Life intervenes, and takes time away from weaving and mending. At times like this, I think about one of my French ancestors who was a weaver. He lived in a time and place where this was an honorable and necessary craft, like that of the miller who is my most distant ancestor, and even the watchmaker who was the last of the family to have a trade.
What would that weaver-ancestor think of my strange cloth? Would he be grateful that someone in the family still knows a shuttle from a reed, or would he despise the strange, coarse fabric that I create?