I have a great weakness for silk. Silk fabric, even tiny scraps. Thread, in all its manifestations. Throwster's Waste. Ravellings. Cocoons. Carded Batts. Loving the tactile quality of silk has even encouraged me to take better care of my hands, which can grow quite rough from the day-to-day activities of washing, doing laundry and cooking, dyeing, gardening, even stitching on rough fabrics.
The most interesting quality of silk, though, is the conversation that come from winding the newly-dyed thread onto plastic bobbins, the wondering what the future of a thread might be and auditioning all sorts of scenarios for that future.
The box of Yellows is ablaze with happy possibilities-- the Yellow of sunlight pouring through a summer sky is tucked next to what must be a zinnia in waiting. How many lumpy, bumpy things could come from the coarse silk-- a silk most unashamed of its rude beginnings outside of the mulberry-fed circle of elite threads?
Orange is not always for pumpkins. Saffron robes of Tibetan monks, the day lilies growing beside the road in patience and peace, and the pale tints that run to Salmon and Coral all borrow from that much-maligned color.
Then there are the Reds, Empresses every one! Not modestly pursuing a quiet place in a corner, but brashly pushing forward to take seats at the front of the room and making a lot of noise fluffing and shaping themselves as they are seated. The color of boldness and power. Of complete confidence. Synonymous with happiness to the Chinese.
Moving from Red to the Violet family, we pass through fields of wildflowers, bergamot, field thistles, four o'clocks and coneflowers. Delicate wild geraniums lean toward the shaded, quieter areas. And Magenta dances through all these Red-Blues.
The Royal Purples take their place, waking sedately past all gathered in the room to seats especially set up for them in front of the haughty Reds. Centuries of awe and obedience radiate from them, the color set aside for the rulers, movers and shakers of older worlds. Even their diluted hues are noteworthy-- the moodiness of a stormy sky is here, the strike of a last, dying sun slicing through the darkening sky.
After all that tussle at the front of the room, the Blues emerge, a breath of tranquility and peace. Sky. Sea. Eternity. The promise of safe harbor and clear skies. Moving from the truest hue to the shared Aqua Marines and Turquoise, recalling water and life.
The Greens spring from the earth beside that watery Blue. Green of leaf, grass, stem, moss, mountain and curving field, where strong stalks support the heavy sunflower heads floating above all as they turn their faces to follow the sun. Fields of lush grass for grazing animals. Heavily forested mountains.
And so we have wandered to the Chartreuses who lie at the door of Yellow, the bridge between earthy Green and Blue sky, the first colors of the spring emerging after the long and almost colorless winter.
The Greys and Browns are the step-children of the color wheel, but really deserve their own kingdom apart from the hues. From the sum of all colors, Black, to the almost-absent tints of Grey and Ecru, they are the toning mechanisms that give some dignity to the babble of the primaries and their offspring.
It is a wonder-filled thing to have conversations with a bowl of silk threads.
