I slid a slightly crooked hand-woven bookmark into the envelope before sealing it and mailing it to a friend. I attached a note:
My newest fascination is hand weaving on a loom. I made this bookmark for you. It’s one of my first, but I’ll send another one after I’ve had more practice. Hopefully you’ll see my progress. Happy Reading!
A hands-on fiber arts exhibit at an art museum in Wisconsin was where I first tried a loom —— just a wooden frame strung with cotton thread. Visitors could take up the shuttle and direct the brightly colored thread over, under, over, under, creating a long panel of bright colors and shapes.
The loom experience stayed with me, and it began a fascination with studying my cotton bedsheets, a bath mat, or the upholstery on a couch. Once you start looking for woven materials, you suddenly notice them everywhere.
I was experiencing a childlike wonder that happens when you are suddenly given new information that helps you make sense of the blurry edges of the world. Things started to shift into focus. In a world smoothed over by plastics, AI, and computer-generated shapes and sounds, weaving is a quaint remnant from a distant past, something done completely by hand without electricity or software. It’s beautiful. It’s everywhere.
I created my first loom from scrap cardboard. I’m an on-again, off-again knitter, so I use caution when taking up new hobbies! I wanted to get the feel for it before investing in more expensive materials.
I’ve graduated to a small wooden loom now. The rhythm of back and forth, under-over-under-over is soothing to me. Watching a pattern emerge from the colorful yarns is surprising and delightful.
A younger version of me would be impatient with my beginning attempts. My off-kilter and imperfect weaving with loose ends would seem unbearably flawed. But with age, something inside me has shifted. I’m learning patience. I’m okay with taking things slowly. I’m able to grant myself a little more grace and give myself the time I need to learn a new thing. My imperfect bookmarks will still keep track of the last chapter read. My oddly-shaped mug rugs will still guard the wooden table from water marks.
The imperfections exist because I exist in this imperfect world. I’ll try and try again. Mistakes will be made. I’ll learn from each mistake. I’ll stick with small projects until I throw caution to the wind and attempt something larger. A pillow? A rug? A wall hanging? Like me, they will be imperfect, rough around the edges, and a little misshapen. That’s okay. They will also be unique, bright, and strong —— also like me. The imperfections will become part of the fabric, and they will smooth over time.
