The Secret Garden

Midsummer Madness

I can hardly believe that next Saturday is the Summer Solstice. Where has the year gone? I don't mean that in an absent-minded way; I really want to know. It seems as if five and a half months have passed in the blink of an eye.

I am enjoying my life on the whole, but sometimes in the last few weeks I have felt that I am running downhill with the wind behind me and my legs can barely keep up.

My body certainly can't. I'm just not fit enough to work hard and play hard anymore. I'm exhausted. I feel bone-weary. My creative juices have almost dried up, and I feel like the only way to get them flowing again is to... actually, I don't know how to get them flowing again. A change of job? A change of living environment? All of the above requires effort and energy.

What I am managing to do at the moment is to brew. Not the full-blown, creative pottering, but micro-brewing. Snatching a session here or there, but not really getting much more out of it than a sense of continuity.

The Midsummer Night's Dream soap in the picture sums this up. It's pretty, but it lacks substance. It ticks all the right boxes - herbal, seasonal, original (to an extent) - but its research credentials are lacking. What have I learned from making this soap? How has it deepened my connection to this sabbat? The answer: it hasn't.

The reason I started making sabbat soaps was to distill something of the season into each bar. What Bex and I make are soaps with intent - it should be possible to actually feel something of my intent in the soap. It has been suggested to me (by someone important to me we shall call "R"), that since I alternate sabbats with Bex, I should spend a full three months researching each new recipe.

What a beautiful luxury that would be.

But I feel at the moment that I don't have the creative space. That's not to say that I want to become a recluse and to spend my days alone thinking only of soap - far from it. What I want is the headspace to come up with new ideas, and the free time to research and experiment. In the past this space was part of my day job. Lately however, my working day is crammed full of work (how dare they!) and my evenings and weekends are crammed full of feeling and experiencing rather than thinking or pondering.

Do I want anything to change? Well maybe not right now. I wouldn't want to swap the experiences for creative solitude. I like the experiences and the company too much. I think what I want to change is the working day. I feel like I am working myself into the ground in a job I no longer love and it is sapping my physical strength and mental reserves. I want a job that is intellectually challenging (and not just because I am thinking of ways to reinvent the wheel), one that gets me off my chair and away from my desk, and one that values space for thought.

So where do I find one of those?

***

And my micro-brewing (recipe slave that I have become!)

(l to r) Sloe gin, orange syrup, mint liquid soap (quite exciting to make but a boring creative choice for colour and scent) and elderflower cordial.

Hand-stitched bags. No purpose in mind, but it was at least fun to vary the designs (drawstring vs self-tie).

(below) Tansy dyed silks. Again exciting to make but without a purpose in mind it becomes mechanical.

I am the soap (part 2)

I wasn't going to write more now, but checking to see if my last post displayed properly I happened to click on the "soap" category. I got a shock. Firstly I was shocked by how few posts there are in here, and secondly how angry they sound. My immediate feeling was to recategorise them - to remove the ones not entirely about soap and to hide the rants among the morasse of uncategorised material on my blog. But I made a deal with myself at the start not to re-write history, so I can't start doing so now.

Instead, I realised that what I have in my soap category is an analysis of a misspent soaping year. Compared to Bex, whose loft groans under the weight of her soap hump, my output for 2007 has been paltry. A few "mega-batches" from the occasional soap binge during the reign of the voodoo queen, and one or two quite frankly generic batches from the second half of the year when the risk of being chatted to mid-pour made me shy away from anything too involved or any soap that required focussed magical intent.

It has been a furtive, angry year of soap.

By contrast, my first batch of soap in 2008 has a smooth two-colour swirl. I soaped at 25 degrees, taking my time to let the oils cool and to blend the ultramarines thoroughly with the traced soap. There was no chatting, just a passing interested query: "what are you making?" as a disembodied voice disappeared up the stairs. It was very zen, and I don't think that has to do with the recipe, even if it was meditation soap that I was making.

I had thought that I didn't want to make another batch of two-finger soap right now because I didn't want to upset any good thing I have going in my life at this point, but maybe I should. Maybe I should make a batch so that I can make a clean break and put a bad soaping year behind me.

I am the soap

I am feeling under par today, so bear with me. I think the crap explosion that was my procrastocrafting weekend has worn me out, and my evening of cutting and photographing soap on Monday night finished me off. I may have a lurgy.

Nevertheless, behold my productivity! In all its soapy glory.

We have (clockwise from top) lavender tea rounds, rosehip and ginger, meditation soap and a felted flower. The teapot just got in the way and it looks sort of domesticated so I let it stay.

I had hoped to write something intelligent and perhaps mildly funny about the title of this post and how it came to be, but I think I'm about to slide off my chair and into oblivion.

Meditation soap - caution may cause you to fall headlong into your navel never to return.

A story

Once upon a time there was a soapmaker, who had a blog, and occasionally wrote in it about soap.

But not today.

Belly button fluff

I really have descended into my navel lately. Looking back at my recent posts all I can see is my introspection.

What has been nice is that in amongst all the belly button fluff, I've discovered warm and fuzzy things that I want to share. My soapmaking is back on track for starters - I now have soap at every stage of the process sitting in my room waiting to be wrapped or hidden away curing. I've even started to design some new ones. There is still a very long way to go, but it feels like I'm back on track.

I'm having good dreams again, and I'm dreaming in my current context. In fact, I'm dreaming in wicca.

But the best bit (and the bit I most want to share) is that I have discovered a fantastic book. When I started to learn to spin at the end of last year, I knew that there was more to it than just fibrecraft. Exactly what, I didn't know, but I was open to letting the process unfold as it would. And it has. I'm learning about the spiritual, meditative side of spinning, and the value of something so simple as a spindle as a tool for emancipation. My emancipation.

"Thus, for instance, he wanted our people by hand-spinning to shake off inertia and a feeling of helplessness, and to learn to rely on themselves. ...Khadi, therefore, had for Gandhiji not merely economic significance, but also great cultural or psychological value. It was meant to put new life into the individual and make him resourceful and self-dependent. As such, it contained the seeds of the true Swaraj or self-rule, or democracy in the real sense of the term."

Suck on this

My apologies for the overly aggressive title to this post but I like to choose something that sums up and draws together the various elements of what I intend to write. I'm possibly becoming slightly wanky in my post-journalist years. Perhaps I need an editor to bitch-slap me back into shape. Perhaps I spend too much time reading other people's posts on livejournal. That place is hazardous to your mental health.

Besides, I'm pre-menstrual, post-holiday and fed up to the fucking back teeth with my flatmate. The psycho one, who doesn't actually have any legal right to be here. I know there is a god because on Thursday she's flying back to her mother ship for rest and recuperation. My rest and recuperation I think.

It's not that she has actually said anything, it is more what she hasn't said (and has done) that is winding me up. She's condescending, bossy and rude, and now she is adding petty and malicious to an already impressive list. Why should I bother to pretend that she isn't winding me up? Because that is what she wants. I think she wants me to bitch and whine and throw a tantrum and act like a child, because then she gets to prove to herself that really we are just alike. My tantrums, my moodiness, my door slamming would validate hers. So why the hell would I give her the satisfaction? 

So let's return to our scheduled viewing shall we?

I have had a fantastic weekend. I got to bottle-feed a lamb, learn to make foundation for bee hives, wander through woodland gathering herbs and generally experience a life that is so totally removed from my own that at times it felt like someone had fired up the defibrilator pads and slammed them into my chest.

This weekend, for me, gave new meaning to the idea of recharging the batteries. This weekend I plugged into the mains.

My definition is this

It seems to be a death-knell for any blog to announce to friends that you update it every five or so days. Since saying this I have felt moved by guilt to consider posts on a number of subjects. The thing is I have no dearth of subjects to write about; what I lack is the time to do it.

Over the last 18 months my life has filled up. Slowly but surely, I have moved from sitting at home staring at the walls to being out almost every night in the week, and every weekend. What is even better is that I am doing the things I want to do, with the people I want to do them with. It's fantastic.

I want to write about it all - pass comment on it all. But the moment always passes before I can sit down to type. Or is that quite true? Since making my blog public I have been having something of an identity crisis. It suddenly seems that what I write has to fit into some sort of niche, or that I have to portray some sort of persona to the world. Is this a blog about craft? A blog about religion or science maybe? Is it personal? Well, yes. It is all of those things.

Definition is a theme that has come to haunt me and mine. On a recent visit to a dear friend of mine who lives in a secular commune, the theme came up quite pointedly. When you live communally, and your daily work is the running of your community, you can no longer define yourself by what you do. For someone who has always had a clear-cut job, say as an editor at the Beeb for example, this can be something of a stumbling block.

You see, we define people by what they do. We judge them on the merits of their chosen career.

So how do we judge someone when they no longer define themselves by what they do for a living? It is a hard question to answer, but I think I am finally beginning to understand.

I always defined myself as a Biochemist, a Journalist, or an Editor. When I became a Soapmaker I was more keen to describe myself as a Freelance Editor, or to otherwise apologise for my chosen job. Why? Because making soap is perceived as being a drop-out job. It's certainly not something you need an MSc to be able to do. Or do you?

What has been the turning point for me is to realise that I no longer have to be defined by the job I do, by the degrees I have, or by the company I keep. I am my own person, and I define myself as such, and can be whichever facet of myself I choose to be at any given time. It is extremely liberating and also, seemingly, unnatural for those around me to accept.

I was walking in the woods with a very old university friend of mine and listening to her prattle on about another life, when she announced that she is having a crisis of conscience, and is trying to decide whether she wants to keep the high-powered consultant's career that she has. My ears pricked up and I drew in breath to speak, but she continued. Not only has she reached this crossroads, but so has another mutual friend. He has realised that his career as a musician is not taking off, and so he needs to decide where to go next. Should he become a producer instead?

Well, given my own recent epiphany I felt qualified to comment, so I started to speak, but no sooner had I said the words "I feel the same way. My soapmaking..." then she had switched off and was talking over me, drowning out what I had to say. I had the distinct impression that Musicians and Consultants could suffer crises of conscience, whereas Soapmakers could not.

So what do I make of all of this?

At the time I gritted my teeth, smiled, and found a particularly interesting leaf on the ground to look at. I can't force my friend to listen to me, and to take onboard what I wanted to say. I can't even force her to let me finish speaking before she moves on to tell me in detail about the cheap Manolo Blahniks (yes, I know that probably isn't how you spell it) she bought in New York.

All I can do is to say to myself that I define myself as this, and to let her find her own path.

Spindle, my spindle

"Spindle, my spindle, haste, haste thee away,

and here to my house bring the wooer, I pray."

I have a new spindle. She's made of beautiful rosewood and perfect in every way. And she demands a name. I tried on a few while spinning fine silk on the train, but every name I suggested made the spindle drop to the floor. I found myself talking to her, singing to her, smoothing away her scratches with my fingers. Making promises.

All of this has surprised me, because I started spinning with no clue how it would fit into my Craft. I don't know any people in my immediate circle who spin, so there was noone to ask. As time has worn on I have reached my own conclusions, and now doing some research (albeit mainly online) I have found some intriguing things.

Like this:

"A common theme of spinning tales is the breaking of magical boundaries. Spinning women attract all kinds of supernatural creatures and spirits. The tale of Frau Holda is a prime example where the act of spinning causes a link between worlds."

The plot thickens.

Meanwhile this month I have been getting in touch with my inner Celt. For Imbolc I made a special soap dedicated to Bridget, called "Brigid's Fire". As is the way with such things the soap really named itself, demanding fiery orange swirls of annatto to contrast against a soft yellow ground, where I had planned a soft green and white. Bríde is someone who has become close to my heart, with her themes of purification, healing and creativity. Today I discovered that she is also a goddess of spinning.

Eat the press

What can I say about Kirsten Anderberg? I discovered her mailing list when I was researching liquid soap, I think, about six months ago. I think it was an article about how using Dr Bronner's liquid soap to brush your teeth with is considered to be counter-culture in the USA. Is America really that conservative?

Anyway, I like her stuff, and I like her voice. I've just been waiting for an excuse to post something from her here. I don't need an excuse, but I'd like to add my own opinion on something rather than just post a link for the sake of it. This is my blog afterall...

This latest email from her struck a chord. I did more or less the same thing as her while I was growing up. It can be hard to feel that you fit in somewhere, and it can be even harder to feel that every part of you fits in the same place, particularly when those parts of you are quite diverse and not particularly well integrated anyway. How do you find a place that accepts your weirdness and lets you be yourself?

I was gutted when I realised that people don't really change as they grow older and there is no end to the cliquey behaviour and the endless dross.

I think the first step is realising that the place you are in restricts you. This was a hard step for me. The second step is deciding to do something about it. I can't think of many times in my life when I have made a conscious decision to change something about my life that I didn't like. For most people I know, what you get given in terms of friends and such is the material you start with and then you work with that to build a life. Walking away from that is almost unheard of. But that is what I did.

I don't know if it was even as simple and direct as that, or whether I can only piece it together in hindsight, but that is basically what happened. I lit the blue touchpaper of my life and stood well back while it exploded.

Now that I have picked up the pieces and fished the superglue out of the drawer I've cobbled together something that resembles the life I want to have. There are still some bits missing, and I have a bag of misshapen bits that don't fit anywhere (don't you always have bits left over when you do DIY?) but on the whole the thing looks OK. I'm quite surprised by that - since it has only really come together in the last few weeks - but it is quite a nice place to be.

Kirsten's email list is still going, as well as her website and I think she's on YouTube too, but if you like things delivered to your inbox, then you can subscribe to her email list here.

 

Blown away

Well, life goes on and despite a shitty week of familial tension, life isn't too bad. I can say that now because I have been assiduously avoiding my parental units all week. I think my father is attempting to verbally shred his comments from last Sunday, saying tonight that he "couldn't remember what he did last weekend". Hmmm... I can and it still stings. But I digress...

One of the reasons that life is good is because I got my Guru Swap Box in the post today. This isn't the swap I posted about a couple of weeks ago, but it is of the same ilk. I think I'm playing out of my league here. These women have produced goods that have blown me away. Every single one of them was better or more ingenious than anything I could make. My poor Lady Godiva just doesn't cut it with the big girls, and it is not often that I think that way about my stuff. That's not arrogance - I think it is important to be honest about what you are good at for your own self esteem and out of respect for the intelligence of those around you. I hate false modesty. Everybody has to be good at something.

And besides, after all the crap that has been flying my way from the soap mines in the UK lately, it is nice to get some old fashioned, honest-to-goodness sentiment from the USA. This is why I make soap. Well, this is one of the many reasons. Feast your eyes on these babies.

(I was in Group 1, so I got about half of these in my box.)