My Woven Story 

My story is about growing up amongst the scent of cedar's and salty spray of the Salish Sea.

The loom made of scrap fibreboard began to disintegrate with use; which was fitting for this project, for all in life is never as it seems. The scrap fibreboard which was depended on, slowly eroded just as the safety that one should be afforded as a pre-teen, eroded as well. The reddish stick, a coloration representative to me as energy and life blood was used to hitch warp strings onto. The stick saved me from having to finish off two ends of a weaving. The bumpy scrap yarn was chosen as it reminds of cedar coloration, texture and seed.

Weaving from top down began with memories of sitting as far up as I could up in  tall dark cedar boughs that filtered spots of blue sky and sun sparkle in upon me. My secret place hidden from view. There I sat quiet amid birdsong, and revelled in the scent and rough texture of the generous cedar bough that held me safe. The soothing cedar that rocked and talked in a gentle voice as she swayed with  wind gusts. Safe, safe above the reality of the ground far below. Memories of sun warmth and shade coolness all at the same time. Sometimes too cool, though it was safer high above the earth, hugging oneself against the chill until he passed under the tree leaving my parents home. Only then would I leap bough to bough being caught and lowered by supple branches that bend yet not break.

Cedar boughs sweep to the ground, so on the left side of the weaving I envisioned those boughs that sweep downward as they do by estuaries where river greets sea. There they dip green and reddish fronds into brackish water. So I allow loose threads to dangle. To dangle as I did as a child from supple branches.

Looking westward, glaring silver dots dance across cool blue waves till they splash salty foam bubbles onto the beach with each incoming ripple. The sun’s warmth that penetrated grainy sand at low tide being caressed back into the sea dragged from salty sand flats over toes that crabs scurry through. The beach scattered with logs from tidal storms leaving paths that head homeward hidden.

How does one recover the path and make it safe and clear to find their way home? To this day it is difficult to keep my feet on the ground, yet sadly can no longer climb trees. Even so, the cedar will always be my secret safe place.