Last night our book group discussed the book "This I Believe" - part of a radio program that airs on NPR. It originally began in the 1950's and has recently been revived. It is an opportunity for people of all walks of life to share a brief statement (300-500 words) about something that they believe. Check it out here: This I Believe. It was interesting to discuss the book (I had listened to the cd's - much better than the book in my opinion because they were recorded by the people that wrote them. It was neat to hear some of the older ones like Helen Keller, Thomas Mann, and Carl Sandburg.
Everyone in the group found it a little difficult to write about one core belief but it was fascinating to hear the ones that were shared at our book group. I challenge you to look at the website, read or listen to the book and try to write your own.
This I believe:
I believe in weaving. I have fond memories as a child of weaving potholders using yarn loops on a metal frame, later pounding nails into a wooden frame that my dad made and weaving with cast-off yarn using recycled Popsicle sticks as primitive shuttles. As an adult I taught myself how to weave on a real loom, that was delivered to our home in a very large box - but only as far as the front porch. I painstakingly and slowly maneuvered and muscled it into the house, much to the chagrin of my husband when he saw it in the family room later that day. "Why didn't you wait for me to come home?", he asked. "I just couldn't wait", was my nearly giddy reply.
The entire process of weaving transports me to another time and place as I engage physically and creatively in an experience that binds me to weavers throughout the ages. Ancient ones who discovered that cloth could be made as they interlocked threads - warp and weft together - making fabric that protected, warmed, clothed and beautified. The rhythmic sounds of the loom; harnesses being raised and lowered, the soft jangling of the metal heddles, the whir of the yarn unspooling from the shuttles, and the soft thud of the beater bar are pure music to my ears.
Much of what I weave becomes a gift for those I love. Baby blankets for anxiously anticipated little ones, scarves to keep my family warm, linens to brighten the family table and once a lap blanket for my grandfather who was dying. For his blanket I chose strong colors, striking grays and reds in a bold plaid pattern. With each throw of the shuttle and pull of the beater bar I thought of him, his life and impending death, and how our lives had been woven together.
This happens when one weaves for others as memories and recollections grow and form beneath ones hands as does the cloth. When I finished the blanket I wrapped and warmed myself in it - hoping that my love and affection would somehow become a part of the very fabric itself and that he would feel it and know that it was there - as much a part of the blanket as the threads that made it.
I saw one of my baby blankets wrapped around my niece this summer as we relaxed on the deck in the breath of coolness that accompanies a southern Utah sunset. She is almost ten and for a moment I didn't recognize the blanket as something that I had made. It looked well used and cherished - and because I believe in weaving, I believe she can still feel the love and affection that was woven into it.
The entire process of weaving transports me to another time and place as I engage physically and creatively in an experience that binds me to weavers throughout the ages. Ancient ones who discovered that cloth could be made as they interlocked threads - warp and weft together - making fabric that protected, warmed, clothed and beautified. The rhythmic sounds of the loom; harnesses being raised and lowered, the soft jangling of the metal heddles, the whir of the yarn unspooling from the shuttles, and the soft thud of the beater bar are pure music to my ears.
Much of what I weave becomes a gift for those I love. Baby blankets for anxiously anticipated little ones, scarves to keep my family warm, linens to brighten the family table and once a lap blanket for my grandfather who was dying. For his blanket I chose strong colors, striking grays and reds in a bold plaid pattern. With each throw of the shuttle and pull of the beater bar I thought of him, his life and impending death, and how our lives had been woven together.
This happens when one weaves for others as memories and recollections grow and form beneath ones hands as does the cloth. When I finished the blanket I wrapped and warmed myself in it - hoping that my love and affection would somehow become a part of the very fabric itself and that he would feel it and know that it was there - as much a part of the blanket as the threads that made it.
I saw one of my baby blankets wrapped around my niece this summer as we relaxed on the deck in the breath of coolness that accompanies a southern Utah sunset. She is almost ten and for a moment I didn't recognize the blanket as something that I had made. It looked well used and cherished - and because I believe in weaving, I believe she can still feel the love and affection that was woven into it.
