No More Mickeying Around

At one time, my studio housed equipment for the highway department. For about 20 years, it was the store and central meeting place for our whitewater canoe and kayak school. When we closed that business, it became my studio. We've done some work on the building, and it's paid for, which I love. But it's fall. The flies and Asian lady beetles are swarming in the front windows. And I have a mouse problem -- again.

Old fashioned mouse deterrent -- can lids nailed over holes in floor.

In a rural area, at this time of year the mice are trying to get comfy for the winter. I'm fine with them being snug and happy -- elsewhere. But I don't go and poop in their space, and I'd prefer that they show me the same consideration.

It's my own fault. Over the years, I've collected too much stuff in my studio. Most of it is in plastic bins so it's protected -- assuming I don't get distracted and leave a lid off, or stuff it so full the lid won't shut tight. But there are too many places for mice to feel safe while they poop on my shelves.

So I'm in the midst of a cleaning/thinning/dejunkifying process. This is a guarantee that within six weeks I'll have a pressing need for something I just pitched or took to the thrift store.

Cleaning Day

Still, it feels good. It's like I'm giving myself permission to:

• not finish that pile of stuff from class demos this year.
• not finish that pile of stuff from class demos five years ago.
• not pursue those ideas that seemed brilliant eight years ago (if they were so brilliant, I would have pursued them by now).
• not keep a dib of this and a dab of that (I'm thrifty, but the stuff was all dried up).
• not hoard every little scrap of fabric (except the silks).

As I declutter my studio, I'm decluttering my head. This is something I've been working on for a few weeks. I've needed to let go of some possibilities and quit letting them distract me from the work I need to be doing now.

Now if you'll excuse me, I think I'll open a can of beans for supper. Those are my favorite lids to nail over mouse holes.

Color My World

A few years back, most of my work (and most of my teaching) was coiled vessels made with natural materials I grew or gathered myself. I spent more time then with other basketmakers who also worked with natural materials they grew or gathered themselves. This is a group who knows how to celebrate the richness of subtle shades -- brown, golden brown, orangey brown, rosey brown, reddish brown, greenish brown...

Even though my work has branched off in another direction, I still love these natural colors. But to work with a broader palette, I've had to learn a whole new set of skills.

In my studio, I have a shelf of books devoted to color (my favorite is Deb Menz's ColorWorks: The Crafter's Guide To Color)  and three color wheels. Yesterday, this post from Design*Sponge started other wheels turning in my head (the usual ones about different people at different times having different perceptions of the "same" things).

Design*Sponge linked only to Part 1 of Jude Stewart's two-part post on The Wonderful Color Wheel at Imprint. I enjoyed reading Part 2 as well.

After that, I couldn't help poking around at bit at Imprint. Which led me to this post about wild cucumbers -- and back to natural materials. Back to brown. And to this reflection:

We love what we love.

Take a look in your closet, your yarn stash, your fabric stash, at your walls, at the photos you take, at your other artwork. What color tells your story?

The Creative Fire

So far this month, we've had just enough frosty nights that we're back in the habit of a morning fire to take the chill off. On the whole, I don't miss burning wood, which is how we kept from freezing in the old farmhouse. There's more charm in the idea of a crackling fire than there is the bugs, debris and occasional bat carried inside with the firewood.

When we built the new house, we installed a small wood stove for spring and fall and times when the power is out. But we don't keep a big wood pile any longer. We burn wood scraps from Bill's shop when we just need a small fire.

It took us a while to learn how to build a fire in the new house. Where the old house was, shall we say, very well ventilated, the new house is really tight. When the stove is cold, it's a challenge to get the thing to draw. We filled the house with smoke a few times before we learned to open the outside door in the laundry room before striking a match.

Because I've been battling the crud in my lungs this month, each fire has been built with exquisite care. I need the fire to catch quickly and burn clean. I need heat without drama.

As I was laying a fire the other day, it struck me how similar the process is to what I do in the studio when I need to start something new: Lay kindling, open the back door, strike a match, build some heat and coals, then feed the fire.

Over the years, I've smothered my share of fires, in the wood stove and in the studio, because I piled on too much too soon. Lesson learned. I can be patient. Things will heat up shortly. Then I can close the back door and enjoy the glow.

UnMuddling

Last week I mentioned an idea incubation tool I call my Unmuddling Notebook. It's my personal alternative to Morning Pages, a basic tool in Julia Cameron's The Artist's Way. Instead of writing three pages first thing each day, I write one or two lines in the morning and one or two lines at night.

My evening lines are a task I assign to my subconscious to work on overnight -- things I'd like it to help me clarify or unmuddle. It might be something very specific, or very general. Last night I wrote, "I need fresh eyes."

My morning lines are about what I want to make sure I'm paying attention to today. It might be the first thing that pops into my head when I wake up, or something I consciously pluck from the swirl of thoughts that returns when my eyes open. This morning it was "Reflections."

For me, writing morning and evening lines is a reminder to keep the heat turned up in my creativity incubator, and to be paying attention when something hatches. It's also a reminder that I have some choice in the matter of what gets my attention. Each morning and each evening, I make some choice about where to look for inspiration. Likewise, each morning, each evening, and during the hours in between, I have to let some things go -- maybe not forever, but for now.

Fitting The Pieces Together

We finally finished the bezillion-piece puzzle we started while my parents were visiting. It's been a welcome distraction, and a useful reminder that eventually things all fall into place.

My mom wasn't feeling well during their visit, but she was happy to sort puzzle pieces. First we found the four corners and the pieces with straight edges. Then we searched for the pieces with the red and white title. Next we worked the map. After my folks left, I worked on the rest of the pieces with text and the faces. While I was at Sievers, Bill filled in the inner border. When I got home, we were down to the hard part -- lots of blue and gray without clear distinguishing marks to help place the pieces. And some of the pieces were not "puzzle shaped." Out of context, they wouldn't hold together while you searched for what went with them.

Does this sound like a metaphor? It sure seems like one to me.

Working on the puzzle has been a good distraction at a time when I need a little distraction. I'm trying not to think too hard about some stuff I have incubating. As Paul Williams wrote a while back on Think For A Change, incubation is:

...a bit like grabbing a wet bar of soap...the harder you squeeze, the more difficult it is to hang onto it. 

I'm at a natural transition point in my work where it makes sense to step back and take a fresh look at possibilities. This puzzle has a lot of pieces, and I have no clue how some of them fit it. For now.

Life doesn't come with a helpful picture on the box of what things are supposed to look like when you get it all put together. Sometimes I kind of wish it did. And sometimes I squeeze the soap.

But there isn't a timetable for this process. There's no expiration date on possibility. I've learned to be more patient than I ever dreamed was possible. That may be because I have better tools now for making sure I'm paying attention when all these ideas start to hatch and the pieces start to fit together.

Next time I'll tell you about my "unmuddling" notebook. In the meantime, what tools to you use to keep from squeezing the soap?

Sleep On It

Mom always said, "It will all make more sense after you sleep on it." Turns out, she was right again. As part of my intention to pay attention as I incubate some ideas that are kicking around in my head, I may be adding naptime to my daily planner.

The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Dye Test

Last week, during the 5-day spinning class I took at Sievers, I wasn't surprised when talk turned to using powdered unsweetened soft drink mix to dye wool and silk. I was surprised to learn that Mexican Kool-Aid may yield better color than the American product. The woman at the wheel next to me is from an area in northern Minnesota that is as rural as where I live. We both assumed there wouldn't be much chance of finding the product in our local grocery stores.

I don't know about her, but I was wrong. It is in my local supermarket -- right at eye level in an aisle I pass down every time I'm in the store.

How many times do we dismiss possibilities because we assume they won't be available so we don't look for them at all? This time, I looked.

It's time for me to make sure I'm paying attention to other possibilities I might be overlooking. After a summer packed with learning as well as teaching, I need to use some of the incubation exercises I give my students on myself. Want to play along?