Like a beautiful thread.
The past days. Pulled me through a cloud of doubt. Restored the trust in Just Going.
I dyed some thread. Indigo. Indigo is different than other dyes. I use, or simulate a rope dyeing technique I became familiar with when I worked in textiles. In a nutshell, the thread is twisted into a rope and dipped quickly and repeatedly into and out of the vat. This gives a nice color as it oxidizes in between dips and develops a rich, subtly variegated color, layer on layer, but also never allows the color to penetrate to the core of the thread, which creates the beautiful fading over time as the color wears off the surface through use. Exposing the original color of the thread. I could say a lot more about this, the many ways that indigo wears and fades and how to engineer a path to that. But with thread, hand stitching, through layers of cloth creates friction and the fibers wear away more quickly. Depending on the thread's character, and what cloth and stitch you are using, the worn look can happen as you work. And I have always loved that. So that is the story of how I spend the time to try to make that happen...
I was amazed that he sat there while it dried and didn't interfere. Self control comes with age I guess.
I just realized Indigo is not in my glossary yet, that's rather funny... I'll get to that, because my relationship to it goes way back, before internet time.
I also dyed some clouds, tree tops actually. Here still wet, resting on my mother's (her mother's actually) rocker. Many dips. Been pulling bits of green from the basket while noticing some of the leaves are turning already. It's been a long hot summer and the trees seem tired. It is going to be a big acorn year. The squirrels are smiling.
A bit more stitching here, while making some mental notes about story. How it might be based on a lie or a truth. How story is, in any form, is a form of connection. How it is a tool. A thread. How it might lose its strength when the spell of connection is lost.