Sitting in church watching the organist use hands and feet and head, indeed, her whole body to weave the sounds of the organ into the music of the anthem.
Not so different from my friend, the weaver, sitting on the bench at her eight harness loom using her feet to raise and lower the warp threads and shooting the strands of weft through the spaces with a shuttle, then both hands to snug them tight. Her whole focus absorbed in the pattern she is making, executing the plan that was so many steps in the making. My husband and I volunteered to remove a fallen maple tree from the library grounds this winter. Now, in spring, the small branches are woven into a hedge of support in the pea rows, the larger limbs, intertwined to make gates for all the gardens. Patterns suggested by the branches themselves, evolving through selection and finished when finished. The large limbs are being planned into a bench for a meditation garden and the trunk pieces will warm us as we sit by the home fire next winter. So many weavings: of usefulness, beauty, community, harmony. How many ways to weave home.