I have noticed, the last couple days, something interesting. With my modern house, and my internet connection, and my Jeep, I've somehow wound up repeating history. Somehow, with all the technology and social choices and the college education, I have wound up doing exactly what our female ancestors have done for tens of thousands of years: Stayed home, tended the kid, and spun, knit, and generally done fiber related crafts to bring in a few extra bucks. Put me in a palace in Minoan Crete, a herder's yurt on the central Asian steppes, or a little clay hut in an ancient Egyptian city, and I'd be doing the same thing. Fiber crats, food prep, and kid-tending.
This should probably horrify me, what with the women's liberation movement and the insistence I'm capable of doing anything and being anyone. But it doesn't. Seems to me, liberation means being free to do whatever I want. Even if that means knitting sweaters while watching my kid grow up. Hardly an original choice, but for me a satisfying one. The last few nights I've spun and knit (and read), and thought about all this, and my only real conclusion is, I'm damn glad I can do this for enjoyment, when I choose, how I choose, and don't have to rely on it to feed my child or keep us from freezing.
But for the most part, I think of all the women who've gone before, and what they would think of me, and my life - listening to internet radio while spinning - and what I would think of theirs - the details of life that never make the history books.
Then I hug the Goober, and knit some more.