be kind

Be kind to your sleeping heart.
Take it out in the vast field of light
And let it breathe.'               
Hafiz

During group therapy at the thèrmes today, we were encouraged to think about being more "kind to ourselves". The psychologist asked us to share with the group the things that make us happy, that help us to be kind to ourselves.

Knitting and spinning were of course at the top of my own list. Whilst I learn to find my own rhythm once again, it looks as if there might be a lot more woolcraft going on around here for the next few months. 

busy hands

We're now back in our valley home, after a few weeks away. Lately, fatigue has been becoming more and more a heavy weight around my neck. Not the everyday tiredness that comes from leading a hectic life. Nor the Sunday morning sluggishness and lethargy be-known to students brought on by one too many sugary cups of coffee, frequent late nights or not enough fresh vegetables. Rather an exhaustion that greets you when you wake in the morning, that a good night sleep won't lift. A tiredness so consuming it seeps into your bones, that could drain away all happiness if you let it do so.

Just a few short months ago, I was a teacher and translator. Working for myself from home. Weaving together words and untangling muddled syntax. It feels like another life ago. I've been off work since March, too ill to work. And as this current rough seems to be showing no sign of abating, looks like I'll be taking the rest of the summer off too.

As we try to navigate our way back to that path of wellness, my days have been stripped back to the essential. Eating wholesome food. Fresh air. Long sleeps. Deep breaths.

Foraging in the woods helps. Picnics in the sunshine helps. Spending time with friends helps. And above all, keeping my hands busy helps.

managing tension

 

The early morning scent of brewing coffee. The first rays of golden light out on the balcony. The fleece in my hand is bouncy, soft. Like a tiny fluffy cloud. It feels exactly like it belongs there. My head starts spinning with a hundred million billion willion thoughts. Now is the time to bring them out. Let them breath. With each turn of the treadle, they tumble out. Thoughts only. Dreams. Little sadnesses. As I draft the wool, the wheel twists the fibres together. My thoughts twist into the thread, wind onto the bobbin and are held in place by the tension between my hand and the wheel. It is time to let go, to put tension and stress to better use. It is time to make yarn.  

flotsam and jetsom

 

We've been walking in woodlands, across meadows and through salt marshes. But today I am in my favourite place, beside the sea. I walk along the shore at a snail's pace. I take baby steps. It's frustratingly slow and I seem to tire very easily at the moment. But this will have to do for now.

The sea  invigorates me. I feel the breath rush out of my lungs and the sharp intake of new air. The tang of salt spray, the sound of surf, the call of the sea birds.

Spindle in hand, I walk slowly and carefully, just at that place where the waters and the sand overlap.

I walk slowly because I am tired today. But also to keep the yarn that I am slowly creating from breaking and loosing the whole thing to the sea...

As I walk, as I spin, I find other fibres twisted together by man but also spun by Mother Nature herself, thrown up from the depths of the sea's belly to rest here a while on the sand.

making lace

It's been years since I properly made some lace. The last time would have been sometime in 2006, just before packing my bags and heading off to University. There was barely room in my broom-cupboard sized study bedroom for my knitting needles and yarn. Needless to say, my bulky lace-making equipment was packed away for another day.

In between the rain showers this week-end, I snatched some time out in my parent's garden to get out my pillow again and throw some bobbins around. 

Traditional bobbin lace uses fine threads wound around wooden bobbins and much repetitive labour to produce fabric of great intricacy.

Lace-making is truly a labour of love. To craft even the most simple length of trimming requires great doses of patience and concentration.

Progress is slow, sometimes less than a quarter of an inch per hour, depending on the intricacy of the design, the fineness of the threads. 

From the pricking to the winding of the bobbins and finally to actually making the lace, seeing a design slowly unfold on the pillow is always a source of great joy. Thread by thread, pin by pin, the beauty of the lace reveals itself little by little. 

On-going studies at the Harvard Medical Institute for Mind and Body Medicine indicate that repetitive activities such as lace-making elicit the "relaxation response" which alleviates stress and allows the brain to set aside intrusive thoughts.
 

In the same way knitting and spinning seem to magically calm me, I felt the beneficial effects as soon as I picked up my bobbins again. Working at my pillow, I could feel weeks and months of stresses and strains fall away as soon as I methodically worked through the design.

I do hope that this time, I'll be able to find space for my bobbins and pillow when I head back to France in a while...

spinning out anxiety

The past few days have been emotionally charged and I'm doing my best to guide myself into a new, better rhythm. As always, it's much easier said than done.

At the start of the month, I had to give up working for the time being. Whilst this new normal will be better in the long-term, for the time being, it is rocky. Fears about money, the future, and especially my own self worth as a disabled person are clouding the horizon and making it hard to see beyond this situation. And poor Nico is witnessing long, passionate displays of sadness, anger and anxiety. Sometimes (unfairly) directed at him.

In the aftermath of a storm, I can see how it's difficult to find that balance between indulgence and comfort. He continues to express his endless, wholehearted love. And I continue to express my frustrations and damn down-hearted state. Usually, he would encourage me to let go of my anxiety by walking; pounding it out on a mountain path rather than dissolving in a flood of tears. But walking is hard for me at the moment. Hard physically, hard emotionally. So if my anxiety can't come out in my feet, perhaps it can come out in my hands instead?


About a month ago, we found a beautiful, old double-drive spinning wheel. Although it was actually for my birthday, we've been getting to know each other in the quiet moments.

I felt like I'd reached a point where I needed to find some release instead of getting caught up in my sadness. Starting to spin my own wool is helping me to do just that. Learning to find that gentle equilibrium between enough and not enough tension. Learning a new skill is helping me focus on the task in hand, and not worry about the rest.