From the Hoop: Flowers in March

Today was the launch of two wool embroidery classes via Zoom, including a level 2 (intermediate) course. My level classes, which focus on teaching new stitches and good technique, use floral designs I’ve created. They are cheery and inspired by both English and Scandinavian motifs. In the intermediate class, I introduce working with color—10 delicious hues of wool yarn from my family farm’s sheep.

The first week of this course immediately splashes into color, with glowing marigold, spicy nutmeg, and rustic cardinal in a burst of chain stitch petals. Then there are painterly long-and-short stitches in white, rose, and cardinal that breathe of springtime. The twisted stems using different whipped methods bend to cup beneath these blooms. It all looks ready to leap from the fabric.

On the farm, it is still early March, the weather undulating between blissful sunshine and grumpy snowstorms. Between these polarities has been rain, which leaves us scrambling to pump flooded chicken coops of their moats because the ground is still frozen. We slip and slide on ice, slop through mud, and pick our way over morning’s crusted, frozen ground. There has not even been one robin yet, the only migrators spotted in the skies being the first few wing-beating swans heading north. It is yet a long time before the first flowers like crocus will pierce through the snow, renewing color to the black-and-white photographic nature of the wintry Northwoods.

But on my linen, spring is already here, bursting forth with each stitch, singing in living color.

It is no accident so many folk traditions include flowers. We need this for the endurance of our psyche, especially if we live so far north that summer is a fleeting memory for much of the year. This practice allows us to bring summer inside, helping us remember that spring will come again.

It is a rocky road to spring, with maple syrup and mud season in between. The smells of the world awaken (as do the bugs), reminding us that transitions are messy, unpredictable, but necessary. We cannot have forever-winter, nor would we want to. The changes make each turning all the more precious for having to let them go and embrace what is next. Even in the dullness of March, I know the trees are already thinking about their buds.

The thread comes up and goes down, planting another stitch on petal or stem. I sing to students about dreaming of spring, leaning on Robert Tannehill’s song:

Gloomy Winter

Gloomy winter’s now awa
Soft the westlin’ breezes blaw ,
‘Mang the birks o’ Stanley shaw
The mavis sings fu’ cheerie O.

Sweet the crawflowr’s early bell
Decks Glenifer’s dewy dell,
Bloomin’ like yer bonnie sel’
My young my artless dearie O.

Come my lassie let us stray
O’er Glenkilloch’s sunny brae,
And blythely spend the gowden day
‘Midst joy thats never wearie O.

Tow’ring o’er the Newton woods
Lav’rocks fan the snow-white clouds,
Siller saughs wi’ downy buds
Adorn the banks saw briery O.

Round the sylvan fairy nooks
Feath’ry breckans fringe the rocks,
‘Neath the brae the burnie jouks
And ilka thing is cheerie O.

Trees may bud and birds may sing
Flowers may bloom and verdue spring,
But joy to me they canna bring
Unless wi’ ye my dearie O.

Trees may bud and birds may sing
Flowers may bloom and verdue spring,
But joy to me they canna bring
Unless wi’ ye my dearie O.

Stitch on, and let the color help your dreaming!

Learn about Laura’s classes.  https://northstarhomestead.com/erindale-calendar/

Take this class as a self-study.  https://northstarhomestead.com/self-study-erindale/