weaving as praying position
a gallery of weavings from 2025 and the words they collected
Her hands were well-worn leather as she rolled freshly harvested cotton onto a wooden spool. She spun the cotton fluff between her thumb and index finger as thread emerged on the other side like lightning from a cloud.
We sat on tiny stools in her family’s cooperative next to a forest garden —chickens running around, a mini apiary buzzing away and bushes of indigo plants.
For a while, the sounds of us pulling the warp and inserting the weft filled the afternoon humidity. I felt solemn and centred, with my hips rooted into the backstrap loom we set up together; smiling into parallel lines of potential new cloth.
That December, we spent Christmas together. Amalia, the centre of her family ecosystem —3 sons and a daughter, a cow named Mariposa, a medicinal apiary, a bunch of chickens, fruit trees and a wood-oven stove.
We baked at least 11 fresh made pizzas in the oven all day long. Guests stopped by, domestic moments around the dining table became laced with laughter; seamlessly between love and logistics.
My body shifted that day; sweat glistening, conversation flowing and medicine from the natural dyes embedded into the grooves of my fingerprints.
Back in Toronto, I struggled with finding the beginnings of my threads. Even though I brought back natural dyed skeins from my time in Oaxaca, my context was of dry wall and laminate floors. It was harder to feel grounded and to feel freeness within my concept of time.
Around brick, sun and the dusty floors of the courtyards that I learned to weave in, focussing on each row of thread felt like necessary and sacred work. Around the humming of HVAC and concrete skylines, energy floated off the ground easily with the rumbling of uncultivated soils.
A different energetic strategy was needed.
What compelled me to weave in this new context? I set out to stir the soils within myself every time I spent a weekend outdoors with the sole intention of being with land.
The following gallery of weavings emerged from those conversations with lands mostly in Ontario and within my own heart soils.
My hands as conduit for prayerful decompositions.
The best ideas come unexpectedly from a conversation or a common activity like watering the garden. These can get lost or slip away if not acted on when they occur. -Ruth Asawa, Japanese American Wire Sculptor
grief as incense lit at the feet of moss. standing in the dark tasting the sounds of trickling river bends. cathedral moments in humble candlelit dinners and vinyl scratches. notions of aliens permeate telescopic awe. maybe returning to earth is becoming a cliff edge. grief is the evidence of love’s medicine. bitter autumn decays feather the album of our soul deep laughters.
weaver notes: yarn dyed in Oaxaca by artisans in Huyapam and Teotitlan del valle using indigo, pericon, pecan shells. birch strips and branch collected in Bancroft, ON. twine, corn husk and warp collected by christie from various sources in Toronto.
ice surfing on Gichi-aazhoogami-gichigami (Lake Huron). miigwetch to holding the weight of our dreams and the vastness of our joy. from deer frolicked paths illuminated by speckled light to dance parties under pianos. dreaming emerges from murmurs of mirth. tickling flames, mycelium echolocation and human hands on post-it notes. talismans of play and rest.
weaver notes: made with thrifted yarns, winter branches and sticks and a sprig of cedar.
space between systems. chess board tile portals and two converging staircases. witchy corners and recognizing willem defoe. long stretches of play and talk that ebb and flow like light over bulbous glass. nothing to produce. a brook dancing under icy ledges. looping delight under green light and unexplained naps. world becomes through spiraling mind architecture and slanted ceilings. embodied dramaturgy.
weaver notes: yarn dyed in Oaxaca by artisans in Huyapam and Teotitlan del valle using indigo, pericon, pecan shells. sticks foraged by a river in Hudson, NY.
a cabin leavened by history and exiled men. red pouches filled with time, space and souls uttering in the winds. pine needles that fall for the ghosts who listen to music from earth. tendering fires and guttural centaur laughs into the milky way. women who build with feet rooted in fertile and muddy waters. emerging in rosemary and indigo hums. alkaline dialogues that connect over time. barefoot forest nymphs buzzing with gurgling presence.
weaver notes: threads natural dyed in one my first and favourite natural dye facilitation containers, thanks to Sonja and Stephanie of nurture retreats. the onions from this skins were used to make a delicious french onion soup and the rosemary was alchemized into ink shared for a moment of meditation.
corn and cacao braidings wreathed with marigold steeped water. the bottom of a fabric scrap bin and an organic cotton tee allowing new meaning. purple logwood and speculative futures leading natural technologies, yet to be envisioned, envisioned already. yesterday’s cuttings paving tomorrow. human as ear and heart fringes fluttering in pollinated lands.
weaver notes: natural dyed corn dusk and an old organic cotton tee from The Good Tee woven with onion skin dyed cotton yarn and cacao bio plastic experiment cuttings for Sonder Taller batch # 3.
wheat field blonde shaven to skin. over heat warnings full of mosquito disturbances. outlooks and pacing until curved horizon. orbiting souls choosing life together. miles of hills to the eyes. a broken loom living forever.
weaver notes: this was my last weaving on my hello frame loom as it snapped on this trip. I ended up using one of the sides of the frame to hold this piece. wheat straw and twigs collected in Cavan, Ontario and woven with thrifted twine and yarn.
let the muscles in your hands grow more swift more sure from re-
making it every day. a curved place to live on indented by teeth,
crumbled by dryness. moisten it with what you have. spit and tears.
smooth it out with what you have. repetition and patience. soon you
will not have to look at what you are doing. you will feel every im-
perfection. you will accept some of them. you will even love some
difficult edges. you can watch the river go by. you can look at the TV
while you do it. maybe even have a conversation (though it will im-
pact the consistency of your shape). but if you can. use both hands.
-Alexis Pauline Gumbs in "another set of instructions”
These are incredible! The one that is your first canadian yarn natural dyed, wow.
you make such gloriously earthy weaves 🌀