Hard to say what’s so appealing about weaving. My skills and knowledge are nonexistent (as of yet). It takes a long time. But still…so satisfying.
When I was 9 or 10 I intuitively figured out that cloth didn’t grow on trees and weaving was something that a person ought to be able to do. I think I figured this out because someone gave me a “loopers” kit, a tiny plastic loom and some stretchy loops of fabric with which I made a potholder.
Still, I wanted to weave something on my own, without a kit. I had a pink, yellow, and purple table, and I wrapped my mother’s yellow knitting yarn around the legs. Then, awkwardly, I wove in pink and purple, probably wrapping it around three or four strands of the yellow yarn at a time. (It didn’t occur to me that I was working with the same colors as were painted on the table, but that’s how I remember it now.)
It bulged unevenly, loose threads hanging out everywhere, not quite long enough for a belt or wide enough for a wall hanging, but still it was a thing, some sort of thing that the yarn hadn’t been before I got my hands on it.
There was a crafts table at school, laden with I can’t remember what, but it all looked the way that it was supposed to look. Probably hand thrown pots, macrame, tidily executed embroideries. When I put my weavy thing on the table, the woman running the show didn’t know what it was or why I was handing to her. Once I explained that it was for exhibit, though, she put it out on the table with a little card with my name on it, and I was proud.
