When I began this weaving project, it was in my mind a mat, a space for me to sit, to think, to feel texture and to meditate…

For a while, I worked on it every night, sitting in a dimly lit room nearby my falling asleep children… 

Then it sat,

And sat,

Waiting for me to come back.

And I did, with the same destination in mind. 

But when it was finally coaxed off its wooden support, it was not flat. 

It insisted on curving, no matter the wetting and pulling and stretching I subjected it to. 

There was never a moment I thought about starting over. It was too late for that. I suspect the too tight pulling of the cotton weft in the midst of woolen rounds was the perturbation in the otherwise peaceful flow. Ironic, given that it was those very cotton strips that inspired the piece to begin with. 

Time to reconsider, time to adapt…

A chance to use more of what would otherwise be tossed away. 

My old worn sweater,

An antique bobbin of woolen thread,

My grandmother’s very old doily, worn, strained, yet saved. 

Wrapping the outside of the now bowl in my old worn sweater, allowing for waves here, ripples there, I feel the comfort I was longing for when I first began those initial rounds. Gentle stitching with the woolen yarn offers chances to start anew, start anew, as weak spots made for unplanned breaks. 

Stitching burlap around the soft bowl suggests sturdiness and the promise of support. 

And this tired, beautiful, intricate and broken gift offers up its last, sweet breath and is saved, its softness part of something new. 

Now my mind wanders to what it will hold, this comfort bowl of mine. Old things. New things. Found things for sure. Memories, too, no doubt, of specific moments and foggy plans that were once laid out on paper with pen, changed over time with cross outs and rewrites. Maybe appreciation, too, for adaptations so subtle they are almost imperceptible in loud life.

It will all be in there.