From the May edition of The Vermilion Bay Light

A word from Jason about re-claiming the calm… The overture to Franz von Suppe’s operetta Dichter und Bauer contains one of the most beautiful cello solos in the repertoire. Some time in the 1930’s the operetta was staged in Stassfurt, Germany, and my grandmother was in the orchestra. She was a cellist, and for this performance the job of rendering the famous solo fell to her. Oma took her musicianship as seriously as she did her lace-making. My Opa too was a musician, not a cellist, but a clarinetist, saxophonist, and perfectionist. Mathematical, precise. Although he knew little about cello technique, he had appointed himself my grandmother’s music coach for the Suppe. He had an idea how it should be played, what the proper phrasing should be. He was such a relentless and demanding music teacher he often reduced my grandmother to tears throughout her study of the work. But, as the story goes, despite the hard road, and perhaps even thanks to it, my Oma’s cello sang out with unparalleled passion that night as the orchestra quieted and she began the solo. The end result was well worth the tedious and turbulent work. Have you experienced a crazy knitting or crochet pattern that seems to defy reason? That chart that warps the plain and throws what’s logical out of kilter? What’s supposed to be calming and relaxing suddenly raises our ire and tempts us to crumple the whole fabric into a ball and pitch it out onto the lawn. I’ve been there too. When it comes to that, the best strategy is to let your misbehaving child sit quietly in the knitting bag. Get up, stretch, pour some coffee, eat chocolate. Do something else: knit on a sock, fold the laundry. Trust me, the dragon chart will still be there when you return to it, but its breath will be a bit less fiery later on. When the going gets tough (and sometimes it does) we have a tendency to go into fiber overdrive to find a far flung solution to a problem that seems even more complicated than the lace pattern we’re fussing with. No doubt our emotions have much to do with this. Art in any medium is a deeply personal expression. Instead of thinking the matter to pieces, do three things: Stop. Breathe. Relax. Like music, fiber art is supposed to be calming — and it actually is. After some fiber time-out, take up the problem child again and start fresh. It’s like seeing with a new set of eyes, and it’s then we come to realize that these challenges are precious gifts. These little troublesome spots are what make us grow in our fiber artistry. Not only do they teach us patience — both with our projects as well as with ourselves — but they also force us to take a more analytical approach to our work and teach us how to surmount future similar difficulties with an ease we couldn’t have imagined before. I wonder how my grandmother would have played the Suppe, were my grandfather not involved in her project like he was, had he not pushed and challenged her like he did, although he had elicited an emotional response that very well could have defeated a weary cellist. Take difficult projects one step at a time. Focus on the little picture and work bit by bit. After all, it’s a collection of little pictures that comprise the big one. Before you realize it, you’ll be done — and with your sanity intact, but your patience bolstered. Best of all, you'll have a terrific, new finished project of which you can say, “Yes, I made this.”