Weaving has become the way for me. For me to regain myself.
In weaving its all in the knots. Sometimes they slip and its taut or not. The spiders spin from a sack between their legs, sticky perfect, imperfect, row after row deep in the forest. In the first dew of morning.
Sometimes its just a tangle and the unweaving is what counts. I have learned to balance and rebalance. A little tension here makes a little slack there and on and on - so it goes.
I look for trees with a certain gap between them - a place that shows in sunlight or reflects in water. I like the fibers that blend in like they belong. Even better the ones that vibrate...clash. Call out their artifice in the green. Among the trees. Cause rubber necking on the parkway.
Weaving is done in a zone where time stops. No one sees me when I weave because I'm invisible. Who expects a spider web made with neon yarn? I come and go before the dawn. At the end of dusk. The spiders tell me, "wake up early enough we'll show you the way.
In weaving its all in the knots. Sometimes they slip and its taut or not. The spiders spin from a sack between their legs, sticky perfect, imperfect, row after row deep in the forest. In the first dew of morning.
Sometimes its just a tangle and the unweaving is what counts. I have learned to balance and rebalance. A little tension here makes a little slack there and on and on - so it goes.
I look for trees with a certain gap between them - a place that shows in sunlight or reflects in water. I like the fibers that blend in like they belong. Even better the ones that vibrate...clash. Call out their artifice in the green. Among the trees. Cause rubber necking on the parkway.
Weaving is done in a zone where time stops. No one sees me when I weave because I'm invisible. Who expects a spider web made with neon yarn? I come and go before the dawn. At the end of dusk. The spiders tell me, "wake up early enough we'll show you the way.