Healing In The Mess

Choosing to heal.

Back in April, I needed to repair a pair of jeans that I had made a couple of years ago as I had walked through them. To be totally honest, they are not the best thing I have ever sewn together; a back panel wasn’t cut on the grain and looks a bit funky, and the zipper… just don’t look at the inside as it’s a crazy mess. But I love these jeans. They are as soft as butter, faded to the lightest blue, and the back pockets are fraying. What these jeans have taught me is that healing is messy; we heal in the mess. The patches that we choose to cover our scars with can be beautiful, but we are the ones that can choose how we mend them. 

The life cycle of my jeans has been an interesting one to go through. Firstly, I made them. I cut them out and made a few mistakes (they were only my second pair of handmade jeans), and there have been times when I have had to wash them more than I would normally like due to heavy gardening on random Sundays with friends, or spilling coffee on them and looking like a goofball in the local cafe. For years I turned the cuffs up twice so sand would collect in them every time I went to the beach, until two weeks ago I just cut them to a length which is now (to be honest), an inch too short. They have travelled with me, and they have been a spring and summer staple in the wardrobe since they were sewn together. 

Mending my clothes is something that reminds me of my psychotherapy sessions, which I hasten to add is a very good feeling. My weekly sessions with Jo were a dedicated hour in the week where I could stop, pick up my life, and take a good look at the rips and tears that needed attending to. I could analyse how the cloth of my life got beaten up. Some parts needed to be cut out and discarded, and there were other portions that I could take time to mend. I could choose new threads, pretty buttons, a better zipper, or a higher quality of material to patch and mend my life. 

Choosing The Seams

Choosing the seams.

When I started working on my own healing I walked into Jo’s ‘Head Shed’ (her garden therapy room), not knowing anything much about myself. I knew I loved Finchley and my brothers, and that they were my solid foundation - I could trust them and they never hurt me or let me down. The rest of life looked like a world obliterated through napalm followed by a fair few atom bombs. Over the years I learned that healing was not a ‘To-Do’ list that I had to tick off in order to achieve a state of ‘Fixe’, for me it was a process of self discovery and a place where I could let go - to cut out - the parts of my life - my cloth - that was damaged beyond a point I chose. I could then choose which seams I wanted to use to stitch the life around it. 

Hand sewn Feld and French seams were chosen for their strength and depth for the parts of my life where I really wanted to dig into after the proverbial scissors had done their work. Whip stitches tacked around edges that needed to be stabilized with friendships, and an overlocker was brought out for a quick fix that would get everything together without an argument.

The re-connecting of ragged cloth gave me a canvas, and I realised that I didn’t like the colour of it. It had become as washed out grey; there was no excitement, and it still didn’t offer me a hint of what I wanted to move into. It was repaired, but with Jo’s guidance, I needed to work out how I wanted it to fit me. The whole of me. My mind, body, soul and heart. 

Adding Colour

Adding the colour

Colour was the surprising part of my therapy sessions, and I started to see it come out in my wardrobe as we travelled through my metaphorical and physical spaces. I started turning away from the feeling of control that had been placed on my fashion choices through my mum, who had made sure my colour analysis had been done when I was around 12 years old, and had used it to box in my style ever since. At the age of 40 I was finally able to admit that I hate the colour of oatmeal and I wanted to wear purple.

Silver sages and seafoam greens started to appear, and I began to love the gentle pinks and blues that I could see reflected in the natural world around me as I started to plan my move to the coast, and away from the greyness of the commuter belt. I noticed that the patterns I was creating with my knitting became more adventurous, with cables travelling through my sweaters, and colour-work became my go-to so that I could experiment in mixing patterns and colours, rather than wearing clothes in square blocks. 

It came full circle last autumn when I decided to work in earth tones for a season. It was a wrench, and there were some that made my body feel anxious (it turns out that sludge green and oatmeal are dead and gone forever in my life, and that’s absolutely ok!). My healing palette was brighter greens, ochre, and burnt reds, but I have come to realise that I only need a couple of these in my wardrobe for the depths of winter, rather than carrying them with me as a self-styled brand imposed on me as a child. 

Patching The Holes

Darning my walking socks

There isn’t a hole in my ‘life-cloth’ that I am needing to cut out any more. There may be ones that come along in the future, but my life is more about patching and darning now, which is a comfortable place to be. As I was revisiting the patching of my jeans for the second time in the same place this week, I realised that the patches I had used the first time around had been too dainty. They only just covered the holes on the inside seams of the jeans; they had actually required full-on zig zag stitches, visible running stitches, and a patch that covered them a good inch further in all directions.

For the mend, I chose a soft chambray for the patches for the simple reason that the denim is now so soft and worn that a heavy duty 12oz patch would be ridiculous. It is a bit like choosing the right thread to darn my socks; silk for my bed-socks is perfect, whereas a full on woollen spun yarn for my hiking socks will get me to the top of the Cornish hills this autumn. The colours don’t have to match either, as a cream v-neck sweater can be enhanced by a glaring pop of colour on an elbow. But whatever material is chosen for the mending, the patch has to cover a much broader area than the injury and sewn in securely with anchor stitches and strong weaves. 

You can’t half-ass healing.

To mend my jeans the second time,I got the whole arsenal out; the iron, sewing machine, and all-the-things from my sewing corner. There was no half-assing this time around. I cut the stringy threads and patched it thoroughly on both sides. 

Mending, choosing to heal, they are choices. It’s true, I could just make another pair of jeans, and believe me, I will! But the time it takes to heal the ones I already have is a representation of the time I dedicated to healing myself to this point. There will be times when I get worn down and need to spend more time in Jo’s ‘head-shed’, but I would rather do that than just grab the nearest, shiniest, newest fashion that is filling me with dopamine hits. 

Patching is deeply un-sexy, and it’s counter cultural in our fast-fashion driven world. I would argue that working on ourselves is similar, and you know what, it’s also just really boring most of the time! Mending with a community around us is the healthiest way to heal, and that is why I love the groups that I sew and knit with, it’s the gentlest form of therapy I can think of; small groups of people just hanging out and talking trash most of the time whilst we stitch our clothes and our lives together. 

Darned holes on a cream sweater

A pile of scrap fabric in denim and cotton

a darning loom

“We have to go in there, Mr Frodo, there’s nothing for it. Let’s just make it down the hill for starters”.

Samwise Gamgee ‘Return Of The King’ (Film)

The Day I Forgot My Phone, (And Sewing A Bucket Hat).

As I write to you, dawn is breaking in an ever changing sky.

Hello, Gentlefolk,

As I sit at my writing desk, the sun is rising into a soft blue sky that holds a single cloud hazy with lavenders and roses. I can hear wood pigeons in the hedge, and there are a couple of Robins hopping around the daisies finding an early breakfast.  As I stood in the garden watching the world wake up around me, I have to admit that I took a deep breath in as I became overwhelmed at the beauty of it all. It’s a magical place to call home, and I am so pleased that I am able to share it with you. Today, I thought I would tell you the story of the day I forgot my phone, (and sewing a bucket hat).

It’s been quite the whirlwind here at The Knitted Wardrobe over the past couple of weeks as we have been enjoying one of the most beautiful months of May. Beaches and rivers have been calling, and being able to find time to play on the waters has been the focus of my days. Grebe has become a beautiful evening retreat spot after a day spent writing in the library, and Gylly is turning out to be a fantastic mid-week after work hang-out with friends. But the Helford River was calling for our attention on Sunday, and one place in particular; Frenchman’s Creek. 

There is one fact about pottering around in a canoe with a good friend on a sunny Sunday, and that is the fact that you will get sunburn very quickly if you don’t take care (believe me, I

have learned the hard way!). I am now quite good with the old sunscreen application, however the top of my head often feels like it’s taken a hit. As I was thinking about it on Saturday morning over a cup of tea, I realised that I needed a classic bucket hat to help make my head feel comfortable and also keep the sun off my face. However, spending money on a hat wasn't something I really wanted to do, and it wasn’t until I was in the shower that I remembered that Merchant and Mills offer a free to download bucket hat pattern, and I had enough fabric in stash to rustle something up. 

The result was my first ever hat, and I have to say that I am quite pleased with it! It’s in a soft 8oz cotton pink twill, and the lining is in the Indian block print that I ordered about three years ago; 3.5m of it arrived before I decided that I didn’t like it for a dressing gown, so it’s been implemented in almost every project since. The pink twill was the off cuts of a pair of trousers I made last summer, and I had just enough to piece it all together. The crown top on the hat was made by sewing two strips together so that the seam became the centre, which I then top stitched to match the stitching detail on the crown sides. In the end they didn’t match up perfectly, there’s a couple of millimeters discrepancy on each join, but to be honest, it’s just a bucket hat. 

I wanted to try the wide brim option as I felt that it would come down my forehead far enough to keep the sun from hitting me from the water’s reflection, and I am so pleased I did as I think it worked really well; it’s functional and looks cute. The stitching process for the classic circles around the brim was great fun as I was not only using scrap material out of stash, but I also ended up finishing three reels of thread in different tones of pink and pinky-brown. As I had to keep changing the threads, I confess that the uniformity of the concentric circles is a bit like a roller coaster, rather than a helter-skelter, but hey, it’s a hat. 

My Bucket Hat.

As Sunday rolled around and I packed a picnic for the trip, I popped everything I needed into my dry bag, sunscreen included, and off we went to canoe up the river to Frenchman’s Creek, which is a place I have wanted to visit since the winter when I read Daphne Du Maurier’s book, and consequently fell in love with a Pirate. My friend had never read it but is always up for a good adventure, so off we went. 

As we got to Durgan to off-loaded the boat into the river, I was very pleased that I had not only remembered the hat and cream, but also that I had chosen to wear a shortie wetsuit. As it turned out, I was going to be the entertainment for all the tourists sitting on the beach for as soon as I lifted a foot out of the water to get in, I slipped and went under the foot of water, with my hat in hand. Spluttering and laughing I got up, caught my breath, and giggled as I saw my friend try not to laugh at the funniest and most idiotic thing I could have done! My new hat was drenched before I had even got in the canoe, and so it remained by my feet as we meandered up the lazy river. 

As we paddled past the boats moored up we said hello to people sitting on them enjoying the view and a glass of wine with their lunch. Egrets flew close to the banks as fish jumped and splashed about hunting for insect snacks. Oak trees flowed down the banks of the river into the water, creating tiny eco systems where life could thrive. The sound of water lapping against our little wooden hull reminded me of times as a kid when we would visit the lakes and enjoy BBQs with my family in the States; those halcyon times of the late 80’s when anything seemed possible and making sure there was enough corn on the cob and watermelon to eat was the most important thing to do. 

We gently floated along with the current and found Frenchman’s Creek. It was smaller than I had imagined and I couldn’t quite picture how a Piraite’s ship that was as big as the one I had imagined could be hidden there, but there was an old wreck hanging out on a small patch of mud surrounded by a gentle silence that evoked the beauty of Du Maurier’s writing. It was a special moment, and will be forever a picture that I carry in my mind; one filled with peace and stillness. 

Heading back to Durgan, we crept into an inlet by The Ferryboat Inn, and as we stopped to watch a heron I felt my shoulders drop and my breath slow right down. “This” I thought to myself, “This is peace”. I hadn’t felt it in me that deeply for decades. The last time was when I was in a canoe, on a lake, in Wisconsin back in 1999 when we were celebrating July 4th. The joy of both moments is that I didn’t have a phone near me. As I sat there on Sunday, with my hat by my feet, I realised that I had left my phone, and therefore my camera, in my kitchen. This moment of peace was one for the memory bank; a very personal time for me to sink into and enjoy, and for some reason I cannot name, it means more to me because of it. 

Sewing and knitting my own clothes slows me down a lot, but there is also something about being still and letting the nature around us calm our souls in a way that we can’t do on our own. Being there in companionable silence with a friend who can remember the time with me is magical, and there is a privacy about not having it logged on a phone and backed up to a server. The plop of fish near us, and the splash of our oars, are sounds that can soothe my mind when I am beginning to feel overwhelmed with the plans of the working week. These memories are what enable life to move forward. 

My hat made it home to the washing machine safe and well, and didn’t seem the worse off for its inaugural dunking in Cornish salt water; I doubt it will be the last time it sees the sand at the bottom of the shallows. It will also be my reminder of a perfect Spring Sunday on the river, and for that, I am very grateful. 

Now, the sun has changed to a brighter light and there are a couple of people starting to move around their boats as I look out the window. The Fal River is flat this morning with a low tide so I can  see the patch of sand in Flushing across the other side. My neighbour has just jogged down the path for her morning run, and there are a couple of dog walkers that have walked past. The day is starting, and I need to refill my tea pot. 

I hope that you have a wonderful day today, and that you have the opportunity to forget your phone and breathe a little deeper in nature soon. 

May your frogging be rare, and your needles always bring you joy. 

Love, 

Jenny xx

Ice-cream on a cloudless Sunday.

A Cornish Knitting And Rambling Retreat, With Raw Wool.

After a spring thunderstorm, this beautiful rainbow arched over the bay as I walked home last Friday.

As I walked down to Knit Group today, I felt the first true warmth of spring sun on my face, whilst on Saturday I met with a wonderful bunch of knitters who braved the blustery showers to walk along the coastal paths to knit on the beach. In short, Spring Time has truly arrived in Cornwall, and one of the best ways to celebrate was to hang out with the gang who were enjoying the Cornish knitting and rambling retreat with The Raw Wool Company.

Knitting retreats have often passed me by, as in truth, I can’t sit and knit all day. I am too fidgety, and the most amount of time I would knit in a weekend is a couple of hours a day. When I enjoy my days away from the writing desk, I make plans to meet friends for walks and beach visits, often getting out my knitting projects when we arrive at the local pub for chips and a pint. So when Anton started telling me about his Raw Wool Retreat ideas last spring, my ears pricked up; meeting new knitting friends over a weekend of coastal walks, pub knitting and trips to see the sheep that produce his yarn?! Sign me up! 

Anton and his very bouncy Spaniel, Moose, enjoying the spring weather.

Anton has a passion for connecting people with the nature that surrounds us here in West Cornwall, and it is the inspiration for both his knitting patterns for Raw Wool, as well as his personal knits (I have often seen his colour choices mimic the country that surrounds us). So it was with no surprise at all that his dream knitting retreat would be creating a space for people to be welcomed in the stunning surroundings of the Bosveal National Trust home on the banks of the Helford Passage. Just 20 minutes west of Falmouth and hosted over three days, knitters would be able to visit the farm where his flok of sheep are shepherded, enjoy lunch in the iconic Ship Inn at Porthleven, and learn about the history and design of the Gansey sweater as they created their own versions. Between walking around Durgan, knitting by the living room fire, and pottering down to the small coves on the banks of the river to cast on a new project on the beach, I knew that it was going to be a retreat to remember. It was so very Anton, and therefore so very Raw Wool! 

Braving the weather as we climbed the hills by Bosveal House, West Cornwall.

After putting all his plans in place, with a healthy dose of anticipation, and the support from Jonathan Days, the retreats were launched in October of last year. The first was such a success (and just a week after my move down here), that the March dates were published soon after, and I was delighted that I was able to join the group for part of it this past Saturday. 

It was fantastic to meet so many passionate knitters from all over the globe. Each brought their own love of natural fibres, joyful patterns, and vast knowledge on the subject of knitting lore. I learned how one knitter’s passion for bird watching inspired their own Gansey pattern, with the seed and bar stitches representing the steps they walked down during the weekend to watch the birds take flight. An American woman told me stories of how she and her husband took their motorbikes around Colorado as they sought out new yarns, as well as her passion for the country of Wales. The stories of how the English coast brought comfort to all of them through childhood memories, and their later life adventures, my feelings of happienss to be living here were renewed.

As we walked up the hill as the wind blustered around us, the view of the river flowing into the sea was simply breathtaking; waves chasing themselves up the Helford. After catching our breath and taking a walk around the 400 year old church, we headed east towards Mawnan. With the rain and sea spray dancing through the air, we made time to sit on the beach and knit a few stitches whilst Moose, Anton’s spaniel, ran rings around us. (I swear that dog did more than double the miles we completed that day!)

After we headed back to the house for a wonderful cream tea, we sat down to knit next to the fire. I cast on the Kintra Sweater that I have been gauge swatching for the past couple of weeks; the perfect sweater for late spring and early summer when the wind can still be a little chilly in the evenings. Listening to the chatter whilst the scones were baking in the kitchen, I felt the tension I had been holding over the past week simply slip away. To be warm, comfortable, surrounded by the gentle peace that knitting offers us, after a stunning walk, is the best way to spend my day. 

As I drove home, awash with tea, I knew that I had to arrange my diary to book in for the full retreat this coming autumn. Although I had only been there for a few hours, it felt as if I had enjoyed a magical time of rest and relaxation that I simply would not have had at home. Looking at the cast-on I did for the collar of the Kintra, I now also know that I will need to take my simplest stocking stitch projects, as I still have not mastered the art of chatting and following a pattern; my rib is wonky and my stitch count is off! 

I think there is a knitting retreat out there for everyone. From spa based knitting time in Bath, cruises around the Shetlands, and ranch style dying weekends in the Rockies, there is an experience to suit you and your textile interests. I am blessed not only to be able to be here in Cornwall and take full advantage of Anton’s friendship over coffee time at the Falmouth Bookseller on a regular basis, but also to witness his love of the countryside that embraces us whilst he shares it with us.

For myself, I think my ideas around textile retreats has changed from one of not quite knowing why I would go on one, to one of curiosity. I would like to explore natural dying, spinning, quilting, and different sewing techniques, and I think retreats may be a great way for me to gently travel and learn from experts in a relaxed environment. We shall see where I go next, but one thing is for sure, in the autumn you will find me back at the Helford, with Moose running amuck, surrounded by welcoming and warm-heated knitters. 

Raw Wool's beautiful mini yarns, and their wooden gauge rule.