#maker diary

Raspberry Lemonade is becoming yarn.

This colorway first appeared in the studio as rolags — bright raspberry pinks and soft lemon yellows blended together into a cheerful little pile of fiber.

I put them in the shop and they disappeared faster than I expected. Then I made more… and those disappeared too.

Since then, quite a few people have asked if the colorway might eventually become yarn.

So I’m listening.

Raspberry Lemonade is officially joining the yarn line at The Forager’s Fleece.

I’ve opened pre-orders while I start preparing the dye baths and winding skeins. The first batch will begin shipping March 20.

It’s always a little magical watching a colorway grow from loose wool into something that will eventually become someone’s sweater, shawl, or pair of socks.

I intended to practice spinning today.

That was the plan, anyway.

Instead, I started thinking about color for “just a minute,” which turned into soaking wool, mixing dye, watching water shift shades in the pot, and standing in the kitchen/studio doorway holding dripping skeins while wondering how it got dark outside already.

The spinning wheel never even had a chance.

Still, I don’t think the day was wasted.

There’s something comforting about following curiosity wherever it decides to go, even if it means abandoning the original plan halfway through.

There are bags of fiber on the floor, rolags tucked into baskets, labels waiting their turn, and a drum carder that has absolutely earned a nap. The product photos are happening in little bursts. The lists are multiplying. The booth supplies are slowly becoming less theoretical.

And somehow, in the middle of all of that, there was still a cup of coffee outside.

The peas are blooming. The mint is thriving. Oli is supervising from behind the garden boxes like a very serious little woodland foreman. For a few minutes, everything felt quiet enough to notice.

This will be my first fiber festival as a vendor, and I keep moving between excitement and nerves and that strange exposed feeling that comes from bringing handmade work out into the world. There is so much of me in these colors, these textures, these small soft things.

But maybe that is the point.

Four days before the festival, the house is full of wool, the garden is full of green, and a dream is slowly becoming a booth.

Crossroads Fiber Festival

May 23–24

This week has been all about getting ready for the festival.

I've been blending rolags and art batts, putting together beginner drop spindle kits, finishing the new Fiber Palette Kits, writing a how-to booklet, and packaging everything so it's ready for the weekend.

Now the car is packed, the studio is (mostly) tidied up, and everything is ready to go.

All that's left is a good meal, a good night's sleep, and then it's time to share it all with you.

As if it just woke up mid-dream and isn’t quite sure what reality is yet. There’s always this moment where the fibers lift back into themselves. They're soft, unsettled, and a little disoriented from being held in place.

I think that’s my favorite part. Not fully formed, not fully undone. Just in-between.

I understand that feeling more than I’d like to admit.

There is currently a small magenta cloud attached to my air vent.

I did not put it there.

At some point during today’s rolag frenzy — somewhere between “just one more blend” and “I should probably clean up” — the wool achieved autonomy.

I like to think it’s not escaping.

It’s expanding.

Crossroads prep continues.

The color is bold.

The floof is everywhere.

And apparently the house now has a seasonal fiber migration.

Every hue has a tale.

Some of them travel.

I did not put it there.

At some point during today’s rolag frenzy — somewhere between “just one more blend” and “I should probably clean up” — the wool achieved autonomy.

I like to think it’s not escaping.

It’s expanding.

Crossroads prep continues.

The color is bold.

The floof is everywhere.

And apparently the house now has a seasonal fiber migration.

Every hue has a tale.

The studio has been full lately. New products drying, fiber everywhere, festival prep slowly taking over the house. My mom learned how to make a batt today, which felt strangely tender in the middle of all the noise and exhaustion.

Oli, naturally, continues to believe every wool-related activity requires close corgi supervision.

I think I’m more tired than I realized.

Still, there were small good things today:

soft fiber running through the carder,

new colorways heading into the shop,

the sound of someone laughing after finally getting the batt texture right,

a dog asleep nearby while I worked.

Not every week arrives neatly organized and beautifully balanced. Some weeks are held together with tea, wool, and stubbornness.

Names, descriptions, fiber notes, weights, tags, all the little practical things that turn a batt or a rolag set into something ready to leave the studio. It is strange how much naming matters.

A pile of wool can be beautiful on its own, but once it has a name, it starts carrying a memory. A shoreline. An orchard trail. A greenhouse at night. A small flash of iridescent color. A handful of sprinkles scattered through a soft cloud.

There are still labels to type up, and I am absolutely pretending not to see them right now.