The Texture of Things
I am a very tactile person, I love looking at, touching and smelling things, I love the feeling of fabrics, the colours and scent of natural dyes. Woven blankets, batik Indian blankets, saris, natural handmade papers. When I walk into clothing or fabric stores I feel the urge to touch everything and I can tell right away if I’m touching natural fibres or synthetic. When I walk into a shop that sells soaps and other natural essential oil infused products I want open all the testers and take a sniff (my favourite store in Victoria is Nezza Naturals and in Charlottetown it’s Moonsnail).
When I was in Italy many years ago I stumbled on a sweet little weaving shop. There were a handful of weavers present, all women and all with various forms of disabilities. The shop helped these women learn a craft and sell their products to help make a living. I bought a beautiful scarf (which I sadly lost). I can still see it in my minds eye. I can feel the slightly rough texture of the wool. It wasn’t solidly woven, instead there was space. The colours were varying shades of purples and dark blues. Even though it is no longer in my possession I can imagine it into life and remember the joy of purchasing something that held meaning for myself and for the craftsperson. I wasn't simply buying a scarf. I was bringing home a story woven into wool.
Close-up of weaving by Terry Moore, also known as His Wooliness
Over the years I've come to realize that I rarely remember the polished things. It's the textured ones that stay with me. The loose threads. The worn edges. The evidence that something has been made, handled, repaired, and loved.
Perhaps that's what I loved most about my time in the Slocan Valley.
Seeing myself as a bit unconventional/ non-conformist I think I can say that I am drawn to others that I see that way as well. I jokingly will say that it felt like living in the valley of misfits. I mean that in the most loving and beautiful of ways. How so? Well, it was a place where people did not expect anyone to be anything other than themselves. There was a place for everyone and so many characters can be found there.
I have a vivid memory of one of my students arriving to class laughingly saying she left home without putting on her makeup and only just realizing it. She was fairly new to the area having just arrived from a life in the city, always well put together. Then she shrugged and smiled. It didn't matter. Somewhere along the way she'd stopped worrying about appearances. The valley had quietly given her permission to relax into herself. It soon became obvious that here you could be as mismatched as you liked—hair uncombed, sweater with holes, no makeup—and no one thought twice about it.
Places shape people. The people that I know in the valley are strong and resilient in a way I didn't often see in the city. I think it's the nature of the environment—it's not an easy place to live. The mountains can be unforgiving. Although I came to love the Valley deeply, I couldn't see myself living there forever. It asks for a different kind of strength, one I came to realize wasn't mine.
With the remoteness of the place, it can be particularly hard for elders to live on their own. Many homesteads are without consistent running water, instead relying on streams and creeks. If the winter snowpack wasn’t significant enough the water may run out mid-summer.
My weaver friend Terry built his own home. It is up a dirt road and he has to walk up in the winter at times when the snow is too deep to drive. He’s in his late 60’s I believe but also could be older. He’s still strong and able to take care of his place which is good and I hope this is the case for him for many years to come. His weaving is incredible; he mostly spins and dyes his own wool. I am so grateful to have been able to purchase a scarf from him before we moved. I’d love to save up for a blanket!
My neighbour (also in his 60’s) from whom we bought our eggs created a farm on rented land and worked it until recently when he realized he didn’t have the strength to keep it up. His focus is now solely on his chickens and they sure keep him busy! I loved his eggs because I know how much he loves and cares for his chickens. Skunks and ravens are the biggest issue he has, it was always surprising to me to see the ravens fly over our home with a chicken egg in between it’s beak!
Creativity seemed woven into the valley itself. Everywhere I turned someone was building, carving, painting, weaving, writing or making music. It felt less like a profession than simply another way of living.
Image of sculptor / media artist Veronica Verkley with the lovely Pandora. Shown here in her home surrounded by several of her pieces.
The valley also seemed to attract people devoted to healing. Counsellors, herbalists, massage therapists, body workers—people who looked to nature as much as textbooks, and whose work reflected the rhythm of the place they called home.
Perhaps that's what texture really is—the threads of the places and people we have loved, quietly woven into who we become.
If I ever wrote a book about my experiences in the Slocan Valley, it would look a lot like that scarf from Italy. Partly gritty, partly smooth. Sometimes tightly woven, sometimes full of gaps where light shines through. Made by many different hands. Imperfect. Beautiful because of it, not in spite of it.
Perhaps that's why I don't feel as though I left the valley behind. I carried to my new home far more than personal belongings and photographs. I carried friendships, lessons, laughter, resilience, creativity, and a gentler way of seeing the world. Those threads have been quietly weaving themselves into my life ever since.
