Nearly everyone who talks about their weaving experience seems to express a similar sentiment: they are changed in some way by the process. Weaving takes mental acuity, dedication to detail, and no small amount of physical work. Weavers know this, but to people outside the weaving community (and the fiber world in general), cloth is simply a necessity—something that comes and goes easily as long as there’s room on the credit card.
However, as supply chains are disrupted and life becomes increasingly unpredictable—so much so that unpredictability itself is starting to feel predictable—people naturally begin to wonder what they can do on their own. I also felt this call and started my own little garden: a small plot in the shade of a cherry tree that yielded a total of four pounds of tomatoes, three pounds of zucchini, eight ounces of green beans, a few potatoes and herbs, along with one cherished winter squash that a critter already tried to sample.
We are certainly far from self-reliance (though our local raccoons might be well fed these days), but the act of going out to see the garden was an anchor of each day. In addition to the veggies, I packed in a kaleidoscope of marigolds, cosmos, and nasturtiums, along with a few special things for my loom: Japanese indigo and flax.
I had always felt that growing my own fiber was far out of reach. But after years of spinning and weaving, I realized my garden might give me something to weave—not a lot, of course, but at least some. And some is better than none. So I ordered seeds, cleared a weed-choked patch of ground, and went to work. I’m sharing a bit of my experience in hopes that it encourages you to try as well, because curiosity is the mainstay of the Handweaving Academy.
Japanese Indigo
I bought my seeds online and started them under grow lights in February. After transplanting them outdoors, I ended up with three flourishing plants. I live in Portland, and Japanese indigo—which belongs to the buckwheat family—does especially well in temperate climates.
I didn’t have enough indigo to attempt the full traditional vat fermentation and reduction process, so I used the leaves fresh, guided by John Marshall’s Singing the Blues and various blogs. When my plants threatened to go to seed, I cut them back and immediately blended the leaves with ice water into a kind of green smoothie. Into this I set three skeins of my locally handspun BFL (my other local fiber project). The first attempt yielded a minty pale blue. A few months later, I repeated the process, overdyeing two skeins from the first batch to create darker and lighter shades, (I had gradients on my mind!) In a few weeks, after harvesting the seeds, I’ll repeat the process one more time to achieve a darker shade of blue on a single skein.
After trying fresh indigo leaf dyeing, I’m convinced there’s no reason this plant shouldn’t grace every weaver’s garden. It was easy to grow, the dye required no heat, and indigo is non-toxic—making it a project you can share with children (or even a curious cat or dog). The plant itself is beautiful and grows well between lanky tomato vines. Indigo will always fascinate me. How can something be so complex yet simple in a single plant?
Flax to Linen
Flax grown for fiber has been bred to grow tall and straight, but for this first try, I used flax seeds from the local grocer. I broadcast them outdoors in March, and over the next few months, they grew without attention or extra water. The flowers were cheerful and delicate, opening only in the morning. My crop turned out short and leggy from partial shade, but I wasn’t growing flax for the commercial world. When the plants were ready, I pulled them up by their shallow roots and bundled them to dry. In harvesting the taller flax, I discovered shorter, younger plants tucked underneath, so I left those to grow a few more inches for a second batch later.
After drying in the arid heat of August, I submerged the bundles in a small bin of water to rett. They fermented for three days, after which I poured the water back into the bed I’d harvested from, returning nutrients to the soil. Timing the retting process is tricky—like judging when bread dough is ready to bake or when home-brewed beer should be racked. Experience is key, and since you can’t gain it from reading alone, I went with my gut. My flax seemed both under- and over-retted, but I could still access the fibers inside the stems—and that was what mattered!
Did it smell? Oh yes. But after making compost teas all year, I can say it was no worse than that. The flies certainly loved it, and it was hard to believe that rotten, fly-covered stalks could ever become something spinnable.
Because I didn’t have much fiber to process, I skipped the traditional tools like the break and hackle. Instead, I stripped a few stalks at a time, crimping them by hand and drawing them across the edge of the table, then used wool carders to comb out the long fibers. I can’t tell you how addictive this was—watching golden straw fall away to reveal strong, hairlike fibers was deeply satisfying. I ended up processing all my flax in a week!
In the end, I had about ten grams of flax fiber. It’s not much, but it fills me with pride—just like my eight ounces of green beans and my handful of cherry tomatoes.
Was it worth the work?
After this summer, I now know there is no reason fiber can’t be part of the kitchen garden, no matter how small. And, as with other fiber arts, I feel changed by the process. What once seemed impossible now feels entirely in reach, and as I tuck away the beds and prepare for winter, I am excited about the next season to come, even if only to grow enough to feed and clothe the garden gnomes.
From the Course Catalog:
Learning Path One: Weaving with Muted and Neutral Colors – Perfect for all weavers, no matter what type of loom you use.
Rigid Heddle Looms from the Ground Up – This class breaks down the mechanics of how rigid heddle looms work. There’s more to them than meets the eye!