shifting lines of colour

Nights are getting cooler in Rabat, and the last time we were in the Medina we spied a weaving shop that has been working its way into the front of my mind ever since I've had to switch from sheet to blanket. After loading up on the aforementioned art supplies, we made our way through bustling streets to the facade of the shop, which was decorated by many colourful striped woolen blankets.

Saïd and his brothers are fourth generation weavers— a source of tremendous pride. He explained with great passion how their hands bring together so many threads in order to create warmth, protection, and comfort for others. The weaving as he described it, is meditative— all time is lost between the shifting lines of colour.



He invited us into the ateliers behind the shop, where several different looms were being worked by the deft hands and rhythmic feet of the weavers— it was like dancing, the movements smooth and deliberate. Their grace reminded me of the days I spent as a glass blowing apprentice in Upstate New York, where I learned to spin iron tipped in molten glass, to become fluid and strong.



So many of the world's traditional handicrafts and art forms are slowly dying out as artisans age, and new generations enter lives of technology, consumerism and mass-manufactured products labelled with that "Made in China" sticker. They are growing up in a completely different world— and I know that it's so much more complex than I am able to express.



I try my best to buy locally, and if it's possible to shake the hands that made what I take into my home, then it's all the better. How wonderful it is to wrap a blanket around our bodies that was woven by a family who takes pride in giving us that warmth, and to know that the beauty they created will comfort us for many years to come.

indigo thread

I have watched Tsewang grow from a quiet boy who liked to draw, into a confident, skilled artist. He is a member of the original group I started teaching five years ago, a person Pedro and I are lucky to have in our lives, so we were honoured when Tsewang invited us to his auntie's house for tea.

She was an impressive woman with eyes that carried strength, and beautifully wrinkled hands that deftly flicked prayer beads in a never-ending cycle, mantras escaping with each movement of her lips. She welcomed us into the living room, motioning to vividly patterned cushions for us to sit upon. While we were treated to endless cups of delicious butter tea and homemade khapse, a rhythmic clacking made its way from the courtyard into the pale blue room.



One of her sisters was weaving cloth on a handmade loom that was bought all the way from their village in the mountains.



As she smoothly slid the shuttle of indigo thread back and forth, I wondered about all the series of events that had to take place in order to bring each of us here to this courtyard, and how this moment would pass so quickly and insignificantly in the grand scheme of things, yet become a treasure of mine to revisit in memory.