Going through a fire is a curious thing. When I ran out of my burning house on the night of February 5, 2014, my life was in the process of changing forever in ways it would take years to see and understand. One thing that I lost that night and haven’t gotten back since was my life as a fiber artist. I lost big baskets full of my handspun art yarns, fiber art pieces in process including a nearly 15′ long “Rainbow Serpent Of The Dreamtime” that I had been working on for nearly a year crocheted from more than 30 of my handspun yarns. It was a piece of my heart. So many more aspects of my fiber life were gone. Hand carders and the big drum carder I made “batts” on. (Batts are rolls of fluffy, beautiful fibers with many elements for spinning in them, I made and sold my batts and handspun art yarns and fiber pieces before the fire.) That night my fiber life was the last thing on my mind. I barely made it out with my dogs, I lost my 4 beloved parrots in the fire, a lifetime of physical possessions and more than I care to go into yet again, but the loss of that part of me that was a fiber artist would prove to be a greater loss than I could have imagined or realized.
Time goes on, years go by, and the funny thing about life after a fire is that you have a kind of amnesia. You are in shock for some time, then you have to deal with very basic aspects of piecing a life back together on a survival level. You forget a lot about what you had and lost unless it was a very active part of your life at the time of the fire, or the loss of living things, and you move back into your rebuilt home as if into a stranger’s home, and you don’t know where anything is. That is another very curious thing about life after a fire. Directly after the time of the fire the insurance company mobilizes with several different people, the people who will rebuild the house come only after the team that photographs everything the way it looks after the actual fire. These photographs are a horror. Then they remove and destroy everything that was damaged or destroyed in the fire but they also do something very interesting. There are a curious assortment of things that may survive the fire. It is a real puzzle and a mystery as to what survives and what doesn’t. They photograph everything that remains in situ and after the fire, pack it up and put it in storage, and after the house is rebuilt and you are ready to move back in, months later, they bring everything back that survived, along with the things you have had to purchase to put back in the house, and they put it all away before you walk in the house. They are going by the pictures of where things were for the most part but because so much was lost and is gone there is no way to do exactly that. The upshot of the whole thing is you move into a house that feels like a strangers and you haven’t a clue where anything is.
I moved back into this house the end of September, 2014. I am still finding things I had no clue that I still had. They returned things that I found it impossible to believe could have survived and other things I thought might have made it are gone forever. In this way I discovered, after a time, that some of my handspindles and a few other small pieces of equipment, small handheld things, did indeed survive. But I didn’t have the heart to try to use them.
What did survive, however, was an amazing amount of fiber and yarn because it was in big plastic bins on the far side of the garage against a concrete wall. It was all there when I moved back in but I was so lost I didn’t think about it or care. But every time I go out into the garage to get something or get in my car there it all is. I have begun to look at it with a little more curiosity — what, exactly, is there? — but still without the will to do anything with it. At one point I did knit a little but not much and not for long. My heart just wasn’t in it.
And then there’s something else. I was not a properly trained fiber artist. I was self-taught. I couldn’t follow a pattern, knitting-wise, to save my life. I taught myself to handspin yarn and knit and crochet and everything that I did was freeform, intuitive, instinctive. I had a kind of wild, cockeyed, zest for creating, I loved it, I just forged ahead, I learned to create art yarns that I was proud of and fiber art pieces that delighted me. It was as if it was an ancient piece of my soul come alive, as if I had done it through lifetimes in a primitive sort of way. But then the fire happened, and I lost so much, and so much time went by, and I became afraid to try again. All that zest for creating was gone. I was too sad, and tired, and scared, and I didn’t have the money to replace all the things that were lost. I didn’t see the point. Finally it was as if I had forgotten that I could ever do any of it and I didn’t believe I could ever do it again.
I think that is the cruelest thing about a tragedy like a fire. “Things” can be replaced or will be forgotten, and frankly, once you lose so much in a fire “things” don’t seem important anymore. I used to love to shop — I loved it too much — but even if it was just inexpensive little thrift store finds I had an acquisitive nature that had me collecting things for years. When those things can be swept away in an instant it does something to you. Things don’t matter to me anymore. But, there was all that fiber, all that yarn, some spindles, some knitting needles and crochet hooks, my beloved spoolknitters. Some things remained. They surely did. But what the fire took that cut the deepest was the confidence I had once had in myself. A fire leaves you scared, and feeling unsafe in the world. It happens so quickly, without warning, and is so devastating it is hard to believe you can ever be safe again, that you will ever be able to have a life that matters, that you can count on. After a fire you can count on nothing.
But today something surged in me, a kind of awakening. I got up from my desk chair here, went into the garage, picked out a few spindles from a bucket they found their way into somehow when the insurance people were putting things away, and went through a couple of bins of fiber. I pulled out three bags of fiber and one handspun yarn. I sat here with it and stared at it. I didn’t know what to do or how to begin. I still don’t, but I pulled some fiber out of each bag and spread it here on the table before me. I cut a piece of the handspun yarn and tied it around the shaft of the spindle, winding it up around the hook on the top. I worked the fibers in my fingers and began. It is a messy, sad effort, I felt shy and embarrassed at how much I seem to have forgotten, but I started.
It is all sitting here around me now. I remember the days when my work table was full of books and notebooks — all the accoutrements of my writing life — and bags of fiber all around me, all different types of fibers, every color of the rainbow, and a jar full of spindles, handmade wooden crochet hooks, and more — the accoutrements of my fiber life — and they were all of a piece. I always had them side by side because when I got too much in my head with my writing I would shift to the work of my hands, my fiber work. It created a much needed balance. I realized today that a big part of my emotional difficulties since the fire has been that I have lived completely in my head, with anxiety and depression, and my broken heart, with nothing to balance it. We need to move from our head to our hands to have balance. I had none at all.
I really am afraid. I am afraid that I won’t be able to do it again, that I won’t do a good job. But who am I doing it for anyway? I am doing it for myself. I am not going to start a fiber business. If, as time goes along, I have a piece of fiber art for sale here or there, I will share it here on my blog, but if that does happen it will be way down the line. I will spin yarns for my own use. Right now, in this moment, I have promised myself that I will spin a spindle full of yarn just to do it, just to see how it feels. It feels awkward. It is like having ridden a bicycle all your life and then being afraid to get on one. Finally, you learned how to once and you can learn how to again. I learned how, once upon a time. I will find my way.
The fire took so much. I will not let it take this. I don’t know how it will turn out but today I have begun. For now, it is enough.
The Experiment ~A 365 Day Search For Truth, Beauty &
Happiness: Day 1 ~ Introduction To The Project
“Do or do not. There is no try.”
Yoda
Oh dearest one. I have never faced thr devestation of a fire, but sadly devestation of a another loss. I so want to get back to the things that brought me joy once upon a time. My critical self asks why when I only feel saddness. I hope to take your example and just try to see if indeed I am only capable of experiencing saddness ot if I can allow a little joy in. Best of luck on your fiber adventure. Hugs.
Oh Dear Lauren… First of all, I am hugging you tenderly, I feel your sadness and your pain, I am so sorry for whatever loss you have had to endure…
Then, the thing is, that while we are still alive we must live, this is what I am learning. I have burrowed down deep in a cocoon afraid to make a move, and it is still really hard for me. Babysteps, that’s the thing. I am not trying to take on all the fiber tasks I once accomplished ongoing with ease and joy, I am bumbling along, slowly, working at spinning one spindle of yarn. I have no idea what I will do after this and I don’t need to know today. This is how we do it, one step, one moment at a time. It’s all we can do.
And thank you for your good wishes. I wish the same for you dearheart. May we each hold onto whatever little pieces of peace we can find, and revel in the littlest of joys along the way…
Maitri, I went on a bike ride for the first time recently in decades. It was scary to me.
Yes, I had ridden around a bit before buying a new bike, but that was just up the street and back.
It was lovely, a ride through the woods and along the coast on a perfect bike trail in the local national park. Of course, I’m still full of fears — can my knees take it, my arms are incredibly tired, yada, yada.
It’s all about taking a leap beyond our worries, I think, to remind ourselves of things that have brought joy in the past, whether fiber art or riding a bike.
Sending love and hugs to you and the pugs,
Lisa
Oh Lisa, what fun! A bicycle! You are brave and I am so excited for you!
And yes I come more and more to the knowing that we have to live while we are alive, whatever that means to each of us. I have been afraid to move at all since the fire. I’ve barely moved out of this chair. And since my debacle Monday night at the restaurant and then the police and as the week went along days of computer problems I haven’t even ridden my stationary bike so I want to tell you that you are an inspiration to me and I’m going to get my butt on my bike RIGHT NOW! Thank you.
I appreciate the love, and the hugs, and the inspiration! Onwards and Upwards we go!
Hugs back,
Maitri
Well, it’s all part of creating life as it is now, as you wrote in your post today (Monday); no, we can’t do all of the things that we did in our past, but just consider what we can do. It’s something that I always try to remind myself.
But, it’s a good thing to keep moving!
Yes dearheart, and you know, since I started keto, and am losing weight, and feeling better, and starting to move, what is amazing to me is that in the balance with all the things I can no longer do there are SO many things that I now CAN do that I never thought I could! And yes, to keep moving is a very good thing indeed!
Enjoy your bicycle! What color is it? I have a friend in Australia who is our age who just recently got a bright red bicycle and her helmet is bright red with white polka dots! It is adorable! I love that. Onwards and upwards and away we go! 😀
As I’m reading, I see tendrils growing from an imperfect seed in scorched earth. The tendril attempts to rise from the unprepared soil and push its way up, up, up into the sunlight. Finally the first green shoot bursts through to begin its winding life as it weaves, seeking a structure to support it. Love your work, Maitri, and you’re still so hard on yourself.
Thank you so much dear Marge, what a lovely analogy. I don’t know if I’m being so hard on myself as being afraid. But I love working with fiber and I have so much here. For me, when I don’t have the extra money to begin new and different pursuits to not return to what I loved so much when the fiber is here would be foolish. And so I am slowly but surely beginning again. Just having the fiber here on my table is comforting. I will spin new dreams. It will be interesting to see where it all leads… 🙂
i have a beautiful piece of fiber art — a little woven mat — you made for me to put a hot cup of coffee on, that i treasure. it is beautiful, not at all amateurish. what you need will come back, and you will go forward, as you have so many times, in so many ways.
may i assume your computer is up and running again? so will your spindle be. the artist within you will rise and your hands will remember, and the yarn will be so very happy to be taken out of those old plastic bags and put to use!!!
mozoltov!
xo
ka
Hello Dear Katya, and oh, I had forgotten all about the little mat! I’m glad you still have and treasure it…
And yes, would you believe that I was on with technical support until after 11 last night! They are going to call me back tomorrow to make sure that everything is still going well before they close the case. What an ordeal that was but I am grateful to be back up and running.
And yes, the fiber is just lovely. I was very tentative and afraid to pull it out but it seems to be a time for new beginnings, spinning stories and yarn too! And now that my computer is fixed I can get my story written in the next couple of days. Onward and upward!
Love you dearheart, I know you are glad to have Tom home. I hope you sleep well tonight…
M. xoxox
Dear Maitri, You are such an inspiration ! I have never been through a fire. I cannot imagine what you felt. Your description of it all is very moving. Thank you for sharing your vulnerability and pain.
I hope someday you feel like posting a picture of something you create with your yarn. I have tried to learn to crochet but .. I even have been known to get tangled up in my dental floss, so you know what a disaster crocheting turned out to be. (I laugh about it). I can knit but not real well and that’s ok.
I just want you to know what an inspiration you are as you write about your fears, feelings and taking baby steps.
I send you much Love, Jean
Thank you dear Jean. There were pictures of my yarns and batts and fiber art pieces in the early years of this blog but I don’t want to post them again because then it feels like the emphasis is on what was, something I’d feel like I needed to live up to. Now I feel like a neophyte, starting over, beginning again. I am learning, as with my attempts at gardening this summer, that I am not nor will I ever be the gardener that I once was. I was younger, had more energy, and more resources to create the big gardens that I did. I am trying this summer but it is just not the same nor will it ever be. And that’s okay, it is what it is now, as will the fiber work that I do now.
There is so much pain and sadness when trying to hold onto what was or to hope that it might be able to be again. It’s just not possible. And then so much of “aging gracefully” seems to come about from being able to “let go” of so many more things than it feels possible to let go of, and yet we must. So many lessons it takes one’s breath away. Today I woke up at 6:30 and though I tried mightily and didn’t get up until a little after 9 I felt desperate to go back to sleep and afraid to get up and start the day. Now I’m up, and I’m teary, and I feel afraid, but I will make. It is a new day. I will do my best.
And I am sending you love too Jean honey, thank you so much for being there, for sharing, and for listening…
Maitri
I just finished a workshop with a group of artists who teach in colleges. There were 4 groups, each contemplating a written prompt to discuss and ultimately turn into a paper. The group I was in had as our prompt “thinking with our hands”. We concluding in part that we were happiest when using our hands to make something. The pure joy of touching and manipulating the materials……. So you, Maitri, are doing something so nourishing for your soul just to bring out the fibers and touch them. We also concluded that it is wonderful for art not to be perfect, and that act and process of making is perhaps more important than the finished piece. Take your time, but continue. Now i need to go take my own advice!!
Thank you dear Lorraine, it sounds like it was a wonderful experience, and yes, just having the fiber here means something to me although as I wrote to Jean above I was afraid to get up this morning, afraid to start my day. In bringing the fiber out I am having to confront my past, who I was as a fiber artist, and who I can no longer be. It is a different time, I am older, life is so very different. As I wrote so much of aging gracefully is learning to let go, of the past, of what once was, of what we once had or could do. The present and the future must be met and embraced where we are now, not where we once were. I’m finding this a very hard letting go process. In this moment I feel like crying. But this, too, shall pass, and I will move forward into whatever it will be.
And yes dearheart, take your own advice, take your time but carry on. It’s all we can do…
Oh, Maitri, over here (waving wildly), I would like to buy some of your handmade yarn. It doesn’t matter to me at all if it’s wonky. I just had this idea, rather, an image came into my mind, involving a multitude of colored fabrics and some uneven bight and happy yarns. I am being called to create – freehand – and I’m excited to begin!!! Love as ever, Trec
Oh my darling dear Trece, you are so kind, you made me smile. Truly, selling my yarn is not something even on the table now, maybe one day it will be. You see I can’t make a lot quickly, handspun art yarns are not a quick process, and I want to use my own yarn to create whatever it is I will create, and right now I am inching along because I am afraid. You can see what I wrote to both Jean and Lorraine above, I don’t want to keep writing the same thing over here, but I will likely write about what I’m feeling just now in today’s blogpost.
But do, DO create with your multitudes of colored fabrics and bright, uneven, happy yarns. There are so many out there. And if one day I have some I could sell you I would be honored to have my yarn be a part of your project. Begin it now and enjoy the process. It is lovely to hear you so excited. Big love to you honey… Maitri
Dear Maitri, this is such a beautiful, poignant post. I remember your “Rainbow Serpent Of The Dreamtime”, it was an amazing piece of art. I hope you’ll be able to find solace and joy in your fiber art again. Maybe there are more treasures to be discovered in those boxes in the garage! xxx
Oh thank you dear Jenny, it means a lot to me that you remember the work I once did. I hope, too, that I can find a way to find joy in beginning again. This morning I am afraid, and trying to focus, as I wrote to Jean above, not on what I once did — I can no longer create and produce in the way that I did years ago, I am older, I don’t have the resources I once did, and I am in a very different place — but to find a way to accept what it is that I can do now. There is so much on my mind about all of this this morning, and I am finding myself afraid, and a little teary, but perhaps I will be able to find my way to a new place with all of this that will feel good. I am hoping so. Thank you so much for your kind words and for being here honey…
You are MAGNIFICENT!
Oh Alice, I just wish I could hug you REAL BIG… 🙂