I wanted to share a conversation on weaving, gifting, death work, and earth magic that I had with Kate at @loamlove for their Loam Listen podcast series in February 2020. In the conversation, I share the wonderful work of so many people who have helped me get to this place in my practice such as my ancestors, my community, and my guides.
Three Lights Continue On To The Great Flow
Weaving, at first blush, appears to be a straightforward, meditative endeavor. Yet, beneath that current of calm and simplicity, weaving contains a churning, cosmic dance of shadow and light that is waiting for the weaver to find. Yes, weaving is nothing short of the craft of death and rebirth. It is the craft of the spider, who weaves a web each day as the world comes into its enlightened brilliance to take it down as the darkness descends. The story of this weaving, “Three Lights Continue On To the Great Flow,” is the tale of how I came to peel back the veil to become part of that dance.
I found that commission request email from my dear friends in my email inbox and it called me to embrace a new direction in my work. My friends had lost three young loved ones quite suddenly and hoped that I could create a weaving for them to honor them. I was extremely honored that they had invited me into their healing process and felt that one of my weavings could be a vessel for their loved ones to continue on. I knew this was an incredibly sacred responsibility that I was being invited into.
I immediately sat down to sketch and came upon a surprise. The designed poured out onto the sketch pad with little effort, as if the tiny ones already knew what the design was to look like. Three hemp flows appeared on the sketchpad, which came as a sharp departure from my recent geometric work and a return to a style I used to move through the grief of my own mother’s continuation. I chuckled a bit at those flows. I had not completed a piece in that style since “Elemental Flows” (See Below) but had recently been teaching folks how to create organic shapes in that style. “How interesting,” I thought to myself. The little seed that that I had planted in my work to teach people to weave for free had now bloomed in this new project. “Could this be my payment for those classes?” That thought echoed for a few moments, as I lost myself in the synchronicities that brought me to that moment in time.
Having completed the sketch, I sent it to my friends with a simple request. “Can I pay you for this opportunity to be of help to you,” I asked. In that moment, it just became so readily apparent to me that what I was experiencing was nothing short of magic. What had I done to be allowed into this most sacred responsibility of helping row my loved ones to the other side of the shore? I had no answer, but, like any druid, I had fully embraced my sacred responsibility to follow through on what the universal flow had set out for me to do for my loved ones. Little did I know how much I would actually learn about myself and weaving in the process.
I opened up my sacred grove, calling in my ancestors, connecting to the earth, inviting in my spider guides. The weaving, still in its infancy, was sitting right in front of me. I invited my ancestors of blood, tradition, and land, to lay their hands on the weaving with me and pour our blessing into the piece. The earth extended its roots over our hands next, encircling our hands and the weaving in the radiant green energy of nywfre. Finally, my golden orb weaver spider guide descended and wrapped the bundle in its pulsing golden silk. We all sit suspended in this beautiful moment of blessing until I asked my mom to invite in Hugo, Archie, and Rufus into the circle. With her guidance, the three little ones arrived and placed their own blessing on the piece.
Throughout the creation of this piece and when it was complete, I brought this piece into my sacred grove again and again to bless and protect it through ritual. I really have no idea why I did this. Looking back now, it just seemed appropriate. Previously, as part of my gifting process, I blessed weavings before I gave them to my friends and family. However, I had never actively done a blessing where I brought in the departed that I was hoping to honor with the piece. That gesture just intuitively felt right in the moment. It wasn’t until I received the help of some friends that I realized how this was connected to all the rest of my work.
It was another coincidence that helped me realize that death has always been central to my work. While weaving this piece, I was shooting off photos of Natalie’s (@combedthunder) work to my stories, feeling very inspired by her technical and storytelling ability with her fiber work. Moments later, I got a notification that shot me out of my stream of conscious descent down the rabbit hole of my feed. I clicked on the notice. Natalie had posted a piece of mine with a touching description that mentioned my work being associated with meditation and death. I paused, thinking “Huh, I have never thought about my work that way.” With a few simple words, Natalie held a mirror up to my practice to help me see a new facet of my work; all my work did have to do with death in one shape or another.
Weeks later, my good friend Hannah Haddadi of Mourning Light Divination introduced me to Death Work in a post on her IG page. Hannah wrote eloquently, “I often get asked, ‘what exactly is death work?’. . . Death, Rebirth, and Transformational work is the ground work of life. It’s using the tools that we have internally and externally to move through lifecycles whether they be the tough, exciting, or unknown variety. It’s about learning how to accept that these cycles are a natural part of our lives and mother earth at large. This work is also about honoring ourselves, where we’ve been, where we are at and certainly where we are going. To honor the process and be able to sit with that process - offer it a seat at the table, offer it tea, and some grace.”
After reading those words, nothing was the same. Something shifted in me, and I found myself in a new world. I realized that my weaving was not just about death; My weaving has always been and is death work. My weaving practice is rooted in death work, having learned how to weave in order to finished my mom’s unfinished business of wanting to learn how to weave. My woven language series is the work of rebirthing symbols important to my mother in the hopes of passing them on to the next generation. Finally, with this piece, I have been invited into the sacred process of using my weaving as vessel to help others move through the death and rebirth process. In other words, the universe invited to become someone who practices fiber death work.
I nestled the weaving into my canvas bag, zipped the bag shut, and placed it in the basket in the front of my bike. I pedaled along the sleepy roads on a chilly, late winter morning. I reached my destination some 15 miles southeast of my home and met with my friend Hannah, who led a ritual to help bless the weaving. Still a novice at magically preparing weavings for their homes, I wanted to be sure that this weaving fulfilled its purpose for those three little ones. I was not disappointed. Hannah’s ritual, which she crafted specifically for this purpose, perfectly closed the circle on this bit of death work. The work seemed complete and ready to send away to its home.
In the days after the ritual, I kept thinking about how my own life seemed to be moving in an interesting mirror image of the weaving. Some two months earlier, I received a text message that changed my life. The picture showed up on my phone, and the test listed the result as “pregnant.” I sat at my desk at work excited and nervous about the time to come. Lily and I had done so much work to become parents spiritually and mentally and we were pregnant. I was going to be a dad. What I would come to realize in the weeks that followed was that that Lily and I became pregnant around the same time that we received the commission request from our friends to honor their three little ones. What an interesting and beautiful synchronicity to have the cycle of life so present in the life cycle of this weaving. I suppose this happenstance just brings into relief the subtle magic at play in weaving and art more generally. Aren’t all pieces of art the marks of a coming and going, a hymn to the unending flow of life and death? Isn’t art the way that we mark those moments of transfer across those golden lit thresholds? That seems to me to be the case at least.
So here I am, a novice death-working weaver, a soon-to-be father, a person living in pandemic times. What am I to do next? It’s not lost on me that I am once again set into this space of profound transition with the delicate dance of light and darkness. It was not that long ago that, in a span of two years, I watched my mom continue to the next plane, finished a PhD, got married, moved across the country, and started my weaving journey. This too feels like the wheels of history are speeding up again. Yet, this time something feels different. It almost feels like I am riding on the top of the wave rather than being crushed under it. I feel like all these wonderful things have happened for a reason, and I am meant to be of service to ya’ll. I guess this is my way of saying, Do any of y’all need a weaving to mark the continuation of a loved one?
The Path
The wind rustled through the high grass on the top of the mesa on the Chimney Rock Trail at Ghost Ranch just outside Abiquiu, New Mexico. Lily and I paused, listening to the symphony of grass and looking out over Abiquiu Reservoir and the surrounding mountains. I couldn't hear anything else, just the grass swaying in the wind. It was a reprieve from the constant vibrating pulse of engines we can hear near our home. I breathed in and out. The silence was unsettling. A city dweller, I didn't know what to do with such quiet.
We kept walking and found a little nook tucked into a canyon behind Chimney Rock. We sat there, becoming a part of the silence. The fear melted away, and for the first time in my adult life, I became just another animal in a certain place and time. I didn’t have an agenda or something to accomplish. Without any intention, I had tuned myself into key of the landscape around me. My senses were heightened to notice any passing change in the flow of the time.
After sitting for a while, Lily and I looked at each other, squeezed hands, stood up, and walked down the trail toward civilization. As we walked, I felt the need to take off my sandals and walk down the trail barefoot, a simple act that I would have mocked myself for years ago. Ignoring how my old self would have responded, I heeded that call and took off my sandals. A shift occurred in me in that moment, something deep inside me had been reawakened. In that space, I had found another doorway to the sacred; a path out of the thicket of questions that had snarled me for months through a rewilding of my self.
Prior to that trip to Santa Fe, I had a hard time with weaving and spinning. Questions of commercialization and cultural appropriation hounded my work. How do I price something that I consider an object tied to a spiritual practice? What is the appropriate line on being influenced by but not appropriating other cultures? Why does my practice feel empty? These are paralyzing questions. The sorts of questions that suck the joy and peacefulness out of the practice.
I walked away from the practice for awhile due to those questions. I went to Grateful Dead-related and Umphrey’s McGee shows, a safe place for me to just be. I picked up the electric bass. I stared at the ceiling with my headphones on, listening to music. Yet, it wasn’t until I went back to the source of my practice in Northern New Mexico, the place I learned to weaver, that I realized that I had already found my way through the thicket of these questions to find new ways to approach my work. As is typical, the energy and rarefied air of that space provided the fodder to iterate into a new understanding of my practice and a new version of myself. The following are the stories of how I found my meandering path through those troubles and learned to create a new economy for my work, find connection with my ancestors, and practice an earth-based spirituality.
A Different Type of Economy
Through a lot of trial and error, I learned that I am not interested in selling my work or treating it as a business. I found the process of pricing my work, and thereby, turning a sacred object that I made with my two hands into a commodity that can be bought or sold is deeply dehumanizing. It turned my spiritual practice into a market exchange and led me to spending my precious time pondering questions that I was not much interested in the answer to.
One particular instance really drove this home for me. I found myself in a gallery pitching my work without having really interrogated whether that is what I wanted out of my practice. Did I really want to show my work in galleries? Is recognition from those places and the people connected to them what I am after? Over the course of a few months, I realized I don’t want to make for the market. I want to make for the universe, my friends and family, and myself. I wanted to water the seeds of slowness, reverence, and reflection in myself. That recognition was deeply freeing. It helped me let go of any intention of approaching my weaving and spinning as a business that can fit into the attention economy on Instagram.
“Eternal Return” 8.5 in. x 8.5 in.
In the space that emerged by letting go of those aims, I happened into a different type of economy for my work. After I decided to not sell my work, I have to admit that I was rather perplexed about what I was going to do with it. Naturally, the solution presented itself in due time. One day this past summer, I was conversing with a fellow deadhead (i.e., a fan of the Grateful Dead) Taka who lives in Japan after buying a Grateful Dead shirt from him. He complimented me on my work and expressed a desire to buy a one of my weavings one day. A stroke of inspiration bolted into my brain, “What if I gift Taka one of my weavings?” A feeling of happiness and wellbeing washed through me, which helped me realize what I should do. I sent Taka “Eternal Return,” which was a piece made in my woven language style that marked my return to going to Jamband concerts, fitting given our common love of Grateful Dead music. Gifting that piece to Taka felt deeply important as it marked me overcoming an impasse I had been struggling with. Rather than my work going to those who could afford it, I would now let the natural flow of the universe decide where the work would go. I continued to expand that practice in my life, gifting weavings to people who have helped me continue down this pathway of self discovery. Along the way, I stumbled upon a different type of economy for my work. I found a people-centered economy for my work that would honor its scared nature and help me nourish connections to others in my community.
Recently, I expanded how my practice fits into the people-centered economy by letting the universe decide who I will pass on weaving skills to. Three years ago, the universe called me to this practice. More and more, people are approaching me saying, “I feel drawn to this practice.” I interpretted these occurrences as a message from the universe that it was time for me to pick up teaching weaving again. Obeying this call, I started to offer to teach people to weave for free when they would express this sentiment to me. I bought their loom, provided the yarn, and taught them a couple simple skills that would get them started. While gifting someone a weaving is an excellent way to honor the scared nature of my own work, teaching people to weave plants the seed of a deeper connection to self and earth within folx. It plants the seeds of a new society based on reciprocity and balance with the natural world.
Addressing Wrongs While Seeking Wisdom
In February 2019, there was a wonderful article on racism in the knitting community by Jaya Sexton at Vox, which identified the whitewashing of knitting and the white fragility displayed by white knitters who demanded that people of color not make knitting about race when the issue of racism was raised. Reading this article and relating it to my own practice was really important, because it prompted me to to reflect critically on my own aesthetic and how I contributed to the whitewashing of other people’s cultures. What I found upon reflection didn’t make me feel good about myself. I responded with the same white fragility that these other individuals had. I realized that I had been seeking wisdom from outside my culture, because I had yet to do the work to excavate the wisdom from my own culture and ground myself in its lineage. Though uncomfortable at the time, this discomfort led to an incredible journey or self-discovery.
Viewing my work through a new lens after reading the Vox article, I started opening myself up to the idea that I was inadvertently perpetuating whitewashing and cultural erasure in my own work. While looking for more resources to inform this approach, Lily, my partner, shared Makiko Hastings’ excellent essay on the misuse of the term Wabi Sabi by white makers to market products and oneself. In the article, Makiko discussed how it is wrong and harmful to take the traditional Japanese aesthetic concept of Wabi Sabi and boil it down to a simplified maxim of “beauty in imperfection” to sell oneself or one’s goods. By using a simplified meaning of Wabi Sabi, Makiko pointed out that those individuals were personally benefiting by stealing elements from someone else’s culture, thereby erasing the deep cultural context the term is usually used in. I could sense how right Makiko was to say that this is harmful.
After reading her article, I realized the harm I had cause by writing and sharing the following haiku:
It could be better//or I could just let it be.// Wabi Sabi.
I, a white man, used the term Wabi Sabi to invoke the white-washed concept of wabi sabi, “beauty in imperfection,” in a traditional Japanese poetic form. My use of Wabi Sabi and haiku was not in culture, nor could it possible touch the depth of the true cultural context within which it is typically used. My use contributed to the larger normalization of the practice of appropriating the term wabi sabi for my own gain. When I used the term, people equated some sense of knowledge or wisdom to me and rewarded me in likes and follows, thereby making it appear as if I was someone to listen to. I felt that collecting those likes and follows allowed me to inappropriately benefit from this form of cultural appropriation. Building my network and being recognized as wise for appropriating elements of other peoples’ cultures is wrong, and I called myself on out on instagram to address the wrongs I had caused.
Gifted this new perspective, I scanned through the rest of my practice to identify other ways that I was benefitting from the normalization of cultural erasure. I recognized, with the help of a friend, that my discussion and sharing of my use of the Navajo spindle was another conspicuous example. I realized that sharing pictures of myself using a Navajo spindle on my account with accompanying haikus about that practice was wrong. Again, I had contributed to the normalization of cultural erasure. It did not feel right to me to be garnering any sort of recognition from using a Navajo spindle. I am not Diné, so I stopped sharing those photos. I will quietly appreciate the tool in my own time without feeling the need to talk about it as if It should garner me any sort of recognition. I don’t need to appropriate other cultures to gain attention.
The Question Beneath
“I imagine a world where non-native people who are seeking ritual and spirituality in their lives are reconnecting with their own ancestral ways and their own traditions. How beautiful would it be to see a revitalization of cultures and traditions that were rooted in other continents like Europe and Africa?” Jade Begay (@Jadethemighty) in “To Walk in Beauty” in the Beauty and Being Issue of Loam Magazine (@loamlove)
Stripping away layer after layer of other cultures I had used in my practice to garner attention, I was left with a question, “What elements of my own culture can inform my contemplative approach to fiber art?” The implications of this question left a gaping, Grand Canyon-wide void that was only filled with guilt and shame. Reaching deeper into that black, sticky muck of emotion, I saw very clearly that I had rejected my own culture because of the dramatic suffering it has caused to my relations in the plant, animal, fungal kingdoms and those who identified in different race/ethnic, religious, gender, sexuality, nationalities than me. I saw very clearly why I had sought wisdom outside my culture. I had feared that my culture had been consumed by the greed and speed that led my ancestors to create such suffering on this planet and that I would be unable to be draw on my ancestors as a fountain of wisdom.
Upon reflection, I understood that I was doing violence to my ancestors by reducing their cultural lineage to their inattention and harm they had caused. By only focusing on the worst acts of my ancestors’ history, I had ignored the strains of peace, generosity, and connection that my ancestors brought forth that have provided so much enrichment to the world. Dorothy Day, William S. Copperthwaite, Mary Oliver, Daniel Berrigan, John Paul Lederach, Eugene V. Debs, and countless other ancestors came pouring into my experience. I remembered how my teachers in my Jesuit high school taught me to find way to be a “man for others” and the contemplative skills to access the mysteries of life. I remembered my mom’s spiritual practice, which was this radiant synergy of christianity and earth-based spirituality. Yes, my ancestors have caused harm, but also, they have shown me a path to peace, contemplation, service, and connection to all earth’s life.
Taking this non-dualistic viewpoint on my white, Western-European ancestors offers me the ability to think critically about my ancestral path and refine the traditions that I will pass on to the next generation. I advocate for the messy practice of refinement that Sera Lindsey of SUNMOON Journal advocates for in her piece How to Look Backwards and Forwards: Ancestors, Descendents, and the Magical Glue of Now:
“Refinement is a birthright, but only when we do so with the fluff pulled from our ears, and the blinders taken off of our eyes. It’s easy to claim a right, or feel an ownership. And it’s not inaccurate. It can however be incomplete, which will only make us feel more lost in our search. If we are to create new, safer structures to live in, upgrade our recipes to be tastier and healthier, or make medicines of our family and ancestors using more readily available plants and herbs, we must humble ourselves to the past, study that which we came from, ask questions from our elders - and then listen. Even if we don’t like everything we hear or discover (which is likely, so prepare for all sides of understanding), it is real, and necessary to move forward with all the grace and strength that our blood contains.”
I, like all humans on this planet, have the power to shape the ancestral wisdom that will be passed down to my blood, land, and tradition descendants. I will recognize the harm that my ancestors have caused due to colonialism, capitalism, racism, sexism, nationalism, homophobia, and many more isms, but I will not pass on those traditions to my descendants. No, I will make a conscious choice to pass on a different body of wisdom I learned from them. By choosing those elements of the contemplative, earth-based spirituality that was gifted me by my ancestral line again and again in my daily life, I will slowly building up a grounded, just, compassionate, non-violent, magical body of wisdom that I can share with my ancestors and future descendants. One of the most important features of that refinement is a dedication to recapture the druidic, earth-based spirituality of my Irish, Welsh, Scottish, and British ancestors.
I Am Still Walking Barefoot Out of That Canyon
I didn’t stop walking barefoot when I left the canyon that day in Abiquiu. No, that was just the beginning of walking the druidic path of my ancestors. I started to put my connection to the web of life first in my life by giving more of my time to pay attention to the wealth of wonders that surrounded me. I let go of achieving things when I was outside. Gone was the agenda and in its place was the opportunity to bare witness to the ever-changing world by perceiving things through my senses. There was ample listening, staring at the ground, sitting on rocks, feeling the wind and sun on my skin, freezing to stare at a singing bird, and smelling plants.
The more I witnessed the more it became apparent to me that I was woven as another wild animal into the landscapes I was a part of. Have you ever sat still in a place long enough where the birds, animals, trees and plants stop paying attention to you and go about their business again? When I have been lucky enough to touch that natural soundscape, I felt the charged rhythm of the space emerge with a stark immediacy, like being teleported into another dimension. With a snap of your fingers, you are transported to this space of being just another wild animal in a place, attuned to any smell, sound, or disruption in your vicinity. It’s in those moments that I began the work of dropping the pretense that I am in any way separate from or superior to my relations in the fungi, bacteria, animal, and plant kingdoms. Indeed, we, all living relations on this planet, are all just so many wild spirals woven together into the great sacred flow of the web of life, nourishing each other and coevolving as we have for eons.
Once I discerned my connection with the web of life, I actively connected with it everyday. In my sitting practice, I picked up a practice of inviting my land, tradition, and blood ancestors to sit with me, and we visualized roots extending from our bodies. The roots spiraled around one another into a unified taproot that dove through the the foundation of our house into the web of life in the earth below. The filaments of the mycelium spiraled up to meet our taproot and wrapped around our taproot in a spiraling embrace. There we all rested connected in a circle of energy and nourishment exchange. Breathing in energy and nourishing offered by our relations in other kingdoms and breathing out energy and nourishment for those relations to embrace. Sitting in that deep embrace of giving and receiving with my ancestors and the web of life day after day, I began to be able to feel the Nwyfre, the magical current that druids recognize flows through everything. I started to see the oneness of the root of all spiritual paths. I felt the reverence of every significance-soaked breath. I started to see the sanctity of the constant cycles of life, death, and rebirth and how we nourish and draw nourishment from the web of life throughout our movements through those cycles. Nwyfre poured forth the light of insight throughout my world. As above, so below.
Showy Milkweed seeds in hand.
After discerning the Nwyfre, I started to conduct acts to show my dedication to living in communion with the earth and my ancestors. While sitting in connection with my ancestors and the web of life, I was very aware that I needed to acknowledge the original inhabitants of the land I walk on and conduct an act of healing to show my dedication to restoring balance to the lands I live in. I learned that I sit on the lands that have been tended for eons by the hinono’eino’ biito’owu’ (Arapaho), Tséstho’e (Cheyenne), Núu-agha-tʉvʉ-pʉ̱ (Utte), andOčeti Šakówiŋ (Sioux) peoples (Look for your land ancestors at native-land.ca). Sitting on a brisk November morning, I asked permission of the Earth on which I live to plant Showy Milkweed seeds, a native plant that would bring monarch butterflies and other pollinators to the land. The Earth joyfully granted permission and I planted the seeds. While planting, I was reminded of the richness of the land underneath my feet. As I sowed the seeds, the land willingly absorbed the seeds into its web of life. Rich, dark earth; earthworms; insects; and mycelial webbing rushed to welcome their new seed relations. When I finished sowing and settling the bed, I placed my hands on the earth to offer the earth gratitude and to bless this new connection to the practices of my land ancestors. The Earth met my hands with its own smile. I felt in balance with my relations and the land ancestors that came before me.
“The Path” 8 in. x 8 in.
The Path
Towards the end of this journey of discovery, I finished the above pictured piece, entitled “The Path.” If my mom’s woven signature was a spiral, my woven signature is the meandering path. The meandering path is a perfect symbol for me, as I have always moved along a meandering path toward wisdom and connection. It’s hard to express how important it is to feel like I have found a symbol as significant as the spiral was to my mom. It is only fitting that I found this symbol in the throws of self-criticism, doubt, and a feeling of malaise. In the pressure chamber of one of the most pressing challenges where I questioned why I was spending so much energy weaving and spinning, an extremely resonant and meaningful symbol came through the fog to represent the new person I had become on this planet. The symbol represents my dedication to the path of creating a people-centered economy for my work in tune with the universe and embracing the earth-based spirituality of my ancestors. It represents my ability to continually interrogate my own privilege and be willing to address wrongs to practice right speech and right action. Finally, as with all my work, it represents the fundamental interconnectedness of all my work with my mom. Each day, I more embody her way of being on the planet. Her wish to learn to weave and the spiral symbols she left behind all have been key little clues that have led me to this meandering path. The spiral and meandering path are interconnected as one.
Taproot Meditation
Coming back from another life changing trip to New Mexico, I have found myself very interested in finding my ancestors’ spiritual practices. It’s important to note that I am not talking of the Christian practices that so many people find when starting this trip. I am talking of digging deeper beneath the religious movement of Christianity to find the pagan and druidic practices (i.e., traditional, nature-based spirituality) that became the basis of so many key concepts and rituals in Christian practice. Early Christians were very effective movement builders that spread christianity by absorbing the local religious practices (e.g., druidism, paganism, vodou into Christianity) of the communities that sought to move into (See Krista Tippett’s excellent interview with Patrick Bellegarde-Smith to hear about an excellent example of this phenomenon). Consequently, I am very interested in conducting an archeological dig into the Celtic and druidic practices to find the traditional nature-based spirituality of my ancestors in Ireland, Scotland, and England.
Much of the initial seeds of my search has been prompted by the symbology that my mom left behind. Spirals, Triskelles, towers, and path symbols dominate her fiber and illustrative art. Do you see the rock with illustrations on them in the picture above? My mom drew a triskele symbol, three interconnected spirals, which is an ancient pre-celtic symbol found in various sites in Ireland. The symbol represented the interconnection of many sacred groupings of three (e.g., past, present future; earth, sea, sky; physical, spiritual, celestial) and would be used as the impetus for christianity to adopt the trinity of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. As I held that rock, I felt the need to track down the symbols to find out what they meant. Again, my mom showed the way to a deepening of my journey on this planet. Again, I was walking with my mom on a path of discovery.
Beginning to walk that path, I have been immersing myself in the druidic practice of Dana O’Driscoll as expressed in her blog The Druid’s Garden. I have been struck at the overflowing sense of home I feel within these idea systems and ritual practices. There is something that just fits. Of particular relevance for me has been the great web card from O’Driscoll’s upcoming Planet Sprit Oracle book and card set.
Having just listened to Paul Stamet’s incredible Immersive lecture about the healing and connective power of mushrooms and the vast fungal networks that are below our feet, I was primed to sense the deep wisdom in this imagery. Every step we take, we are walking on acres or miles of fungal network threads that connect all plants and trees together and give them the opportunity to share nutrients and talk to one another. To make matters even more mind blowing, these fungal networks share the same network pattern as the cosmos, the internet, and the human brain. The microcosm truly can be the macrocosm. Through this imagery and Stamet’s podcast, I came to understood the sacred meaning behind my mom’s use of the spiral imagery. Plant, fungi, human, bacteria, and animal brothers and sisters are really all co-evolving in real time; we are all going through a metamorphosis together that is informed by our common connection to the great web. We are interconnected as one.
In my meditation practice, I have been actively grounding myself through my taproot in the great web each day to experience that interconnection. I wanted to share a taproot meditation that has emerged from my practice that may be nourishing to you. After you have calmed your mind and body, breathe in and rise toward the sky. As you breathe out, feel vines extend from your foundation on the earth, spiraling into a dense taproot. Breathe in and rise toward the sky again. Breathe out and let your taproot descend in a spiraling manner through the stories of the building you are in, through the building’s foundation, and into the great web below you. Take your time with this taproot travel. Let the taproot move mindfully through space. There is no urgency. Breathe in and rise. Breathe out and feel your taproot connect to the great web. Now, as you breathe in and out, begin to recite this poem or whatever version of it feels appropriate to you:
My taproot
Extends deep into the
Swirling mystery of the soil.
I am the earth.
I am the sky.
I am the river.
I am the beginning.
I am the present.
I am the future.
I am my plant brothers and sisters.
I am my fungal brothers and sisters.
I am my animal brothers and sisters.
So the many become one.
So the circle becomes whole.
Interconnection.
Please let me know if this meditation was useful to you, and I will share more from my practice! As always, thank you for reading and I hope you walk in peace and connection.
Haiku: November 2018 - January 2019
I approach haiku as a zen practice where I capture a moment’s ephemeral beauty. Consequently, don’t try to hard to over tax yourself when reading these haiku. Just let the simple little wisdom wash over you like when you look at a nice cloud or a beautiful flower. The haikus are separated into those I write about my fiber art practice and those that come from moving and doing things in the world.
Let the Fiber Speak
In my most recent exhibition at Slo Curio, I presented a series of powerful minimal weavings, which were made with my own handspun Navajo Churro yarn, that I displayed in a configuration as a larger wall installation. Out of the pockets of this weaving this work, I started to have these startling haikus pop into my brain, which captured the wisdom that spilled out of my practice.
No pattern, design
No need to make a statement
Let the fiber speak.
Look closer, my friends.
There are intricate details
in what seems mundane.
We need more quiet
places to escape
shouts of should and could.
With a gentle touch,
take the fiber by the hand
guide it to be yarn.
Set an intention
Honor the small, humble work.
Craft springs from its seed.
Simple language
is needed to explain slow,
purposeful practice.
Simplicity is
an invitation to depth,
a door to wisdom
Simplicity is
a democratic ideal,
belief in people.
The illusion is
time stretches out in a line.
No, it runs in circles.
Weaving is sacred
simplicity; a humble
prayer of calm, ease.
The great mystery
is not divine; its earthly
interconnection.
Tan weft streaks—
The universe knows exactly
what it’s doing.
In nooks and crannies,
of haiku, weaving, I find
my mom guiding me.
A revolution
in values lies in choosing
dusty, earthy hues.
We circle around
our loved ones in times of need.
That makes us human.
Light always shines through
the darkest of times, when you
give people a chance.
Each repetition
opens up another chance
to explore nuance.
Each iteration
opens up another chance
to be gentler.
What do I find in
the wool? Interconnection
with the web of life.
My practice is a
repetitive ritual,
praising the process.
The real work begins
when craft approaches the door
of contemplation.
We exist beyond
time, sowing seeds of the past
into the future.
A truth discovered:
The process is poetry.
Wise words to live by.
Daily practice is
a moving meditation,
Quiet contemplation.
My Spindle signs hymns,
dusty, earthly songs, of craft’s
singular wisdom.
Real work never ends
It begins again each day —
A simple lifeway.
What once was separate,
now becomes whole—
The circle closes.
Put your tools to rest —
They, like you, have been holding
the weight of the world.
Where’s my cathedral?
Wherever I go with my
spindle and loom.
I practice haiku
to see the moments where beauty
and wisdom converge.
“Wool has memory,”
she said.
Listening to a class.
Rustling, barren tree
The sun hangs low in the sky —
Tiny loom in hand.
Simple Tapestries
are monuments to
slow, quiet living.
Humble canvas bag
holding tools and fiber
washed in winters light.
Strip away all the symbols—
Be grateful to be able
to tell wool stories.
Unadorned hard wood
holding warp, weft in tension—
A timeless, spaceless tool.
Retaining values
of material culture—
Memory vessels
All woven work
extends, connected in an
infinite grid.
Moving and Doing
The world of should and could
hurries along—
Blue-shrouded mountain.
Birds in barren trees
The sun hangs low in the sky—
weaving, tiny loom.
Light frost on the ground
my mind like the trees —
unburdened, empty.
Early morning clouds
rise like glaciers behind peaks—
past memories.
The strain of doing
leaves an indelible mark—
Distinct deadening.
On the west side of
Sutro Tower, people pause,
worship the ocean.
Smoke all around us.
The earth is on fire up north.
Masked, the city moves.
Tiny adjustments
to the crashing waves of life—
Balance.
My mind reaches out
while my body remains still—
transient first light.
Let It Be: Natural Dyeing With Madder
In June 2018, Weaving Southwest gifted me 20 skeins of their white and light grey Navajo Churro yarn to natural dye with while attending Fiber Camp at Small Acre Farm in Fort Collins, CO in early June 2018. That experience jumpstarted my dye practice and inspired Lily and I to start our own Natural Dye Kitchen. As a way of processing the Fiber Camp experience, I will write articles about dyeing with Madder, Indigo, and Cochineal, which will include Information from Rachel Brown’s Weaving, Spinning, and Dyeing book, a brief description of the dye results, and a descriptive vignette of what that dyestuff taught me. I hope this gets you thinking of how you can use Weaving Southwest white and light grey Navajo Churro yarn in your own natural dyeing practice.
In the Weaving, Spinning, and Dyeing book, Rachel Brown succinctly summarizes the history and cultivation of Madder,
“Madder became the most common red dyestuff and was extensively used because of its beautiful rose-red color, its great fastness, and its availability. The plant from which it came, Rubia tinctorum, was cultivated for centuries by the Egyptians and East Indians, and later on by Europeans. There are thirty-five different species of madder. Its long thin roots, measuring about one-quarter to one-half inch in diameter, are used for the dye. It takes up to three years for the roots to reach their best quality. At this time they are harvested and pounded into a pulp.” (pg. 248)
Madder dye pot solar dyeing
Our madder dye process ended up creating a couple hues of vibrant, earthy orange. For our madder dye bath, we used dried madder, which was heated for thirty minutes just below a simmer in a stainless steel pot. Once the thirty minutes were up, we placed the dye bath inside to sit overnight. The next day we warmed up the dye pot over medium heat, strained out the madder root sediment, and then got to dyeing. We dropped four skeins of mordanted yarn (two white and two light grey) into the dye bath and some other cloth. We let the dye pot sit in the sun to solar dye for a few hours. Later in the afternoon, we pulled the skeins out, rinsed the yarn four times, and let the skeins dry in the sun. With one madder dye bath, the light grey Navajo Churro yarn (on the right in the photo below) was dyed an incredibly dark, earthy orange, and the white yarn (on the left in the photo below) ended up dyed a dusty, bright orange.
White (L) and light grey (R) one dip madder dye
After seeing the results, I was curious to find out what would happen if we dipped one light grey and one white skein in the dye bath for another dye. After pulling out all the fiber, we refreshed the madder dye pot with some new dried madder and let it sit over night. The next day we warmed the pot, strained the madder sediment, and placed two of the madder dyed skeins back in the dye pot. The extra dip produced an even more dramatic dark orange on the light grey yarn (right) and a stronger vibrant orange on the white yarn (left).
White (L) and light grey (R) two dip madder dye
It’s most useful to look at the skeins next to one another. The top row is the white (left) and light grey (right) madder-dyed Navajo Churro yarn, which had been dipped once in the dye bath. The bottom row is the white (left) and light grey (right) madder-dyed Navajo Churro yarn, which was dipped in the dye bath twice. Look at the subtle differences between have been dyed once and twice. Both are really striking colors.
Madder dye comparison
“It (the color) reminds me of the color of red earth,” Rebekah, our natural dye instructor, said, as I showed her the madder root-dyed Navajo Churro skeins after they had dried.
I looked at the skeins, smiled, and replied, “It totally does.”
With those nine works, Rebekah had reoriented how I had looked at those skeins. With nothing but naive expectation, I figured we would get red with the madder. Like most people nowadays, I was feeling a bit let down about not getting what I expected—about getting these deep vibrant oranges when I was hoping for reds. Rebekah’s words shook me so deeply. The simple truth of the beauty of the orange hues was so easy to see, but I was lost looking for apples when the world handed me oranges. That is one of the simple beauties of natural dyeing; to learn again and again to accept the beauty of that which is beyond our control which is placed in our lap by happenstance.
This lesson is no mere trite cultural aphorism to me. It is an important life lesson. I know what its like to get stuck trying to control that which is bigger than me to avoid pain and discomfort. If I only study enough, I won’t fail and end up back in that small rust belt city I grew up in. If I stay positive, I can will my mom to survive stage four cancer. What I have had to learn again and again is that all these things are beyond my control; I will never be perfect and be able to prevent bad things from happening. Learning to truly see this deep orange skein of yarn is not unlike learning to see the beauty of my own deeply human life—full of imperfection, sadness, and happy accidents.
What would happen if we just gave ourselves that little bit of slack to be content with our weaving or handspinning and let go of our expectations for my work? After natural dyeing at fiber camp, I carried the intention to try and let go of control in the other parts of my practice. Gradually, I experienced this expansive sense of gentleness and contentment float into my outlook on my practice, and I saw new beauty in what I already produce. I found myself unstuck from trying to move on from how I currently spin and weave to bigger and better tools. I looked at my imperfect, factory-made Navajo spindle and was just grateful for the calming and centering influence it has in my life. I picked up a tiny tapestry loom and felt my joy, curiosity, and accomplishment beaming out of the wood. These weren’t the ways that I expected myself to work now, but they still retained a deep significance and beauty—just like those orange skeins of madder-dyed Navajo Churro yarn.
Learning to Feel Through Handspinning
in articles
I remember those moments last December distinctively. I had just bought about 100 oz of Navajo Churro fiber from Hovenweep Sheep and purchased a Schacht Spindle Company Navajo-style lap spindle. I was a little daunted, eyes like saucers, thinking about the task ahead of me. I did not know how to spin with a Navajo-style spindle, nor did I know if I could follow through on spinning 6 pounds of fiber. I threw myself into the deep end of the pool to see if I could swim.
Being raised by a single mom in a forgotten rust belt city, I am no stranger to situations where I am thrown into the deep end, often without any choice. I remember the anxiety I felt at the private liberal arts school I attended in college, knowing that I had to maintain a 3.0 GPA to maintain some $40,000 dollars in student aid. I remember the sadness and fear I faced when my Mom told me I was the man of the house at 16 when my parents got divorced. The question resounding through my life has always been: will I be up to the task? There is a sort of steely nerve one develops as you face down these situations over and over in life. A nerve I applied to this spinning journey.
Day-after-day, I showed up to spin with my spindle. In the beginning, I sat in front of videos of Clara Sherman and Rachel Brown, trying to emulate there motions. I received encouragement and tips from fiber community. My yarn broke over and over again in those early weeks. I stuck with it. 15 minutes here and an hour there, my hands learned the methodical motions necessary to perform the magic of making yarn with this timeless tool. Over time, I found the flow and applied myself to its repetitive rhythm. Soon, I was able to enter the spinning flow, as one finds themselves moving through the seasons. Each step of the process, like the seasons, with its own distinct texture and inertia, passing without effort or intention.
My story, as in all stories, is not all perseverance and resilience; I have learned just as much from failing as I have from succeeding when trying to stay afloat in the deep end. Plowing through difficulty with hard work and plodding steps, as I had in previous scenarios, leaves one vulnerable to moving forward without having ever dealt with the crushing emotions that accompany the deep ends of life. That’s where I found myself in my late 20s with my Mom having passed on from cancer. I couldn’t methodically move on with my life. I was stuck, drowning in the deep end. It was in this moment that I learned I had to sit with and allow the saddness, pain, and difficult of life happen. I couldn’t methodically face down these feelings. I had to become their friend.
With all great journeys, there is a tendency to want to hurry ahead to one’s destination. While spinning this yarn, there were so many times that I wanted to skip to the end where I had completed thousands of yards of perfect single-ply tapestry yarn. There is a deep allusion in this tendency to where I found myself after my mom passed on. In that place, I wanted to skip ahead to being well without rolling around in the muck of grief. How difficult it was also to be imperfect at spinning a daunting amount of fiber with a new tool. I felt myself judging every strand with the critical eye of a mean-spirited teacher, unsure if I would ever be servicable at this craft. Yet, I knew from my experience with my mom’s passing that there was no replacing this stage. I had to sit in this difficult space as I learned.
In the end, I had spun over 2,000 yards of Navajo Churro yarn, but what I had accomplished couldn’t just be captured in a number. Yes, I met the physical challenge of spinning all 6 pounds of that fiber into even, medium weight single ply tapestry yarn. More importantly, I met the spiritual challenge that I didn’t even know accompanied this spinning journey. I learned how to engage in soul and hand craft while allowing myself the space to sit with difficulty and imperfection, frustration and self-judgement. Each day, I found myself slowly unlearning my previous approach to adversity. My steely nerve remained, but it had been deepened by an ability to experience the depth of human emotion that accompanies adversity. Like all spinners, I happened into become more whole through my craft.
The Magic of Weaving
in articles
The following piece appeared in Issue 1 of Roving Magazine on March 1, 2018.
There is magic in fiber art. It’s a magic that surrounds our practical pursuits to cloth, adorn, and furnish. I come across that muted force in my practice as I fill the space between warp strings. You may find it in the gentle interlock of your stitches or the sewing of a hem on a pair of pants. It’s that moment of shimmering awareness when your handiwork gives way to connection—with oneself and the world. I return to my weaving each day, because that connection I create in my practice is how I heal.
Before taking up weaving, I was a run-of-the-mill man that was disconnected from my feelings and avoided discomfort. Like many men, I was trained in the art of disconnection. Raised by a single mom in a rust belt city in the United States, I was asked to be the man of the house when my parents divorced. In those years, I learned to navigate anxiety, fear, and pain by avoiding my experience of those emotions. Instead of feeling, I would think myself in circles and bind myself up in thought. Feeling was a failure; a failure I was ashamed and fearful of.
In my late twenties, my mom was diagnosed with stage four colon cancer. The waves of fear and anxiety crashed down on my shores of my body and mind daily. My mom was the most important person in my life, and she was in danger. I tried all my old tools: disconnecting and avoiding the difficulty. However, the illness never subsided. There was nothing I could do to protect my mom. She continued on with my sister and I by her side in January of 2014. For the year while she was sick and the two years after her passing, I receded into myself. I found it difficult to leave the house or do my job at times. I was so fearful of uncertainty, especially changes I could not control. I coped by plowing through all the difficulty and avoiding the pain.
During my honeymoon in Santa Fe in 2016, I learned a way to overcome my disconnection. My wife and I went to the Espanola Valley Fiber Arts Center in Espanola, New Mexico for a walk-in-and-weave class. We spent the day weaving rag rugs on a walking loom. Anxiety was present, but there were moments where I lost myself in opening and closing the shed, throwing the shuttle, and setting the edge. It was my first taste of connecting with myself through fiber art. I was able to be present with the pain and experience the freedom of being one with my weaving.
Weaving soon became a path to connect with my pain and heal. A few months after taking the rag rug class, I took a tapestry weaving class with Sarah Neubert (@s.neubert) . Sarah taught me that weaving was a healing, meditative act that could bring us back to ourselves. Those ideas really resonated with my experience in Espanola. I, too, had found a connection with myself in the repetitive over-under work of weaving. With a tapestry loom in hand and new skills to use, I started a weaving practice after that class. Through my practice, I found that weaving unlocked the door to my feelings—a door I had kept locked for a long time. Weaving was an art form that gave me the ability to find that connection with myself and express the emotions related to my parent’s divorce and my mom’s death that I had avoided for some time. After many years of disconnection, I had found a path back to myself.
Those ideas really resonated with my experience in Espanola. I, too, had found a connection with myself in the repetitive over-under work of weaving. With a tapestry loom in hand and new skills to use, I started a weaving practice after that class. Through my practice, I found that weaving unlocked the door to my feelings—a door I had kept locked for a long time. Weaving was an art form that gave me the ability to find that connection with myself and express the emotions related to my parent’s divorce and my mom’s death that I had avoided for some time. After many years of disconnection, I had found a path back to myself.
At the loom, I also started to re-connect with my mom. As I took the initial steps to learn weaving, my mom was always present with me. In Espanola, shuttle in hand, I reflected on her desire to learn Navajo weaving. Weaving that rag rug brought me such joy, because I knew that weaving was a way to honor her memory. As I started my weaving practice at home, my mom remained with me. I reviewed the patterns in her knitting and crochet work and started to integrate them into my tapestries. With each woven row, we were speaking the same woven language and walking the same path. I was completing her unfinished business and healing from the trauma of her loss.
As I continued to heal at the loom, I started to find friendship and community in the fiber community. Writing, poetry, and storytelling have always been powerful vehicles of self-expression for me. I set them aside during my caretaking and grieving period. However, in august of last year, I felt a desire to share my experiences again. I created an Instagram account and started sharing pictures, poems, and stories that emerged out of my practice. Very quickly, I found out I was not alone. I was part of an enormous online community dedicated to weaving. My mom and I were no longer walking this path alone. We were part of a long procession of weavers worldwide.
In October, I met many members of the Instagram weaving community at the Weaving Kind Makerie Modern Weavers retreat in Boulder, CO (@theweavingkind, @themakerie. About 50 weavers and teachers from around the world gathered together to learn, to weave, and to be in community. There was magic in the air the entire weekend. We took workshops, ate together, listened to one another, walked, and dreamed. A community united by a social media platform was made concrete. Aside from the skills learned and stories shared, the biggest gift of that retreat was the feeling that I belonged. As someone who struggled with anxiety and trauma, it’s been hard to feel comfortable in places. At that retreat, I felt so deeply connected to my fellow weavers and the common path that we walked. I felt home.
During the retreat, I resolved to find and connect with my local fiber community. In Natalie Novak’s (@combedthunder) Southwest Weaving Class, she discussed the importance of the Damascus Fiber Arts School, which was close to her home in Portland, OR, to her weaving path. Sitting there listening to Natalie, it dawned on me that I have access to that same sort of community in Denver. Not long before the retreat, a former President of the Rocky Mountain Weaver’s Guild invited me to join the guild for a meeting when she saw me weaving at one of my wife’s clothing pop-ups. Natalie’s experience provided me the motivation to take that invitation to the guild. I decided I would join.
It was a cold December day when I attended my first Rocky Mountain Weaver’s guild (@rockymountainweaversguild) meeting. I was pretty nervous, as I did not know any members of the guild. I have always feared entering spaces where I am the new person. Typically, I am the most anxious in those situations. As I walked into the basement of that church building in South Denver, my nerves were gradually calmed by the overwhelming kindness that I experienced. One-by-one members introduced themselves. I met guild members that participated in the Mountains & Plains fibershed (@fibershedmountainplains) in my region, and they told me of their work to develop a hemp and wool yarn using only materials and tools from our fibershed. Guild members informed me about the natural dye garden and took me on a tour of the guild library and resource room. Once the meeting began, I sat there dumbfounded. How could I be so lucky to be part of such a rich fiber community that is willing to welcome me with such kindness? The abundance of my community left me feeling hopeful and full. I had all I ever needed for an incredible fiber adventure right here in this room!
Reflecting on my weaving path, I feel so grateful to have found this peaceful practice. Gradually, at the loom, I have given myself permission to feel. From that simple act, I have experienced a dramatic opening to the world and discovered that I am deeply connected to myself; my mom; and local and international fiber communities. I found a home in my own body and in the world where I would have least expected it. That is the true magic of my practice, because I never expected to be able to heal. I stand on the precipice of my future fiber path with the feeling that has replaced the dread and fear I felt for so long: excitement.
Bio: James Davis is a weaver and handspinner living in Denver, CO. He approaches fiber art as a meditative, healing practice that he has uses to understand his darkness and light. He is currently working on spinning 80 ounces of Navajo Churro fiber on a Navajo Spindle and weaving a series of tapestries that capture his experience of anxiety, fear, and grief. You can follow along on his weaving path via Instagram @engagedweaving.
Reflections on the 2017 Weaving Kind Makerie Retreat
in Events
The 2017 Weaving Kind Makerie at the Colorado Chautauqua in Boulder, CO offered weavers from across the globe a once in a lifetime opportunity to learn and build community with one another. What a special experience to see and be a part of new friendships and community bonds being built. Those bonds were forged with small gestures of kindness, simple words of encouragement, and the sharing of personal stories. The resulting community built during the retreat was such an achingly beautiful thing to be a part of. It outshined even the most beautiful Colorado sunset.
The retreat also offered me a first-time experience. I have never encountered being a part of a community that so easily understood my passion and reflected that passion back to me. That experience is a gift that I will always be grateful for. How often in our lives do we get the chance to be so unapologetically ourselves? As a male weaver who frequently elicits curiosity, chuckles and bewilderment, I tried to soak up every minute of being able to just be myself. I have never been so sure of my weaving path than when I left the foothills of the flatirons to re-enter the real world. The experiences as a whole set my world on fire and left me full: full of inspiration, full of ideas, and full of love.
Above all the new works of art created, love may be the most important product of the first Weaving Kind Makerie. Ali of The Makerie reminded me during the retreat that our world needs more of these small gatherings of kind, gentle, and thoughtful people. Since the retreat, I have been full of that gentle white light of love that was radiating out of our gathering. I sent that love out into the world. The world needs our love, our curiosity, and our ability to be present. There has always been and will always be darkness. However, our love and radical generosity will always drive that darkness out of the corners of our world. I refuse to believe that hate and competition defines humanity with shining examples of our community still present. To me, weavers will always exhibit some of the best features of the human tapestry.
I will close with an appeal to our community until we can be together again next year. May we continue to walk the same path, may our art sing the same refrain, and may we continue to gather each year to be the gentle, flickering flame of love our world so needs.
Woven Language - A Weaving Kind Challenge
In October/November of 2017, Rachel Snack of Weaver House CO. hosted a challenge on The Weaving Kind platform. The topic of the challenge was to construct a woven language. Up until that point in my practice, I had been working generally in the direction of constructing a family woven language using symbols from my mom’s crochet and knit work. This challenge really helped me jump start my practice of very purposely thinking of my design work as a woven language that tells stories or expresses emotions. Since that challenge, I have always asked myself with each piece: what story is this design telling? It has been an incredibly fruitful direction for my practice. The following poem and piece were submitted as part of that challenge.
Mom,
You continue.
You continue.
You continue.
In my hands.
Fulfilling your unrealized dream
with a hereditary dexterity.
In my heart.
Prying myself open to the world.
Living a life
of vulnerability
of kindness.
Walking along your compassionate path.
In the fiber.
Speaking with your symbols:
Tower, swirl, tower, swirl,
Perfectly gauged stitch.
Telling stories of flying and stillness.
Where once I was absent,
I now sit with you at the loom.
Weaving your spirit
into every space
where row meets row.
Learning to forgive and begin again.