In the warp and weft, the child I once was is still singing.
I don’t think I could have anticipated how rejoining the textile world would move me. Weaving has unraveled me and spun me into a new person. Or maybe I should have known - after all, picking up clay again molded me into a different person, like stacking coils dictating the shape they long to become.
Weaving is older than ceramics. Some say it’s older than words themselves - an ancient tongue spoken in warp and weft, threaded deep into our bones, a vessel for the first stories ever told. The call back was not gentle; it’s been tugging me from somewhere primal, an instinct dulled by the static of the modern world. Like clay, its ingredients are offered up by the soil: plants give fiber and color like gifts. But where clay roots me in the earth, weaving suspends me in the air where I can dance with color, light, and movement.
Learning to weave feels like returning home to a place where the patterns and colors that live in my mind can wander in and out of threads, becoming a fabric painting. Each thread hums with memories I didn’t know I’d been carrying - like a harp finding its note.
And yes, this may all sound very “you can paint with all the colors of the wind”. But you’d have understood if you’d known me as a child. She’s here with me now singing and I’m embracing her in a warm woven blanket.
