I recently participated in a well-being enhancement creative workshop, entitled 'Weaving stories'.
We were encouraged to explore the simple art of weaving with mixed yarns and found materials, perhaps with a story in mind.
I found myself weaving my life story, including having breast cancer twenty years ago, and the highs and lows of that time for myself and my family and friends.
Without realising it, three hours had passed as I sat in dappled shade in a pocket of parkland, weaving wools, lace, grass stems and memories.
I sent a photo of the woven story to a friend who asked me whether the different colours and textures had specific meanings. I wrote a texted explanation of the weave, then translated that into a poem - I am a habitual poet.
I would like to share the photo and poem with you here, to inspire creativity in you and to show that there is life after cancer.
My breast cancer interlude comes about halfway down my weave. A lot of time has been lived since then, and a future of unknown promise lies before me - the yarn is still being woven...
Here is my life story poem ...
A woven life
I gathered threads and natural things to weave into my life.
Turquoise bound my early days – pure blue, devoid of strife.
Sparkly grey marks teenage years, when Dad’s dalliance caused a rift.
A sash of white is my wedding day, and married life seismic shift.
A grass dart represents the shaft that pierced my dear dog’s skin.
Red yarn is his death and my agony, grieving for killing him.
Intertwined, the beginning of blue, with pompoms for my sons.
Another red strand is cancer drugs, when I thought my race was run.
A frayed ribbon of gauze, in bridal white, is marriage number two –
A union fated to fail, before we rashly said, ‘I do’.
Lichen patches mark a stick that cleaves one half from another,
As was my life, when put on hold to look after my mother.
Grasses thread through red as flowers, arranged for calming respite,
Helping me through dementia blues as carer, day and night.
The ragged red is mental trauma and meltdown that stopped me dead,
Caused by quarantine care, alone, through the shadow cast by Covid.
The cream woolly band, interwoven with grass, is my initial, mental haze -
I wandered, seeking recovery, through Nature’s rambling days.
A branched stick is the tree of knowledge, which I played in at ARU.
What follows is a fluffed cream band, with grasses passing through,
Weaving in new crafting skills, and the contentment of my present,
Foreseeing an optimistic dawn, drawn from threads into something pleasant.
The weft is done, right-left strides stilled – encased is the tautened warp -
And all is gently brought to close, by loosely knotted thought.
