The Alchemists

Such magic has been around me this week. Knitting time. Time to meditate. Winding time. Time for calm. Time for patience. A time to begin, slowly slowly, to transform what resides in the mind. There is simply no arguing with, nor hurrying along, tangled silk.

A green, forest path, an enchanted forest, an emerald forest, with paths of lichen and moss, willowy branches laden with crystalline leaves, rustling ever so gently as they sparkle on by. This magical silken forest will become a cardigan to drape the shoulders of a soon to be born daughter.

A favourite flower, the wild purple lupin, is the colour for Astrid. Hand dyed with natural dyes, a fine merino in dusty purple. The purple that sits at the edge of the sky waiting to become night. The purple before darkness. The purple before sunrise. A mysterious purple, a shifting purple, one of nature’s secrets. The bearer of the night. The bringer of the dawn.

And something for their mother, cashmere wrist warmers for winter, in the colours of deepest forest berry, colours for being stored away by winter squirrels. Colours for family from far away to gather, colours of mulled wine on Christmas eve, colours of baked fruit pie with vanilla ice cream, with cinnamon and spices. Richest deepest plum for winter warmth.

Somewhere I’ve read, maybe a few places I’ve read – one of the secrets of the Alchemists was that the turning of base metal into gold was a metaphor for the transforming of the mind, of turning the contents of the mind into ‘gold’. Imagine an empty mind, a still, quiet vessel  – containing but a pool of marvellous colours, shifting and changing. A deep pool of tranquil peace. A deep pool of serenity and beauty.

As I’ve walked over the Heath this past week I’ve been thinking about the dyers of these yarns and the beauty of the colours they create. That’s what’s been in my mind this week. A little bit of alchemy perhaps.