First really cold morning in October. 46 degrees.
Colder than yesterday. Warmer than last year.
Fired up. Dye po(e)ts are brooding. My dyeing these days has no calculation or expectation. I just gather what I have, what I find. And put it in a couple of old copper pots. I add water. I add cloth. Once it is necessary to stay warm, the stove is hot, the pots are always heated. No mold grows. No measure. No worry. Cloth eventually gets colored. It stays as long as it does. Often times until I need it.
I burned the middle finger of my stitching hand, tending the fire this morning. But not before I stitched up another nine patch. A softer one. I used some pomegranate dyed cotton from last winter. I noted the kindness in the natural color.
So a sore finger will keep me from sewing today. But it won't stop me from going in my mind. And measure is on my mind.
How,over time, it becomes more. Or Less. A sense of something. How it all becomes a sort of personal math. Another kind of Natural Order. How oneself might become so much a part of the equation.