Spinning and Winding Yarn

I have spent so much time in the last four months just working on house.  Climbing ladders, trimming trees, scraping, painting, climbing chairs, neck craned to paint ceilings, on my hands and knees scrubbing floors, baseboards, putting in tile, rolling out carpets, I found it quite difficult to squeeze in exercise or art.  The exercise part was covered by 12 hour days and exhausted falling into bed, waking only to begin again.  And when all of that was done, packing what was left after my daughter left, and then unpacking in my new single room abode.  How simple this room is.  I look around and it is like the inside of me, in a very materialistic way, my favorite drawings, only my favorite books, my favorite elephants, my favorite photos done by my childhood neighbor, the counted cross stitch tigers.  Hanging here on the doorknob is the Navajo sheep wool, a rough textured cream and soft oily grey, that I spun and plied after my trip to Arizona three years ago.  It is greasy with lanolin as I wrap it over my feet, holding my legs out when my feet start to hurt from resting them on the edge of the tall bed with storage drawers underneath.  Next the first roving I ever bought with my Mom, a mixture of bamboo, silk and lambs wool, green like spring trees mixed with wool I bought from a lovely woman I met at a craft show, the wool of the Finnsheep, so soft and so lovely.  I prepare myself for tangles, it sat too long on the niddy noddy and then too long on the back of a chair, then too long on a towel hook in the bathroom after I washed it.  But my method for winding wool alone works beautifully and with care and attention it is soon wound into a fat ball.  I contemplate some hippy poncho, or a throw blanket with squares of my hand spun wools.  When I am done I spin a fiber bought at a flintknapping festival this summer, where I met a woman with Firefly Farm, the wool is a lovely pygora and cornedale mix.  A similar green, but a totally different feel.  And when I have wound that last of it onto the spool, I dig out the fine black alpaca I bought last winter from a woman I work with.

Winding Yarn with my feet

It felt good to do something creative again.

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