Haschtag Strickrausch!

In my last post I talked about Ravelry, commenting on all the wonderful qualities a group like that has to offer. One thing I didn't mention, and it is, to me, the greatest joy - being able to act silly, act like a child, like a philosopher, like a psychologist, like the crazy with imagination woman I am. To be able to reveal my complete immersion into some of the characters I knit or crochet. It is like writing a story every day, without worrying that it sounds out of touch with the real world.









When I knit Bears I imagine them meeting their new friends in Africa. Crocheting little critters has given me an outlet for symbolic references. Looking at my newest doll - Rausch - I probe into a part of my childhood - the snow-filled joys in the Black Forest. She sits opposite me in the evening when I watch TV and I explain to her the difference between now and then. Maybe living alone has made me a bit odd, but I find this oddity rather entertaining. It keeps me from dwelling on cancer, on aches and pains, on aging, on ever shrinking mobility of body and brain.
It goes beyond knitting, because it frees me to create a world of beauty and possibilities. Ravelry friends are non-judgmental. Thank you!

The oddest thought of all, while I dream on, is the recurring sense of joy, the knowledge that my soul is not shrinking. My soul is expanding. Two days ago I threw myself into the laughter of the downtown holiday scene. While feasting on Black Forest cake at the Bijan Café I observed small children on a mini ferris wheel and a toddler who stared with grave interest at the electronic device in his little hand. And yes, he touched the screen like a pro. Yesterday, after I visited a friend at a Senior Care Facility, I walked through an adjacent park, elated by the sun that shone through the leaves of brightly colored trees, and, taking lots of pictures, I was fascinated by the trunks of others.



Last night, late in the evening, I discovered my next adventure. With water colors I created a "Summer Winds" child, a doll who will sing her heart out, wear bright clothes, speak with a Jamaican accent, and know all of Bob Marley's tunes. Appropriately I have named her Marley.




Happy New Year!

Happy Holidays to Ravelry and Friends

Seven of the eight Matata boys are in the air, on their way to Minneapolis. The eighth has fallen between the cracks and I will rescue him after the holidays. Matata himself sits quietly on the sofa in the sewing/guest room. I had told him my grand-daughter would be visiting for Christmas and he had promised to guard her presents. Yesterday she cancelled - too much work - and Matata's head slumped just a bit.







I smiled at him, pointing out that it would be less work for me - no big shopping trip today. No blueberries, no chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream, no broccoli or pasta or frozen waffles or popcorn. No lentil soup from Trader Joe's. I wouldn't bake bread. I wouldn't get butter to recreate the noodle dish I fed her twenty-some years ago. And I definitely wouldn't buy mango smoothies.
"Are you sorry you put out all the decorations?"
"No," I said; "everybody enjoys the decorations. With the groceries it's different, most of those were her favorites when she was little, and some I only buy when she visits. Like ice cream. And frozen waffles."

Matata chuckles. "So you are spending the day knitting clothes for a doll. And you pretend you are not disappointed."

The conversation goes on and I measure my newest creation's feet. Again. I push and prod and twist. Her boots turned out lumpy. Rausch's boots don't fit. But, as was pointed out to me, on Ravelry, boots don't have to be perfect. They look well worn. They are hand-made. They are fine.







RAVELRY! What a formidable web presence! Over three million users strong. Worldwide. A gathering place for fiber artists. Sorted into groups with project specific names like Sock Knitters and Sockenstrickereien or pattern specifics like Granny Squares and Cable Lovers. Or fan groups like Yarn Harlot Fans. Yarn crazy people like Nuts for Noro. There are Caffeine Addicts and Sweet Tomato Heels and Ample Knitters and Saori Weavers. I've looked through Spindle Candy and Mason-Dixon Knitters and Amigurumi enthusiasts. There are thousands of groups with thousands of different names, but all have the same desire and the same effect. They are made up of creative people who support each other

I am active in The Mother Bear Project, knitting teddy bears for HIV/Aids affected children, mostly in Africa. And recently I discovered We Make Dolls, a doll making group started by Deena Thomson-Menard. In both groups I found friends. People who spend a great deal of time thinking the way I do. Wondering about color combinations. Digging through their stashes of yarn for just the right shade and feel for a new project. Clipping coupons for Michaels etc. Discussing patterns. Helping each other with difficult components and unfamiliar wording. And caring about each other.

Two years ago, when I had breast cancer, my Mother Bear group friends knitted over fifty pink teddy bears in my name. Their prayers and get well wishes surrounded me, even when I wasn't able to knit or participate on the discussion board. I will, forever, be grateful for their support.




I have just finished my first doll, the illustrious Spelladonna, designed by Deena Thomson-Menard. And now I am on a quest to create my personal alter ego, with the strange name of Rausch. Rausch is a German word. The verb is "rauschen."
Winter wind "rauscht" through bare-limbed trees.
The Christ child's golden wings "rauschen" when she mingles with the visitors at the Nürnberg Christmas Market.
The noun takes on a different personality. A "Rausch" is like an obsession. When I think of Rausch I imagine myself in the midst of a whirlwind of color. Or glitter. Looking up into the night sky and a million stars. Surrounded by the magic of a red poppy field. (though their is another Rausch that comes from ingesting too much white poppy product :) Listening to a chorus of angelic voices. A Rausch accompanies my wildest imagination. It makes me happy to be alive.

I would not have thought it possible to embark on this new adventure of doll making were it not for Ravelry. And so I wish Ravelry - its creators, participants, lurkers - most wonderful, creative holidays and a smooth entry into the next year.

As Matata would say: "Easy does it! There'll be 365 days to make whatever your heart desires!"




Happy Holidays to all my friends and families!

The Witch has Eyes

The procedure was stressful, but much easier than I had anticipated. My Bewitching Redhead has eyes now. The first needle felted eyes I have produced. I did 't even pre-draw, just jumped right in with the pupil. Once the iris was done - mixed green and brown - I relaxed a bit. The eye outlines and brows were easy. The only thing I had problems with is the white light that brings life to the eye. The yarn kept disappearing into the head. I might have overworked it.
They might not be the best eyes, but my witch can see. She sits on a chair and watches me. I am happy with her.

The Ambassador to Kenya and the Test Eyeball

The meaning of life is to find your gift. The purpose of life is to give it away.

Reflecting on this and the 21 Day Gratitude Challenge over a croissant and a cup of coffee, I have to say: this is about the best explanation for life that has been presented to me. Ever. I think Herr Goethe would be very happy if I printed this out - in real fancy letters - and hung it over my desk. Come to think of it, he would probably like it just as much if I wrote it in my clumsy hand-writing on a piece of paper and tacked it to the monitor. And ..... surprise ...... Mssr. Picasso wrote it.

After having spent most of my night, from one in the morning until five, saying good bye to Nelson Mandela, I am a bit overwhelmed by real world activities, such as sweeping leaves off my front porch, bringing along my cane to the coffee shop, reconciling gift giving and limited income, smiling when my hip refuses to act like the responsible, well oiled, and extremely functional joint it has been for 75 years.

In the glow of a flaming white candle, knitting away on a scarf for my granddaughter, I watched the NBC coverage of the Memorial Service for Madiba in the FMB Stadium in Johannesburg. There was much rain, much singing and dancing, many dignitaries, more rain, speeches, tributes, reflections, and respectful commentary by Brian Williams, supported by Charlayne Hunter -Gault. Heavy rain made transmission difficult at times, culture explosions in the stands beyond the bulletproof glass wall seemed to irritate some speakers. I can't remember who pointed out that Madiba himself would have smiled and done one of his little dances, were he present in the flesh. He certainly would have looked with pride at the singing and swaying umbrellas, I thought. The singing subsided and cheers rang in the air while Mr. Obama spoke, President Zuma received a good measure of boos. Winnie Mandela and Graca Machel embraced. President Obama shook hands with Raoul Castro. I cried. And wished Fidel had been able to be there.

Fifty-six years of many personal encounters - all imaginary - though, once I was present when Nelson Mandela spoke at the Coliseum in Oakland - have come to an end. He now resides in that big ball of goodness and light in the universe where my mother-in-law and a few others of my friends, imaginary and real, have gathered to guide me through the years to come. Guide in Peace Madiba!

So, coming back to the gift I have received - imagination and creativity - and giving it away - I have been hard at work. Around Thanksgiving I yarn-bombed a butter dish; it ended up as doll bed. Amigurumi has taken me in with a free mouse pattern by Sharon Ojala. A group of doll makers on Ravelry - led by Deena Thomson Menard has infiltrated my Bear world. Other Christmas projects like the scarf add to the fun.




I have made several mice as presents, but have only named one. She is "Ambassador to Kenya" and I have given her to my daughter "with strings/tail attached. My daughter must take at least one picture of her in Africa. I first told her that she also had to bring her back to the US, but knowing how giving she is, I changed my mind and the Ambassador to Kenya may stay in Nairobi if she is needed there.






The Ambassador to Kenya and her Mother


The other, much bigger project is a doll named Spelladonna. A witch. My first knitted doll. My first encounter with crocheted hair curls. My first I-cord fingers.
And, with fear in her eyes she says, "my first needle-felted face."




I have even knitted a tiny test eyeball to try out the newly purchased roving. I am roving in black, white, green, brown, and purplish. Little did I know when I emptied my wallet for needle felting pen and wool, that I could color white roving with a permanent marker. Well, you learn as you go along. And I am less frightened of the doll iris, now that I have mastered the eyeball. But, before I finish Spelladonna I must make serious placement and color decisions. Eyes far apart - too young to be a witch? Mouth to small -too unfriendly? Face high or low? Dots for the nose? Pink lips? Purple lips? Greenish iris?




But I haven 't neglected my Bears during all this upheaval with mice, a butter dish, and a bewitching redhead. I have finished Bears 286 to 291.












287, 288, and 291 are Matata boys, Bears 286 (Sing), 289 (Canto), and 290 (Snow Angel) are Carolers.










Dear Madiba! Tata!

I first met you in 1957, in Heidelberg, in the Foreign Student Club. I was playing chess with South African young men - young revolutionaries like you - and frightened young men who knew they had to go back home to Apartheid. They loved you. I began to love you. You never disappointed me. The last picture I saw of you, before your release from Robben Island, was a black and white taken in 1963. You had decided to deviate from passive opposition, when you saw that non-violence didn't bring about change. But you did try to avoid blood shed, being more interested in sabotage. You took in all races, including whites, into your military group, as long as they subscribed to the idea of equal rights for all. You were the one ready to die for your principles. And when you landed in jail you advised other prisoners not to allow foul language by the guards, or racial slurs. You stayed in prison when you could have gotten out if you had promised not to speak up. You urged other prisoners to educate themselves. Yes, you were at your best long before you became president, long before you became a person of interest to American news people.

Madiba! I will love you forever.