Is it still a pandemic? Three years later, and a review of Stitches West 2023

Taking the long view on life, knitting, and yarn stashes

This week marked the end of three years since San Francisco issued its shelter in place order (and, likewise, three years since life around the globe changed on a dime because of a novel coronavirus). You’ve probably noticed the retrospectives and commentaries popping up this past week, as I have. (The New York Times sums it up by asking, “Where did all my Zoom friends go?”)

Unlike at the start of this pandemic, no one is tasked with declaring when or if a pandemic is over. Back in spring 2020, I had a brief obsession with the 1918 Flu Pandemic and desperately tried to find out how that one ended. Turns out, people just got really tired of it.

The common story of the 1918 Pandemic is enough people became infected (over a third of everyone, everywhere) and either died or developed immunity. Most histories say it ended in the summer of 1919, when a third wave finally subsided. And yet, a fourth wave happened and in some cities (like Detroit and Minneapolis), more people died in this fourth wave than in the previous second wave. In other words: people were still dying in just as large numbers, two years in, but local governments did not impose restrictions and, for the most part, people resumed their pre-pandemic lives and habits. As Tulane University School of Public Health and author of The Great Influenza: The Story of the Deadliest Pandemic in History scholar and author John M. Barry says: “People were weary of influenza, and so were public officials.”

In my own early pandemic days of 2020, along with all the stress of such a dramatic life shift in such a short period of time, and amidst the political hellscape that was the Trump administration, I was—impossibly, amazingly—hopeful.

• The largest civil rights uprisings of my lifetime were happening, tens of thousands of people in cities all across the U.S. (and globe) were coming together to say Black Lives Matter and to condemn systems of racist brutality.

• People were openly talking about how mothers were bearing most of the weight of pandemic life.

• Remote work became the norm and we talked—openly and candidly—about how office work culture makes life more difficult for most people.

• People with chronic illnesses were able to more fully participate in public life, because the rest of us kept them safe from contagions with mask-wearing.

• We held respect and gratitude for essential workers, so named, because they kept society going. We vowed that they were worth more than the highest paid CEOs.

Part of me believed this was a watershed moment. That kind of moment when the moral arc of the universe takes a sharp bend toward better things, better policies, norms, attitudes, and culture. We would change systems to better support our common humanity! Shift funding from policing to social services, mandate paid sick leave for all, make remote work the norm where-ever possible, raise taxes on corporations so that teachers and grocery story workers could be paid more in line with the value they give to all of us!

But we grew weary, just like in 1918.

Right now, Covid-19 is the third leading cause of death in the U.S. I often think to myself, “is X activity riskier than driving in a car?” which is a risk I take every day without thinking about it. With Covid-19, it would seem that the answer is still yes. And that risk becomes greater the older one is. An average of 300 people a day (still) die of Covid-19, even though newspapers have stopped sharing the daily totals on the front page.

I shouldn’t be surprised. After all, I knew that the 1918 pandemic “ended” when people normalized what was happening. They grew weary and moved on.

Part of me wishes the pandemic had been a watershed moment, but instead, I take away a quieter message from these past three years.

We have to protect one another. The hard work of living, every day, with our full humanity is still ours, as it has always been. Life is still lived in the small moments. Life is still as rich, and deep, and effortful, and beautiful, and heartbreaking, as it has always been. For me, the hope comes in knowing that we are going to get weary, and in stopping and resting when I (when we) do, so that the weariness doesn’t grow deep(er) roots and become indifference.

For me, for now, I’ve declared a truce with the pandemic. I wear a mask when I’m in indoor public spaces; I do those pre-pandemic activities that bring me outsized joy but in a more sparing way (like attending Stitches West); I’ve let go of pre-pandemic activities that were only so-so on my personal joy meter (dining in restaurants, going to the movies), substituting instead a more home-centered life of take-out and robust streaming options. I spend more time outdoors and lots more time in my own backyard.

“If I ever go looking for my heart's desire again, I won't look any further than my own backyard; because if it isn't there, I never really lost it to begin with.”
—Dorothy Gale, The Wizard of Oz, 1939 film version
(very fun link to Judy Garland’s actual voice of this quote, from the movie)

A review of Stitches West 2023

Earlier this month, I attended the Stitches West yarn conference (as I like to describe it to non-yarny friends).

Being at a fiber event like this gives me an outsized amount of joy. It is a magnetic gathering spot for friends, letting me see so many dear people with whom I might not otherwise be able to connect. It gives me a bit of respite from “the grind” of daily life. And, it can help fill my heart with a sense of belonging. Fiber artists are my people. We thrill over color and depth of shade, the tactile feeling of merino wool as compared to rambouillet wool, the softness of cashmere, and the potential of what a yarn could become.

I feel a different kind of belonging at different events—some are trendier, and I don’t like feeling when there’s a definite “in” crowd (because to be “in” also means that some people need to be “out”). But Stitches West has always felt special to me, maybe because it’s close to home (no air travel is needed for me), or because the event has been willing to publicly state that acts of casual racism are unacceptable (like this time in 2019 and this time in 2020). Casual acts of racism happen at every fiber event, but Stitches West is the only one I’ve seen actually say: this isn’t okay here. It helps, I think, to say these things out loud because it helps to build a new norm, inching closer to a world where we white folks check ourselves and try to reduce racialized harm.

I vended at Stitches West from 2017 to 2020 (four times) when it was in Santa Clara, and I’ve attended both shows in the new Sacramento location (2022 and 2023). I’ve never been much of a class-taker, but instead find my excitement and connection on the market floor.

Within this context, I would describe the 2023 show as still-in-flux.

Being at the show filled me up in ways that are so valuable to me. The Sacramento location was near enough to drive and far enough “away” that it felt fresh and new. I was able to be car-free for four days, which is a precious feeling, walking from hotel to convention center to restaurant to local yarn shop. (I’m not counting the Uber in the rain!) The event, as it has always been, attracted friends and colleagues and it was lovely to indulge these weaker social ties that give life meaning, along with the deep social ties of my small group. I came home with two new skeins of yarn (one of which was cast on immediately) and a braid of fiber, having been inspired to clean and oil my spinning wheel and re-connect with my spinning mojo. With my two friends, we shared a hotel room, laughed, ate wonderful food, had a margarita night, and wore matching sweater patterns (Love Note on one day and Clio on another). We talked about clothes and life and books and the NYT Spelling Bee. It was perfection.

and yet, and yet—
—from “A World of Dew” by Kobayashi Issa

There was also a feeling of hollowness on the show floor that I couldn’t quite shake. The show is smaller, of course. There were 195 vendors at the last Stitches West in Santa Clara (February 2020), and in 2022 (the first show in Sacramento and the first pandemic show) there were 104. This year, 2023, there were 97. It was plenty. But also smaller.

The demographics I observed of attendees seemed to be older, as well. I’m 55, and I felt like most attendees were older than me, rather than at, say, Rhinebeck, where I’ve observed that most people are younger than me.

The event also felt less diverse than it has in the past, perhaps because support for pandemic mitigation strategies falls along racial and political fault lines, or perhaps because the Sacramento location falls more squarely in a whiter and more politically conservative geographic area. But I missed having a sense of being in a more diverse and multicultural world. To put it simply, the event felt overwhelmingly white, older, and cis-gendered female. And since I am all of these characteristics, I had a feeling of sameness, rather than belonging. I missed that bigger, more expansive feeling.

The hotel was bustling both last year and this year. This year, though, masks were no longer required, and very few people wore them in public spaces. Our group wore them on the show floor and in hotel public spaces because that’s our calculus of balancing personal risk and community care, but we also ate indoors (obviously unmasked).

I was a bit aghast when other, unmasked people came close to admire our matching sweaters because it seemed like such a pandemic faux pas (to be so close, unmasked, indoors), but that was mostly just my own reaction. Life just seemed as if it has returned to pre-pandemic norms with only the occasional person with a mask to say that it was not 2019, after all.

and yet, and yet—

Everything seemed to underscore how I’m feeling about life in general these days. It’s up to us to take care of one another. To find our joy. To name the systems that are failing us. And to be in community together.

I’ll likely attend Stitches West next year to see how it continues to evolve, but I’m also looking for ways to find (or build) the more diverse, more expansive place that is my fiber community.

Last call to join the next round of my Kindred Spirits yarn subscription club

You are invited to join me in my ongoing, every-other-month yarn and color exploration: my Kindred Spirits yarn subscription club.

The next installment will ship in April/May (right on the cusp of April as it turns into May), and you can join through the end of the day today (Sunday, March 19). You know I’m not a fan of FOMO, so please know that I open the subscription window for two weeks, once every two months, but if you have been eyeing a subscription for yourself or a friend, today is the day if you want to join me for the next skein.

The skein (and mini) pictured above is the February/March edition. The next one will be a neutral, and as always, it will be inspired by Anne of Green Gables. Things you should know:

• It’s a surprise colorway, in my signature gently-speckled style.

• It’s dyed on my most luxurious fingering weight base, Cashmere Blend.

• It’s $34 for one skein, or $44 for a skein+coordinating mini-skein.

• Shipping is on me if you’re in the US, and it’s $10 flat rate if you’re in Canada or anywhere other than Europe or the UK. (Europe or the UK, please shop via Etsy.)

• This club is my most-loved offering. Some subscribers dip in and out of the club, and some have been with me for the entire five years I’ve been dyeing it.

A well-wish for our collective well-being

For you, and for me, I wish for rest. The kind of rest that says: I know what you need, and here it is, and you don’t have to earn it, or have worked hard for it, or have done anything. You can have the kind of rest you need (be it a nap, or something new and exciting, or a quiet hug), just because you are. Not because you do, but because you are.

With love,
Anne