bad day

Because not every day at the loom is a good day.

I’ve been a weaver for over half of my life now, and over the past twenty years my relationship with my craft has continuously developed. As with any meaningful, long-term relationship, there are ups and there are downs. Today was a down. 

When describing the experience of weaving, I often refer to being in a state of flow. My body goes through the same series of well-oiled motions, repeating them endlessly as the cloth slowly builds up. If the flow of weaving was a river, by now my body would have carved out a canyon.

But today, nothing went right. I didn’t understand the loom, I didn’t understand the fibres. My body felt disconnected from my brain and my fingers felt as if they were coated in butter, unable to properly grasp my tools. Every few rows a warp thread would snap, bringing the weaving to an abrupt halt. Each time I would stand and move to the back of the loom to repair it, often bumping my hip into the corner of the loom. It’s now the end of the day, and the bruise I started to feel forming is now appearing on my skin.

The hum of the loom, idling as I tackled the seemingly endless repairs slowly grated on me. Ordinarily I enjoy the sound of the loom, hearing it wait for me patiently as I wind a new bobbin or take a sip of tea. But today it felt persistent and unforgiving, like buzzing of a fly that just won’t quiet down and leave you alone to think.

Repaired warp ends were wrapped around pins to secure them, which would prick my index fingers. The repeated pricking sensation became physically exhausting, and as I tired my fingers would only slip more.

My velvet shuttle refused to balance on the woven cloth and would continuously fall from it’s resting place to the ground. Twice, when I pushed back the weaving bench to reach down and pick up the dropped shuttle, I hit my head on the front beam of the loom. The second time it happened, I stumbled back into the weaving bench and the force knocked over the cup of tea I had resting there. My swear words echoed through the studio, and I had to walk away and make a cup of tea to calm down.

When talking about weaving, it’s easy to fall into the trap of highlighting the positives and glossing over the negatives. But these negative experiences really matter, and I don’t want to diminish their importance. Coming through bad days like this strengthens the foundation that my relationship with weaving is based on, and reveals the resilience and authenticity of my love for my craft.