Number nine.
The Man burned tonight. Saturday. I watched it on a fuzzy full-screen livecast in my friend's basement, idly fingering the playa dust surfacing on the thighs of my Levi's as I shifted on her black leather sofa, wondering whether I'd leave a mark and whether, if I did, she'd be glad of it. Three fingers wept blood, not from sharp rebar or pinching tent poles but from the clips holding pouches to an Army surplus utility belt I'd donned specifically for this, a local Burn Party full of pre-burners, ex-burners and folks who'd stayed home this year for reasons too various to recount. I was the weirdo, the odd woman out, the one who had gone Sunday and come Friday and now faced the inevitable question, "Why did you leave so early?"

My answers vary: "I wanted to decompress." "I missed my dog." "I didn't want to get stuck in Exodus." "I just wanted a short week."

I knew something would get between me and the burn, as it often does. I spent a lot of time alone this year, wandering, sitting, reading, thinking. It was a need for downtime (and a sunburn on my shins) that finally sent me packing at 12:40pm Friday and kept me going for the 11 hours it takes to get from 9:00 & Hummer (Black Rock City, NV) to NE 69th & Burnside (Portland, OR).

But here's the thing: I did it alone. No spare driver, no hotel reservation, nobody waiting for my call. Dinner alone at the Black Bear in Klamath Falls, pink hair and suspicious locals and all. If I had crawled aboard an alien craft, nobody would have known. If my car had caught fire by the roadside, it's only mildly likely that my iPhone and its ICE entry would have survived (and I've only just realized that my long-lost ex was still listed as my first contact--that has now been changed). I just needed to prove to myself that I could, in my 9th year, make it out there and back on my own. Truth be told, I doubt my friends even noticed; the hard fact is that I needed to prove it to myself. I never discussed it with them or with anyone, but it was there from the moment I decided to go. I needed to shack up with a few familiar demons, if only for a short time. I needed to know that those demons may still walk beside me, but they no longer cause me to run.

So I made it home. I unloaded my gear, took a shower, checked my email and crawled into bed with my dog and my comatose housesitter. I awoke early after a fitful sleep and re-acclimated to my life. I watched movies, petted the animals and reminded myself of all the reasons I love who and where I am. I thought about the people I'm proud to call family and friends. I went to a party and reveled in the parts of Burning Man that I missed.

More than that, though, I congratulated myself on the parts of my life that, in the desert and on the road, finally found their place behind me.

Craft(y) polyamory.
If I had any sense I'd keep my knitting needles far from my loom, my loom miles from my sewing machine and my sewing machine all the way across town from my paint brushes. But because I err on the side of openness, they all occupy small spaces on my crowded dining room table, competing for attention on weekends and random Wednesdays.

I vacillate between respecting my ability to learn and love so many hobbies, and regretting the lack of deep knowledge and experience I might have developed had I focused on any one of them for the last 20 years (okay, well, I can seriously rock a sewing machine but I'd never admit it in front of the rest of my tools). And this vacillation mirrors my larger fear about my personality, my career, my life: should I be a specialist instead of a generalist?

PRO: One craft inspires another. I'll never forget how the blocky divisions of Idaho agriculture (as seen from a Horizon jet) made me think about quilting which made me think about stained glass which made me think about...
CON: I fear I may never get deep enough into one craft to truly and deeply express its unique possibilities. Anybody can make a dress from a pattern. Can I drape or draft one and, more importantly, can I find the inspiration to WANT to?
PRO: One craft teaches another. My knowledge of fabric and clothing design feeds my instinct when designing weft and warp for the loom. The waterfall exists in craft much as it does in business or technology, as each step in the process necessarily informs the next.
CON: Knowledge sometimes equals constraint. One of my girlfriends likes to knit with strips of plastic sacks, a material that's nowhere to be found in traditional textile tomes or in the cubbies of today's craft supply shops. Does my acknowledgment of the forest sometimes preclude my relationships with the trees?

It's a moot question, really. I can't pick a favorite band, ice cream flavor or pair of shoes. I can't even stick with one hair color, and I have to look at that in the mirror every single day. Why would I limit myself to one craft when so many can offer so much?

You can ask me which one I love the most, but I'll never tell. Ask me again tomorrow.