July was a Very Long Month

In the last little while I observed a shift in my weaving focus, the word "mediocre" floated in and out of my consciousness. It didn't demand examination or reflection, just insisted on letting its presence known to me.

Like many, when I started to weave, I wanted to be a great weaver. Or exquisite or expert or "The Best". I don't remember how I defined these words, how I would verify becoming one, but validation was to come from without; sale, prices, accolade, and the like. Then I started to worry more about pleasing myself and I sought greatness within each piece.

The more I wove, I've come to see my cloths more objectively and I suppose critically, which was a rude realization as I had imagined I would weave better and therefore would love my work more passionately. My sloppy technique is at the core of the problem, of course, but I noticed something else. 

Though my life is good, it turned out quite different to how I imagined. My everyday life in Nelson is like a holiday, but it is hard for us to go on a "real" holiday and I miss big cities. I always wanted to live in a tidy, stylish house, (and garden if I had one,) but it tuns out I don't have a good eye for design nor energy to make our place nice, and moreover, I'd rather weave. We could save money if we studied power/telco/insurance/bank options, but I can't be bothered. And our greedy right wing government keeps ruining this lovely country.

But it is what it is. If I kept thinking about injustices/inconveniences, if I keep trying to be well-informed, I won't have any life left. I am not built for a multi-faceted broad life. Growing up for me has meant discarding the unnecessary, concentrating on what I do best, and living a small but manageable life. Even if my best is mediocre.

What surprised me was how this understanding/acceptance/resignation became part of my psyche without a fanfare. Such a seemingly monumental revelation, I seem to recall, would have entailed drama in the past, but maybe I'm discarding some of that, too. Which, I guess, is nice in a way as I can do without emotional upheavals, but also sad as I feel the colors of my life are fading. 

As if I needed to revise, I had an abridged reminder. Early this week, between sleep and being awake, I had a thought: there are lives spent flying on helicopters extinguishing forest fires, or travelling around the world photographing art and architecture, but my life is spent in a cold, dark basement. 

The tone was not a regretful, "If I had chosen a different life, I could have..." variety, but most decidedly the "It is what it is" kind. And when I was awake, I had to remember step by step that I like what I do, that it was the best among all practicable choices, and there was even a certain inevitability to how I got here. It was cut and dry, no sadness, no regrets, but also not the usual enthusiasm, either.

While I threaded this warp, (which I finished at long last,) I listened to the Discworld story in which Sam Vimes realizes he is no longer a night watchman but has become a mere "manager" and feels his physical aging, then is sent back 20 years to train, as John Keel, his younger self. I'm not finished so I don't know what happens, but coincidentally Hiroshima Day coming up marks 20 years since I first threw a shuttle. (Well, it was a stick shuttle in a rigid heddle so I gingerly passed it.)

July was a long month. We had some rain, I got out some days, then we had a cold spell and wet ground. While I didn't want August to arrive, because that's the end of our winter, I kept wondering if August 1 had arrived for the last ten days. It was a strange month, this July.