Spinning Truthful Yarns

by Birdie Jaworski


One of Erin Ambrose's Navajo-Churro ewes.

The first thing that strikes the listener is that the woman's voice is stone cold melodic, even, unafraid. She stands at a microphone, her head cocked to one side as she interlaces curt words, deliberate ideas, into a rug tightly-woven enough to carry weight. Her gestures suggest necessary defiance, the aural transfer of sacred inalienable truth.

"Look at me, I'm speakin' of Freedom, in the home of the deceived and the land of the shopping spree." Erin Ambrose doesn't pause. Her plastic-rimmed glasses amplify steady eyes as her words chip at the thinning veneer separating consumer culture, big money media, from a community built on equality, a peaceful existence.

One of the featured poets in director stavros' Freedom of Speech documentary, "Committing Poetry in Times of War," Ambrose uses her words to examine the workings of our current administration, social justice issues such as human and workers' rights, as well as the simple struggle that defines day-to-day life in the early 21st century. Ambrose joined the active spoken-word community of Albuquerque where she used her poetry to help affect change.

"I was first inspired to write peotry when I read the works of Dorothy Allison," Ambrose says. "That was maybe ten years ago. One magic day I got the courage to attend a poetry reading, an all-women's reading in Albuquerque. That's when I fell in love with spoken word. I write free verse. I write to perform. I believe that poetry loses some of its power on the page. I'm highly political."

Ambrose fled the city in search of a life in the country, a life she felt would be more truthful, real. She transplanted herself on a farm in Anton Chico where she mixes the spinning of tales with the traditional art of spinning wool. Ambrose worked as a spinner for Tapetes de Lana in Mora.

A trio of ewes push their way through a screen door into Ambrose's kitchen each morning. Navajo-Churro were brought to North America by the Spanish Conquistadors in the 16th century as a source of food and clothing for their armies. A hundred years later, Native Americans gathered flocks of Churros through trading and raids, resulting in the sheep becoming an important part of the Navajo economy and culture. Ambrose received her Churros from renowned traditional arts weaver Sharon White, and considers her tiny flock spoiled.

"I love them," Ambrose laughs. "Mine are spoiled to death. They have a bad habit of pushing the screen door open and coming in the kitchen. It's okay now since I only have three, but it might get crazy when I have more! I'm going to try shearing them myself this year."

Ambrose considers shepherding, spinning, and weaving dying arts. She hand-spins her wool without washing it, the rich lanolin coating each strand, in a traditional method called "spinning in the grease."

"Hand-spinning is important." Ambrose's voice gathers momentum, steel, the way it does when she reads at the microphone. "Hand shearing. These are dying arts. The people doing these things are getting up in years. I do a lot of hand-spun yarns. I've been solely spinning in the grease with unprepared fiber, so it has a lot of character. It makes a mess! It's right off the animal, you end up with a lap full of crud, everything's dirty, you're dirty. Selling hand-spun yarn is my bread and butter. When I can get enough yarn accumulated, I can weave things."

Skeins of naturally-dyed yarn hang, drying in the sun, under Ambrose's country window. The wool is both delicate and hearty at once. The natural colors of her Churros create a surprisingly varied rainbow of blacks, grays, and whites. A rug, is boldly woven by Ambrose in a tribal pattern mixing vibrant reds with the muted creams of dried summer soil.

Ambrose sells her hand-spun yarns online at Etsy.com at a shop she calls Pitchfork Fiber Arts, and hopes to soon begin offering her spoken word pieces to the Las Vegas community live at Travelers Cafe's open mic nights.

"I feel like poetry and fiber arts balance each other out," muses Ambrose. "Poetry is so public and high energy and spinning and weaving, sheparding my sheep, are quiet and solitary."