Remember, weaving cloth does not begin with the first throw of the shuttle. It begins with the first glimmer of an idea. I collect a laundry basket full of yarn. Bits and bobs. This and that. If it looks like part of the story, I throw it in.
From time to time, I dump out the basket to see what I have. How has the story grown? Some colors have shown up because they have much to say. Others scuttle through, muttering to themselves.
It’s time. The story is ready to tell itself. I am winding the last of the warp. It’s mostly black, with a purple stripe. The black yarn ran out in a fortuitous way. Would I have considered a single stripe otherwise?
It is meant to be.