Teaching and gatekeeping

(Nimue)

I’ve always been interested in spinning, even as a child. About ten years ago I had a fleeting experience, which led to being told in no uncertain terms that I could not spin and would not be able to spin. The problem, apparently, was that I was far too tense, and only relaxed people can spin well – or I was informed.

Back in March I bought a drop spindle. I saw one at a re-enactment event, and decided I could have a go. Even if I couldn’t get anywhere, it would be a nice item to add to the living history side of what we do.

On the Saturday at Chesters Fort, I settled down to learn. There were a lot of muttered swears on that first day as I tried, slowly and ineptly, to put theory into practice. I wasn’t very good at the beginning. People often aren’t automatically good at things they are new to.

I kept at it – for hours, over nine days, and I made some progress. I’m still not brilliant, but I’ve not been doing it very long. During the week a few women approached me – a few who were also spinners, a few who had tried and could not get to grips with it. They were all encouraging and made me feel like I was making progress. It’s not the easiest thing to get to grips with, evidently.

When I have other hats on and am getting people to sing, I regularly run into people who have been told that they can’t. The overwhelming majority of them can, and have the potential to be really good if they put in the time and effort. Being good at something does not depend on being able to do it effortlessly and immediately. Most of us need some time to learn new skills.

 I have thoughts about people who call themselves teachers, but can only teach people who are naturally gifted. That isn’t teaching at all. Helping people learn means being able to take on those who are not instantly brilliant and show them how to grow, giving them tools and support. Real teaching doesn’t reject you at the outset for not being good enough. That’s gatekeeping, not helping people.

Whatever you try, know that it is fine not to be perfect. You do not have to magically know how to do everything. It’s ok to learn by trial and error and to make mistakes. It’s also absolutely fine to do something because it appeals to you – how good you are doesn’t really matter if the process gives you joy. Generally speaking, people get better at things with time and practice, but it’s also ok to just be at a level that makes you happy. We don’t have to be constantly working at everything.

Contemplating wool

(Nimue)

The drop spindle is a bit of technology whose use goes way back into prehistory. Spinning wool was the start of how countless people through history have made clothes, and having warm clothes is essential for life in the northern parts of Europe.

As part of my time on Hadrian’s Wall, I spent a lot of time spinning. When I started I knew some theory and had tried a few things briefly many years ago. It took a while to get the hang of it, and to figure out the timing and the flow for feeding wool fibres to the turning thread. I’ve enjoyed it. The process has taught me about the value of clothing when you have to make the material in this way.  A dress represents many hours of work.

As a joky aside, I find myself wondering if Celts fought naked to avoid damaging their precious trousers!

One visitor reflected on how grim she thought life must have been for the woman who had to spend all of their time spinning. I found myself comparing that to the lives of the people who worked in fabric making factories, and the lives of ordinary people now. The person who spins can also look after their children (and sheep!) talk, sing, tell stories and if they have any coordination, they can wander about. I cannot wander about. As a way of life, hand spinning is clearly far less horrible than factory work – which routinely killed and injured people pre 20th century.

It’s interesting to ask what progress means and looks like. We free ourselves from spinning into the convenience of having massive amounts of poor quality clothing, the production of which is compromising life on the planet. There have to be better ways.

Meditating with crotchet

In my book Druidry and Meditation, I talked a bit about the idea that any activity can be used meditatively. It being a small book, I didn’t explore in detail the many options here. When anything can be a meditation, the potential for discussion is large to the point of being unwieldy. But, this is a more personal one.

I know a lot of Druidy women who work with wool, from spinning it and dyeing to weaving, knitting, crotchet and felt. Working with wool is inherently tactile and it’s an activity that connects us to our ancestors. Especially women. Spinning was so intrinsic to femininity historically, that women were sometimes buried with their distaff, and the female line of descent could be called ‘the distaff line’. There’s a memorable sequence in Marion ZB’s Mists of Avalon, where spinning sends one of the characters into visionary trance states, so it’s not without a magical angle too. Spinning the threads has connotations of fate, and knotted cords are a traditional magical tool. We weave charms too.

I learned a variety of wool and needle crafts as a child, knitting, tapestry and embroidery particularly. I couldn’t get my head around the one needle of crotchet at all. It wasn’t something I took up until after the birth of my son, (ten years ago today). These days crotchet is my preference. I like both the rhythm of it and the total scope for improvising. Any direction possible. New threads always an option, and the third dimension available. I’ve crocheted around pine cones to make woolly squids, for example.

I can get lost in the rhythm of wool passing through my fingers. I find this deeply soothing, and as I am by nature a stressbunny, I frequently need soothing. I take a lot of joy in putting colours together in pleasing combinations. I used to hear all the time that I have no skill with colours, so every time I manage something I like, that’s a very personal kind of victory.

The work is always intended to become something, perhaps with a specific place, use or person in mind, so as I create, I’m also thinking about that intention. I’m contemplating my vision, and around the wool I am often also making a plan, or nurturing a hope. I am crocheting the world as I want it to be. I am knotting together little fragments of dream.

Sometimes I do this consciously and deliberately – which for me defines it as meditation. Sometimes I’m not seeking to discipline my own thoughts, but the rhythm of creating something takes me into a contemplative state. And sometimes making an object is more like making a spell, because the intentions are so strong. A hat for my child to make him smile, and keep him warm on winter bike rides. A blanket to put on a bed that does not yet exist, in a house I have never seen. Dreams and threads tangled together.

Druidry does not have to be about dramatic acts in public places. It can be private, domestic, weaving together strands of creativity and practicality. Magic in living and being, in doing the smallest things.