Scenes from my life played out in reverse. From the present, jumping in flashes of months and years, I saw threads in my hands.
From the knitting I do now, to the crossstitch, to the embroidery, to the beaded bracelets, to the kid’s loom, to the fancy braids, I have always had threads in my hands.
And each time, I watched my mother destroy any delight I had in my work. Her belittling and shaming of what she felt was beneath her warped my view. If I persisted, she would take the completed works and sell it, keeping the money to add to her gambling addiction. It was never enough. It was never right. It was always abandoned.
Until threads found their way back in my hands again.
When I was named “Weaver” in my travels, I thought it to be a pun on my weaving of words. Or perhaps a play on how I view the connections between people. Maybe even a glancing blow at my scattered threads of consciousness and my attempt to weave my sanity back into being.
The montage returned to the present. I saw myself, with a completed knit cap in hand. I had a puzzle to figure out and the cap was a corner piece. As my pondering self turned the cap over in thought, the possibilities manifested on the completed knitting. Layers upon layers, twisting and weaving towards a goal I did not think possible when first challenged, but I now see how to do it.
Knitting is only the beginning.
There are threads in my hands, and this time, I have no shame to hold them.
I have always been Weaver.