A Festival of Firsts

Crossroads Fiber Festival was a festival of firsts.

It was my first time vending at a fiber festival, and the very first Crossroads Fiber Festival itself — hopefully the first of many. It was also my first time standing behind a table filled with my own work and talking to complete strangers about something I care about so deeply.

And it was wonderful.

I am tired now. The kind of tired that settles in quietly after something big and meaningful. I am moving slowly, letting myself relax back into the silence of home, and giving my body a chance to catch up with everything my heart and mind experienced over the weekend.

There is wool everywhere again, but in a different way than before. Before the festival, it was the chaos of preparation: labels, bins, pricing, last-minute notes, and the constant feeling that there was one more thing to finish. Now, it is the slower work of unpacking the wooly awesomeness, taking inventory, sorting through what came home with me, and writing down what I want to remember while it is all still fresh.

I am taking notes on what people reached for, what caught their attention, what questions came up again and again, and what surprised me. I am thinking about the conversations I had, the colors people connected with, and the small moments that made the whole experience feel real.

There is something tender about the after-festival stage. The bins are not fully unpacked. The studio is not quite put back together. My brain is still replaying little pieces of the weekend, while the house feels almost startlingly quiet. Part of me wants to rest completely. Another part is already thinking about what comes next.

Because the Loudoun Heritage Farm Museum’s Fiber Festival is only 32 days away.

So yes, rest is needed.

But also… fiber.

There are batts to blend, rolags to roll, yarns to label, colors to plan, and notes to turn into action. I am trying to move gently, because recovery matters. But I am also carrying the momentum that Crossroads gave me, and I do not want to lose that thread.

More than anything, this first festival reminded me that The Forager’s Fleece belongs out in the world. Not just online, not just in photographs, and not just tucked into the quiet corners of my studio. It belongs on a table, in the light, where people can touch the wool, ask questions, tell stories, and connect with the colors in their own way.

That part felt real.

And now, slowly, quietly, with a tired body, a full heart, and probably too much wool still waiting to be unpacked, I begin again.