirely without friends, she had also kept those few at an arm\u2019s length. She didn\u2019t feel she could lay the task at their feet. She insisted that I would recognize and appreciate the contents of her various workspaces, particularly the antique pieces. She pressed and pressed again. At length, I agreed.

So I found myself in a rickety farmhouse I barely knew\u2013I\u2019d only managed one, too-brief visit before she died\u2013up to my neck in a lifetime\u2019s accumulated wheels, winders, looms, needles, shuttles, books, spinning fiber, and yarn.

The wheels alone numbered in the dozens. Countless big and small looms suggested that whenever a new form of weaving had attracted her, she\u2019d gone ahead and bought everything necessary to pursue it. Books and patterns spilled off the shelves and were stacked under and atop the furniture.

Nothing was more than very loosely organized. Most looms in here, most beading tools there. Wheels everywhere. There was an Ashford Traveler in the bathroom, for heaven\u2019s sake.

I dug in.

In a small cabinet I found cat treats, spools of thread, and an antique lace-maker\u2019s pillow with an unfinished strip of Victorian lace still in place. Another cubbyhole was full of tiny old pocket-knives, plastic wind-up toys, and about two pounds of carved bone crochet hooks stuffed into a plastic bag.

The entire cupboard under the stairs was piled with spinning fibers, and there were baskets and baskets of yarn. Superb yarn. She\u2019d had nobody to please but herself, and so she did.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

After two days and nights, I\u2019d barely shifted and sorted enough to make a visible difference. I opened a bedroom closet for the first time and more yarn fell out. I started to cry.

I cried for her. She was not an old woman. She ought by rights to have been alive and well and working on a project, surrounded by collections and stash. She ought to have been looking at the weaving hung from the walls and draped over the furniture, feeling accomplished.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Instead it was me, who barely knew her, wondering where on earth all this was to go.

And I cried, if I am honest, a bit for me. Because seeing someone else\u2019s abandoned tools and interrupted projects makes a person think. We\u2019ll all knit our last stitch or throw the shuttle for the last time. Likely we won\u2019t even recognize that end when it comes. Then what?

What will happen to these things we\u2019ve treasured, that have defined our lives?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Ultimately, in order to settle her final expenses, this woman\u2019s collection will be sold. That much is sure. I will see to it.

But what about my<\/em> stuff? I hadn\u2019t even considered the question until that moment. She had asked me to give some of the older pieces a home in my workroom, which I\u2019ve done gratefully.

So they\u2019re mine\u2013for now. What happens when I\u2019m gone?

For years I\u2019ve had a list in my will of special books that my heirs\u2013whoever the heck they are\u2013need to make sure are properly sold or auctioned, not dumped into the trash or carted to the thrift shop. It\u2019s time to do the same with the wheels…the looms…the yarn\u2026

I love these things. Perhaps they\u2019ll be even more beloved by someone else\u2013a new weaver in need of a loom, a knitter who has never had the joy of working with fine wool. How to get them into the right hands? Should they be left to a guild? I don\u2019t know.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In the meantime, of course, the other sobering lesson was that if I want to do something\u2013weave that blanket, knit that sweater\u2013the thing is to do it now<\/em>. While I can. While I\u2019m still here.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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\"franklin