I washed my handwoven and now it’s fabric. It’s been drying on the lower half of our front door:
It’s like a banner, saying: “a weaver lives here.”
Or perhaps “This here is crazy cat lady territory. Enter at own risk.”
A man walked by, just a I was checking the progress on the drying. I caught his eye and said: “Wove it myself. Spun it too!” 🙂
Then he said: “My older brother used to be a professor, at a university. Then one day he quit his job and bought himself a loom.”
He smiled again. Nodded and walked on.
I was touched. And confused. And felt some sort of recognition. Like I should understand this, as a weaver? I was amused at how the memory was prompted in him and how he had shared his story. And I was endeared by the coincidental encounter with an anonymous, civilized person. And confused. A lot of confused.
Also, our sweet pea that didn’t die this Winter is now telling everyone it’s already Summer:
It smells so sweet! Like Jasmin. Bees are flocking.
Sweety pea, we had viscous hale storms only last week. It’s not Summer yet. I’m still processing wool. Still wearing wrist cuffs and woolen hats.
The world is a confusing place this Wednesday.
Perhaps I should take up a day job as a professor, just to even things out a bit?
Or do it just to fall in step with the general, humourous weirdness that is life.