Back to the Garden: Weaving a Meditation Practice

Raven is finished. Here's the front of the tapestry:

I prefer my tapestries to look as clean on the back as the front. (Rather like the way I prefer people-the face one presents to the world should not be radically different from what arises when one thinks no one else is watching.)

The completion of this work left me with no more excuses to avoid working on "The Garden," the tapestry I abandoned, in the summer of 2009.  (Time flies when you're having experiences.)  Yesterday morning, I gathered my tools, yarns, dusted off the loom, found my seat and began weaving.  This is where I left off:

The dotted line along the cartoon marks the halfway point of the work, so I have some distance to travel:

Starting over was interesting.  Not only have I been blocked from this piece, Fear was sitting there, too. Fear arose as soon as I began weaving; if I was to continue, I had to have a plan to deal with it. It's also important for me to respect the limits of my physical body at the moment (and tapestry weaving is notoriously hard on the body), so I spent some time thinking of the best way to approach these issues while weaving again.  I decided to use this weaving as a meditation practice.  I set a meditation timer for twenty minutes, weave with full attention for that time and when the bell sounds, I stop. If that is all I can weave for the day, that's fine-it's twenty more minutes of weaving than I've done in the past five years. Here is where I am today:

As usual, Mick the cat is there to guide me.  Can you see him?

What strikes me most about this tapestry is the vibrancy of the colours I dyed and spun. These are colours I love; these are colours I used to wrap myself in.  The past few years have seen a shift to neutrals, which are lovely in themselves, but somehow, not "Me." Maybe, just maybe, this weaving will take me back to that Garden of colours that sing to me, the colours that vibrate my Heart Song. We shall see.

Namaste.

The Truth is Out There (But It May Not Be What You Think): Learning to Unlock Our Beliefs

I've been watching The Pyramid Code on Netflix, in which scientists and wisdom keepers challenge the conventional belief that the Pyramids of Egypt and other Egyptian artifacts were designed as tombs and for worship.  The documentary makes a compelling case that these great structures were designed and built by highly advanced beings with sophisticated knowledge of energy systems using aquifers, constellations (including and especially Orion, Leo, Sirius and the Pleiades) and Earth energy lines ("dragon lines," according to Chinese wisdom).  There is some indication that these systems were built as sound (as in "hearing") energy healing systems, which makes the evidence all the more fascinating.

In the documentary, Carmen Boulter, who at the time of the film was connected with the University of Calgary, disputes our belief that we are the most advanced, sophisticated civilization of Earthly times.  She and others assert that there were far more advanced peoples long ago, with knowledge and skills long lost to us.  One of the segments refers visually to the concept of cylical time, in which, as many Indian scriptures state, we are currently living in the darkness of Kali Yuga, when the cycle of humanity and time falls apart before we move again towards a Golden Age.

What was most interesting to me was not whether the claims in the documentary are true. What caught my attention were the repeated statements that if we continue to cling to our conventional ways of thinking about civilization, time and progress, we are likely to miss what is right in front of us. These scholars assert that it is preposterous to think that the pyramids were built by slaves using ropes to haul massive stones up an incline and fit those stones so precisely that we marvel at the skills we cannot duplicate today, even given all our technology.  They tell us that, when we cannot admit that our perspective of time and advancement is incorrect, we have no hope of finding Truth. It would serve us better if we released the beliefs which bind us and prevent us from Seeing.

I am learning this lesson on a much smaller scale.  Like many yoga aficionada, I belief that yoga asana and meditation practice are beneficial to everyone, especially if one doesn't "go for broke," and push the boundaries of either asana or meditation before one is ready.  This week, my physiotherapist has pointed out that my belief about asana is not necessarily true and that it certainly isn't correct for me right now.  While the stretching involved in asana is beneficial to most bodies, even the mildest of asana involves many contractions in the muscles.  At the moment, I must avoid as many upper body muscle contractions as possible, which means little or no asana for me.

The lesson is a good one, but very difficult to practice, even given that I'm more drawn to the philosophical side of yoga than the physical plane. My research confirms what my physiotherapist tells me. (I especially like the iTunes app, 3D Yoga, which shows the muscles which lengthen and contract in various asana. It's free and informative.) My instinct is to ignore what is right in front of me and in my body.  I like to move in my practice.  I believe that the physical aspects of yoga will help me heal, but I have to accept that a physical practice does not serve me Now.  If I open my eyes, my heart, my mind and body to what I've been shown, I will find other ways to heal and yoga asana will open to me again, more quickly.

We all have these moments of locked beliefs, times we Know something, which, in reality, may or may not be true.  The next time you stumble upon one of these locks, these blocks on your path, ask with an open heart, "What is this?"  It may be that your Truth is not quite what you thought it was.  Opening your eyes to new possibilities will prevent you from ignoring what is right there, in front of you.  It may show guide you towards a hidden, obvious path.

"What is this?" Can you guess?

 Namaste.

Cruisin' On a Sunday Afternoon: A Special Kind of Friendship

C. and I met when our children were small, on a day when she came to borrow some spinning equipment from me.  She was on her way to her first session of a spinning programme which would inspire her work and her life.  As it turns out, she quickly became an inspiration for me.  Years later, she still is.  We have travelled together, swapped child-rearing stories, spent many, many hours talking fibre and spinning techniques and just generally hanging out.

It's an unusual friendship, in many ways.  Where Ms. C. is methodical, I am not.  She lives in a beautiful home which she and her husband renovated and decorated to perfection.  I live in what one friend described as a "not quite grown up house."  She wears pink and furs and exotica; I am not so fond of pink and I tear around in blue jeans and yoga clothing.  Our spinning habits and tastes are night and day-she is currently rearing her own silkworms, the culmination of years of study and travel in which she's learned to reel silk from cocoons in exotic lands.  Her work is fine and exquisite.  Whatever she makes is perfection. I am all about free form and what calls to me in the moment.  As the years pass, my spinning and weaving becomes more relaxed, bordering on sloppy, as I experiment with this and that.

And yet, somehow, these differences between us only serve to strengthen the friendship.
We disagree on our approaches to art, but we are linked by the belief that whatever we are doing right now is something that we must do. Fibre art holds and heals our spirits; it has bound us together for decades.

We made a pact at the beginning of this year, to meet once a week to weave together.  C. has used most of her hand spun yarns for knitting; weaving is a new adventure for her.  As is her style, she has jumped in with both feet/hands.  She has decided to weave carefully planned miniature cut pile rugs, woven of her hand spun silk yarns, on warps sett so fine I can barely see the threads.  I've been weaving tapestry off and on for years.  I use whatever yarns I've spun and have hanging about the house to weave the tales that come to me in dreams.  We've already broken our pact a few times this year-well, I have-but we met today for an afternoon of tea and jibber jabber (again, mostly from me) and a fine time of weaving. Here we are, separate, but together:

C. took this one as I worked on my Raven tapestry:

I like this one.  It captures what I feel when we are weaving together, a solitary soul, working in harmony with a kindred spirit, alone in the world, yet together:

So, thank you, friend, for the lovely afternoon, on a bitterly cold winter's day.  May there be many more.

Namaste.

Spirits in the Material World: What Raven Sang to Me Today

"It's a Journey, not a race.
Along the way, we are meant to sing and dance, find our place."

For a woman who thinks she's not suited to teaching asana, I've been doing a lot of just that this past two weeks.  Somewhere around the fifth class this week, the thought occurred to me that I am practising Sarah's advice (although I can't say it's been intentional): "The practice which attracts you least is the practice you most need."  I'm not sure I entirely agree with this, but subbing for honoured teachers is certainly intimidating and I'm all for tromping on a new path from time to time, just to see where it leads me.

At the very least, a hectic schedule early in the week leaves me all the more grateful for a day to myself.  Mr. DD headed out to play hockey this morning; I had the house to myself (with pets), so at 9 a.m., I set my loom on the kitchen table.  Mickey settled himself in his usual supervisory spot and I began working.  This is the tapestry at the start of the day:

Here she is, six hours later:

Raven is not quite finished, but the piece is halfway there.  (The resident critic tells me that this isn't a Raven, because the lump on his head isn't big enough.  Someone may end up with a lump on his head.  I promise to provide said lump as mindfully as I can manage.) There are things I would change, if I was weaving something more than a sample, but I'd rather keep going forward than tracking back. Besides, Raven tells me that what I'm weaving isn't about this piece.  No, Raven is guiding me to a switchback, whether I want to go there or not.

There's another work in this house, another tapestry about a Spirit Creature in a Garden, a piece full of colour and symbols and fire.  That piece was abandoned years ago when it turned out to be the last tapestry I was weaving before I was called to deal with other aspects of my life which required more attention.  I lost the heart to work on her, so there she sits, waiting for the time when I felt strong enough to venture back to The Garden. I haven't been able to walk past my fears on this one.  Instead, I wander up to that big obstacle in my path, take a peek and retreat.

Now, something in me or the work grows impatient.  "It's been long enough; it's time Now. Finish what you started and move on. It's time to dance and sing another song."  Raven keeps calling, telling me to keep going, to walk up to that rock of fear, march around it, over it or blast through it, if need be. I'm not quite there yet, but Raven's voice grows louder and stronger. He will not be ignored. Perhaps, soon, maybe, I can soar with Raven over that rock and sing my own Song again.

Namaste.

Back to Black: Raven Comes Calling

The weather has shifted here once again.  It's unseasonably warm, with a northwest wind gusting.  Water runs everywhere and rain is expected later today.  It feels to me like a day of light, hope and fresh outlook.

I saw a Raven this morning.  He was definitely a Raven, not a large and saucy Crow.  He flew down from the roof of the Robin's Donut shop, landed about 3 or 4 metres away from me as we crossed the parking lot and barked loudly.  (Raven barked, not me.)  I greeted him warmly. Raven took exception when I moved beyond the boundaries he had set and flew away.  The encounter lasted no more than a minute, but it made my day.

Raven is trickster, holder of knowledge and wisdom, respected (and sometimes feared) by many peoples. Here is a brief excerpt from Spirits of the West Coast Art Gallery about Raven:  (Click here for more information on Raven from this site.) 

The Raven 

The Native Symbol or Totem Raven:  Mischievous and curious the Raven is the cultural focus of the Native Northwest Coast People. He symbolizes creation, knowledge, prestige as well as the complexity of nature and the subtlety of truth. He also symbolizes the unknown and is there to show that every person sees the world in a different way as another. The Raven was often called upon to clarify truths in visions, as the wise elders knew that what the eye sees is not always the truth. Many of the original peoples of the Pacific Northwest Coast refer to him as a god, and it is believed by some that messages from the creator or the cosmos are buried in the wings of the Raven only to be released to the families most deserving of his knowledge. The Raven is a long distance healer and is known as the “keeper of secrets,” he helps us in our lives by exposing the truth of kept secrets that could potentially harm us, in doing so he helps us back to good health. The Raven was only ever feared if misused. Besides being a member of many different clans, every descendant from the Northwest Coast First Nations belongs to either a Raven or Eagle Clan. The membership was always defined by which clans the mother belonged to.

After that meeting, I continued on with my day.  As I wandered about, exploring this and that store, I came across a treasure, Barbara Walker's The Crone.  If you're a knitter, you'll know that name: Ms. Walker wrote the bibles of knitting stitch patterns. Her Treasuries, along with her many other works on knitting, are considered the go-to resources for generations of knitters.  What's not so well known about Ms. Walker is that, when she believed she had completed her work on knitting, she moved on to exploring many other subjects, such as Tarot and mythology.  Most notably, she wrote about women, feminism, mythology, aging and power.  The Crone, which was written in 1985, explores the power of the aging female.  I've never seen a copy (although it's still available to order), so when I found it today, especially after I had seen Raven, it seemed like a sign.  I bought it-the poor woman in the store got an earful about the importance and history of the book and Ms. Walker, whether she wanted it or not.  Ms. Walker speaks of seven types of Crone, from the Lost Crone, through to the Wise Crone and finally, the Future Crone.  There is much food for thought here and the words seem timely, not simply because I am in the Crone stage of my life, but also because one chapter of my life is coming to a close and I am seeking more new beginnings.

Ms. Walker, still alive and by all reports still going strong, auctioned off many of her knitting samples last year.  I was fortunate to purchase one of her pieces.  It's a simple, seed stitch vest in black wool. Unlike Ms. Walker's flashier work, it didn't attract much attention, but it called to me. The vest seems just as it was described: plain, black, short and wide, with a bit of waist shaping.  It came with a Certificate of Authenticity and a tag signed by Ms. Walker. Like Raven, this black vest is deceptively simple, yet potentially powerful.  Her power doesn't lie in her existence or her maker.  Her power, like Raven's, emanates from the symbolism we attach to her.  For me, this vest is about possibilities, about the creative mind and the open heart required to move from one life to another. For me, this vest is the equivalent of Leonard Nimoy's used napkin that Penny gave to Sheldon as a Christmas gift several seasons ago on The Big Bang Theory.  I don't think I'll clone Ms. Walker, though.  In fact, I don't think the vest will live at my house for long.  She will stay only until the time comes for her to move on and then she'll find a new perch.

I don't know what Raven came to tell me today.  I don't know why I had to acquire Ms. Walker's vest or her book on crones.  I only know that these things happen and will continue to happen and that, if I practise allowing my mind to settle and my heart to open, I will learn those lessons I am given to learn.

Namaste.

If a Tree Falls in the Forest: Between Two Trees (A Lamentation)

Two tall fir trees stand in our front yard.  They were there when we moved in, decades ago.  At that time, their tops reached the height of our roof; now, they’re at least thirty feet in height, so tall that I would have to stand down the block, in the middle of the street to photograph them in their entirety.  These twins have sheltered various creatures over the years.  When the children were small, a nesting pair of robins built their home in a branch in full view of our picture window.  We spent weeks watching the birds build the nest (with a stray bit of my yarn incorporated by chance), warm the turquoise blue eggs and raise their greedy hatchlings with a constant supply of insects.  We kept the cat inside when the fledglings spread their wings.  I kept a record of the process.  Those drawings and paintings are among the work that pleases me most, not for the quality of the artwork, but for the memories of days past.

One of the nests I've collected over the years

That spring, all the babies took flight safely.  The next season, we were not so lucky.  Crows moved into the neighbourhood.  Despite our best efforts, we couldn’t fend off that particular murder.  My children learned some heart-breaking lessons that day: all creatures suffer. Sorrow will come, no matter how desperately we fight to drive it away.  The robins never nested in that tree again, but every year since, we have had a family of feisty birds, living in a tree behind the backyard shed or in neighbouring yards, hunting the grass for their constant meals and boldly taunting both dog and cat from the safety of our fence.  I like to think that they are descendants of that same first family who gave us such pleasure all those years ago.

Now, the trees are home to several screaming squirrels and a rabbit who kicks out the dirt by the trunk of the northern most tree and spends his winter(s) there.  I say “winters” because, much like the robins, there has been a resident jackrabbit under that tree for several years.  Sometimes, he sits on the walk at the base of our front steps and looks in the window.  As soon as he sees me looking back, he’s gone.  Usually, we do no more than greet him, but last year, in the winter that would not end, the snow was so deep that we feared for his safety, so we bought a sack of alfalfa hay which kept him warm and fed until spring finally arrived.  That rabbit was a bit bolder.  Once he recognized what we were doing, he would no longer sprint away when we came down our front driveway. Other than calling out that greeting, which seems only polite, we don’t encourage friendliness with humans.  That way trouble lies.

The trees are old now, and sick.  Despite years of futile effort on our part—for what can we do for creatures like that?—unsuitable ground to grow and the simple passage of time has thinned their branches and weakened their trunks.  They’re not yet a safety hazard, but we know that someday, down they’ll come, so we make contingency plans for their removal.  The next door neighbour comments how much she enjoys seeing those trees from her front window and watching the squirrels and rabbits come and go and we think, “One more year.”

Here’s the thing:  this Christmas, Young Mr. DD, who has spent the past several years working in forests, planting trees, measuring the growth and health of the flora there, stood at our front window and watched our trees.  After a few moments, he said something which shocked me more than all the environmental  studies and messages I have heard the past few years.  His comment?  “Those are pretty healthy trees you have there.”  I looked at him in disbelief; his father and I both argued  that the trees were definitely not well and would have to come down soon.  Mr. Young DD’s response was this:

“You don’t see the trees that I see every day.  They are far worse than those two out there.”

Take a moment to think about that and what it might mean.  Two old, sickly, out of place fir trees are healthier than what a forest worker works with every day.  Draw your own conclusions: I’ve heard the stories about what happens in the woods and I know the sources to be reliable, but they are not my stories to tell.  Consider this: everything has an end and there will come a time when the forests are gone, but perhaps we should not be in such a rush to help that process along. For no matter where we are, in the heart of the woods, on the tops of bare mountains or on a city street deep in the prairies, those trees give us and all beings, Life. When that last tree falls in that last forest, there will soon be no one left to hear it.  And that will be another kind of murder.

Namaste.  

Spill the Wine: Winter Count and Random Thoughts on a Saturday Night

Coleen and I spent a pleasant few hours together yesterday, weaving, chatting and eating.  I did some random weaving on my Cactus Loom-the pipe loom is too heavy to carry far-then came home, inspired to work on the Winter Count tapestry this evening.

Day Three:

Yes, things always go better with wine, especially organic wine, which I believe can be classified as a health food. (That's my story and I'm sticking to it.)  I can manage only one glass of wine while weaving; by the second glass, things go terribly askew.

Weavers will note that I'm incorporating soumak knots (with a line or two of rya pile knots) into this piece. Those knots are a nod to Colin's Wednesday yoga class, where he talked about untying knots in the body by using the breath. Here I'm adding knots; the rhythm of winding thread around thread calms my breath and body.

In today's meditation class, we explored using a three part Viloma Breath to connect past, present and future.  Although it's important not to dwell in the past, what has gone before determines what we are Now. Although mindfulness brings awareness to the present, it also reminds us to consider what is important and allows us to use the present to build the future.

My tapestry weaving is much like this practice-each pass of the weft thread focuses my attention.  I can only think of Now as I position line upon line of weaving; distractions mean skips in the fabric, unfilled warp threads which require reweaving. Those passes build upon each other. What has gone before determines what will be woven in the future.  A strong foundation guides the unknown outcome.  Despite that Not Knowing, experience has taught me that each pattern will eventually form a cohesive cloth, though seldom one which went according to plan.

It's a pretty good way to spend a Saturday night-weaving, drinking wine, listening to Holger Petersen's Saturday Night Blues.  Outside, the temperature is rising, snow is blowing.  All is well.

Or perhaps I'm just drinking really good wine.

Namaste.