Paying Attention - To What?

And now, a dramatic reading from my elementary school report cards ... (ahem...) 

Let us begin.

Grade the First

Leslie is a capable child. She is a daydreamer and this causes her to make careless mistakes.

Grade the Third

Leslie seems more concerned with the outside activities than with her schoolwork.

Grade the Fourth

She daydreams too much (with the caveat: Has creative ability)

Does not like the subject (Math) so daydreams while class is going on.

Grade the Fifth

Needs to pay more attention in class.

(I left out multiple comments from the same teacher. Seemed overkill when other teachers could help emphasize the point.)

Forty-nine years later, I have no idea what I was daydreaming about. I obviously did it. A lot. 

Likely I was trying to find an answer — just not to the question at hand. Or, maybe ... I thought the answer was out the window.

And while I'm sure Science and Math were more important, I can clearly picture myself, sitting in a classroom, staring out the window — watching the outside world. To this day, it is a vivid image.

I can't picture what was on the blackboard (based on the report cards, it would be fair to deduce it was either Math or Science.)

Mrs. Harris would be proud of where I am today. After begging my parents to discuss, with me, overcoming my 'fault,' I did indeed make it through, not only, fifth grade (she was very concerned — I believe 'afraid' was the word she used) but high school, college and graduate school. I've had a successful (depending on the definition) career. 

At some point, back then, I started to pay attention. My grades went from mediocre to those of an honor student. I learned that daydreaming was a waste of time and unproductive. That what was taking place external to me had more value than what was taking place inside of me, through my daydreams. I learned others had the answer. I didn't.

Sit down, shut up, do as you're told.

The answer is not out the window.

Pay attention.

But, sometimes what's going on inside of you is trying to tell you to pay attention to what's happening outside. 

Some call it intuition, some call it a gut reaction. It's that nebulous thing you can't ... quite ... put ... your ... finger... on.

You are paying attention. 

Just not to what others want you to pay attention to. 

All the while believing your intuition isn't trustworthy, and others still have the answer.

Maybe 'they' were wrong. Maybe daydreaming isn't a waste of time. Maybe they don't have the answer. Maybe your intuition is on the mark.

So I sit in my office and stare out the window at the trees, the traffic and life that is out there ... knowing I should pay more attention to what is going on in the office and less attention to what's going on outside the office (see Miss Zachary, I can be taught, I just can't be forced to conform, even after all these years.) 

Because maybe, the answer is out the window. And if I stare long enough, it will come to me.

Does that cloud look like an elephant to you?

P.S. I shared this before posting - and the first thing they said was "Interesting that at the end you say you can't be forced to conform. And yet, it's obvious you have."  Must think on that.

My Father, Myself - Part the Second

Meet my dad - 

These are prized pictures. Albert Stanley was rarely photographed.  

Can you guess why?

Yes, my dad wore cameras the way most people wear watches.

Dad was a geek before anyone knew there were such things. He would have LOVED our digital, virtual, plugged in world. I guarantee it.

They say past behavior can predict future actions (or something like that), so while I will never have hard evidence to prove my hypothesis, I can only speculate on the number of 'toys' dad would have. The answer, based the storage tub full of camera equipment I inherited, would be a s#*t load. 

No, let me take that back ... I only inherited some of it, when he died. The rest came into my possession when he grew tired of the camera/lens/flash or the latest, greatest, new and improved thing was released. Doesn't this sound like someone who would love technology that is obsolete the minute it comes out and begs to be upgraded? 

As it turned out, photography was something my father and I could share (I was just smart enough to let him do all the shopping.)

While my dad had always enjoyed taking pictures, it wasn't until I had gone off to college that he got into it with a vengeance. Because of his health, he had retired early and photography filled that creative void when he was no longer designing for steel mills. (I guess designing mill buildings can be creative — if you're into that kind of thing. I can't say I ever saw the beauty in them, but then, I can't say I was ever all that interested in steel mills period.) 

In my final semester of college, I took a black & white photography class. My dad was over the moon excited. He was more than willing to go on 'field trips' with me to play with the cameras and lenses. We'd both record shutter speeds, apertures, film used, and lighting conditions so that we could go back and dissect why the pictures came out the way they did. I still have many of those records and proof sheets — his and mine. I don't know why...

Imagine my father's delight when I took a job with a professional photography lab and then as a manager of a camera store. And he could barely contain his excitement when I started doing B&W developing and printing in my basement.

(To this day, the smell of Dektol brings back fond memories ... like spending a Friday evening, during college, with a friend in a darkroom to see what developed. Thirty-three years of marriage later, we're still trying to figure it out! But on that Friday night, it was homework for my photography class ... what were you thinking?)

At some point, I gave up photography as a hobby. The camera equipment was banished to the basement. Maybe because my dad wasn't there to share it with anymore. Maybe because, with two small children, a point and shoot was easier. Maybe because, at some point, I decided I had no photographic talent and abandoned it.

Who knows?

The shutter bug has bit, again, and I'm on the hunt for a digital single lens reflex (DSLR). I know what the popular brands are — Canon, Nikon — but these are not what I'll get. Mine will be a Pentax. Because they are still around ... because my dad was a Pentax man ... because I still have a s#*t load of inherited lenses.

Mostly because I will be able to hear my dad's voice. I know he'll be there, guiding and loving every digital moment. And I'll enjoy the re-connection — to photography and my father. 

Once again I will be reminded of his favorite, and oft used, expression: "I've taken hundreds of great pictures. Too bad there wasn't any film in the camera." I wonder how he'd deal with the fact that cameras don't require film these days and those 'great pictures' would be captured?

I'm guessing the delete button would have been his friend. 

I know it will be mine.

Now, off to find a camera and see what develops ...

I Can Be Taught... (StitchesMidwest Part 2)

Well, kind of. 

If nothing else, I'm good at paying attention and knowing what was said. I may not be as good putting it into practice.

First, let me start by saying that the teachers at StitchesMidwest were AWESOME. They knew their topics and were good at communicating to their audience. As a recovering corporate trainer, I can tell you, this is difficult even with good trainer training. So please understand, as I sing their praises, I was a tough and discerning observer, not only of the subject, but also how it was being taught. Subject matter experts do not necessarily know how to teach (why do you think there are corporate trainers?) 

And these were Subject Matter Experts Extraordinaire.

My first class was a short market session on Continental knitting. For the non-knitters here: there are generally two techniques for knitting. English style is done by 'throwing' the yarn over the needle with the right hand. Continental is 'picking' the yarn being held in the left hand. Neither is wrong, just different, and allows for changing up how the hands are being utilized.

Kellie Nuss was very patient in working with each of us, watching how we held our yarn, managed our tension and made the movements for both the knit and purl stitches. (I got the knit stitch, no problem. Purl stitch? Problem.) Kellie demoed  by using large needles and bulky yarn that made watching her hand movements easier, and she circulated around the group so we got different views of those movements. So while I didn't master Continental knitting, I do feel confident enough to keep practicing. And for a market session, that's all I could ask.

My next class was a three hour session on the Ergonomics of Knitting. Now this sounds like a snoozer, right? But I needed to figure out how to lessen the fatigue in my hands and shoulders as I knit — so I went. And let me tell you, Carson Demers knows his stuff (and he should. He's a physical therapist and a Certified Ergonomics Assessment Specialist) and how to make it as entertaining as one can make learning about posture. He dispelled the myth that Continental knitting was faster than English, depending on who was doing the knitting (I would not be fast at Continental, at least not yet) but that it was a way to ease problems that arise from repetitive motion by switching up how the hands work the yarn and needles. And he explained why knitting 'injuries' are far more prevalent today than in years past (computers, anyone?) 

Who knew one of the worst things we, as knitters, could do was sit smooshed up in our favorite comfy arm chair, feet tucked under us, to knit? That it will only add to our pain in the long run? Turns out, we're not doing ourselves any favors by propping our arms on a table or chair arms either.

I learned the benefits of square knitting needles, using circulars, having multiple projects going at the same time on a variety of needle sizes and yarn weights as well as the reason I shouldn't sit knitting for hours at a time. And holding a warm cup of tea, before starting to knit, is a good thing.

After that three hour class, I still find myself assessing how I can ensure that my "happy place" (knitting) doesn't cause me pain ... and next time I'm taking Carson's Swatch-buckling class so I can learn to knit and walk at the same time.

Enough for today — next week I'll gush about my class with Franklin Habit who was every bit as lovely as I had hoped he'd be.

I Am a Sheep in Knitter's Clothing

Dear SpaceCadet®,

Your enthusiasm is catchy. You wrote in your blog about loving the addictive Zoom Loom. How you couldn't put it down. That it was so much fun. And it was a great way to use mini-skeins or leftover yarn.

Turns out, I am a sheep. (I'd have said lemming, but that didn't seem to fit in the fiber community.)

So ... Now I have one ...

... and not sure what to do with it?

Just so you know, I have local enablers. A gaggle of them that are MORE than willing to help me spend money. Do I really need someone enabling me from Pittsburgh?

Now, to be fair, I trust your opinion because, well ... how can I not trust someone who dyes some of the most beautiful yarn I've seen? The creator of my very first yarn club (yes I am a proud and loyal member of the InterStellar Yarn Alliance.)

When I bought the loom, at StitchesMidwest, the first thing my traveling enablers companions said was "I had one of those as a kid. To make potholders." 

So did I!

Maybe that's why it called to me from across the marketplace. Maybe it wasn't you. No, I distinctly remember saying "OMG, that's the thing the SpaceCadet® loved." Maybe I'm just rationalizing by pretending it's nostalgia.

When I got the loom home, my husband took one look at it and said "wow, my grandfather used to make potholders on something just like that."

Enough with the potholders already! 

So I've spent time researching what can be done with a Zoom Loom. I was a bit discouraged when the first thing I found were coasters. Aren't those just miniature potholders? Things picked up a bit when I started looking at what others were doing by joining the squares — like a blanket. Then I realized there were YouTube® videos, websites, Pinterest® boards, and Ravelry® groups. All around the topic of weaving on a small loom.

Who Knew? Turns out this thing is baaaad. (Good thing it's sheep and not lemmings. I have no idea what a lemming sounds like.)

So I suppose it's time to pull out some yarn (not yours, right now. Maybe after I've practiced - I'm not wasting the good stuff.) I'll keep you posted on how it goes. Or you'll know when I join the mini-skein club. But one thing at a time.

What's the worse that's can happen? I'll have a lot of potholders and coasters. It's all good.

Your's in Fiber,
Leslie

P.S. - We had Show and Tell last night at the yarn store.  Everyone wanted to know what I was going to do with the potholder maker. I am soooo going to show them!

What Does K-N-I-T spell? Community! (StitchesMidwest Part 1)

SQUEEEE - that's my experience at Stitches Midwest in one word. One made up word, but one word none-the-less.

What an experience and what a community!  I'm thrilled to be a part of both.

It began with a five hour ride with two of my enablers friends from the local yarn store. I don't think the conversation stopped the entire time and made the five hours fly. Am I wrong?

Then there was the Market. Major Squeeee! We entered (one with a color coded map and attack plan, one with some ideas of vendors to visit, and one who basically said "whatever") and were bombarded with the sight (and dare I say smell?) of yarn. Gorgeous yarn. LOTS OF IT! And not your everyday, 'I can get this at the local store', yarn. These were independent dyers who loved to tell you what their inspiration was for a particular colorway or why they used the base they did. I've been to trade shows where employees hawk the corporate wares, but this was a room full of passion. From the yarn, to the hand-thrown yarn bowls, the hand-carved drop spindles, the felted stitch markers and the custom made project bags (to name just a few.)

A community of passionate people who loved what they did. How many of us can say that on a daily basis?

And their passion was (ummm...) contagious...  

(So contagious that one of us walked around the market, for three days, with a broken toe. Not once complaining, even when the other two of us winced at how painful it looked. Perhaps a study on using yarn as a non-narcotic pain medication is needed. What am I saying?! Yarn is addictive!)

Then there were the connections...

Many times the topic of using an acrylic yarn would come up and I'd mention it was the only yarn I gave my mother to knit with. Since this isn't a yarn most of us knit with (see descriptions of market above), there were questioning looks as to why I'd do that to my mom. Tell them it's due to the dementia, and the stories of others dealing, or having dealt, with the same come pouring out. Like the story of the mother, with Alzheimer's, who in her last days, had all of her daughters come and knit with and around her — one last time.

Connections that we all had a story. Connections that we all used knitting to get us through the hard times. Connections that showed us we're not alone.

No matter where you sat, if there were other knitters near, an easy conversation started. "Where are you from?" "What are you working on?" "I've been wanting to make that, would you be willing to help?" "Did you see glass stitch markers in the market?" and the ever popular "What did you buy?"

Connections that make a community.

A community that also includes its own set of rock stars. Yes, there are knitting celebrities. Yes, some of them have egos. No, I didn't meet any of them. Yes, I did try to act normal nonchalant around Franklin Habit and impress him with my creativity (I kind of failed on both accounts, except when I used my Hershey kisses to improvise as the square tiles we were using to create designs. I hated telling him it wasn't so much creativity as it was laziness to get up and get two more tiles. But he took a picture of it because he thought it was cute. This was not how I had intended to impress him.)

All in all, I had a blast. I came home with a few souvenirs (did you not see the picture?), new, as well, as deepened connections with other knitters, and new knowledge about my craft and myself - but more on that later. 

I have a yarn hangover. SQUEEEE!

We're Not Your Grandmother's Knitters

If the last two days brought to mind music, today the tempo is more upbeat and the theme is Billy Joel's song and the line "you may be right, I may be crazy." Only substitute WE for I.

For tomorrow I am off to STITCHES Midwest. I'd have said a knitting convention, but that just pisses off the crocheters and they have feelings too.

And I am pumped or in the vernacular of the fiber community SQUEEEE!

I asked my husband if he wanted to drive three of us to Chicago for the weekend. He couldn't imagine why I wanted him there until I suggested that if he drove, we could knit. Next came some comment about eye and sharp stick, but I told him that isn't something to be said around knitters who carry the tools of their trade.  He said he couldn't imagine spending five hours in the car with three of us, and then when he thought about a whole hotel and conference center full ... well ... needless to say, no chauffeur and one of us will be driving.

Mike's apprehension may have been based on the text conversation I was having with my 'peeps', at the time. It  was around the topic of willy warmers and penis cozies and a potential side business. (One of the knitters was at an Irish festival and thought the guys with kilts might need them. In case you're wondering, yes, there are patterns out there for them — click at your own risk if you don't believe me.)

We are NOT your grandmother's knitting group.

On Friday night we had our monthly 'Sit and Knit' (it used to be Ladies Night, but some guy complained so it got changed. I have yet to see him come — wimp.) The ages ranged from 16 to 70+. There were sweaters, socks, shawls and one unidentifiable project being made with acrylic Red Heart. Topics ranged from matchmaking (my son and the daughter of another knitter. Hey, it's the only way I hear how it's going. You think my son tells me?), progress of our projects, exploding toilets, vacation wine math (if you leave on vacation with four bottles, drink two bottles, how many bottles do you come home with? The answer is eleven), new yarn and patterns we've seen, books we're reading and in general how everyone is doing.  You know, your typical Friday night conversations. At one point I was laughing so hard I feared for bladder control and another knitter thought I was never going to breath again.

Where was I? Oh yes, the convention and why Mike won't be our chauffeur. I still don't get it. We're mostly harmless.

So tomorrow we'll pack a vehicle we finally agree on and hit the highway (Said vehicle must fit multiple suitcases, knitting paraphernalia, a spinning wheel and cooler on the way up and then all of that, on the way home along with stash enhancements acquired at said convention. My car won't work. It would get us there, but not home. Crap, I forgot about the knitters! Semi?) I anticipate five hours of knitting and laughter. What's that joke? Three knitters walk into a store, one teacher, one real estate appraiser and one college administrator...

Expect posts and pictures from Chicago where I'll be walking through a trade show, sitting in classes learning new techniques, networking with other knitters, and likely acting like a groupie in Franklin Habit's class on Saturday. Did I mention the pajama party on Friday night?

All I can say is "you may be right, we may be crazy. But it just might be a lunatic you're looking for." Oh, and SQUEEEE!

A Cacophony

I love working on a college campus this time of year. The high school marching bands come for band camp and shortly, the university marching band will be back. Soon, sounds of the fight song will compete with the traffic noise outside my window. I enjoy the sound of the drumline and the field commanders yelling "tut, tut, tut..." to get everyone on the same beat.

It's a beautiful thing when it all comes together — everyone playing the same song and moving in the right direction.

But as someone who had been a chaperone at band camp, for three years, I can tell you it's not always that way. I've seen kids trip (while the director yelled "watch the tuba"), lines move in the wrong direction and the occasional time when a whole section is playing the wrong song. It reminded me of the scene in National Lampoon's Animal House with the band marching into a wall.

A Cacophony

Too much noise ... too much chaos ... 

Not enough direction

While yesterday called for the sound of silence, today brings a cacophony of thoughts and images that haven't begun moving together. I don't think they even know what song they're supposed to be playing.

So the internal field commander is quietly repeating "tut, tut, tut" while the director works to take the noise and chaos and blend it into something that makes sense.

I am the director ... I should have paid more attention in music class.

The Sounds of Silence

There are days where there is only one option ...

... Silence.

This is one of those days.

Maybe tomorrow will be different.