Why Weaving, Even the Thought of Weaving, Makes Me Cry

Since Ken’s death I have been unable to weave. I thought I would find comfort in a familiar solo activity. But, no; each time I sat at the loom I would weep. I started burying it as I cleaned and cleared elsewhere.

I kept wondering why, why, why. No answers came. Was it because each break I look up and see Ken’s desk, his clothes, where he did yoga? No, I could do other things in the same area of the house.

Yesterday, on the first sunny day in a while – and one so cold going outside for more than minutes was not an option – I decided to tough it out and pull the clutter that surrounded the loom.

I stacked it all on a plank on a pair of stools so it was at a good height for me to sort – once I can.

I dusted and wiped and the smell of Murphy’s oil soap comforted me.

I sat on the bench and cried and realized what had been bothering me all this year. I wove while Ken was making pots. I could hear and feel him two floors away while I was weaving. Often his pottery wheel squeaked as I beat the rug in progress; we formed a sort of chorus. But now, nothing. I was bereft, and the emptiness palpable.

Now that I know what bothered me so much I believe I can make peace with it and start moving forward.

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