You know that first day in March or April when you breath in and the air has a scent again because it’s no longer frozen? That was the time of year we moved to the homestead, and that is always the first day of my personal New Year.
That is when the air tells me it is Basket Making Season.
That first spring on the homestead, our neighbor girl showed us the acres of gold that grew in a low spot below where we had pitched the tipi. Though my mother had woven beautiful red and jute baskets for years, Kateri showed us a new technique using wild willow. Delighted with the opportunity to create with materials off our own land, we spent hours (between wood-cutting and water-hauling and while dinner was simmering in the cast iron pot in the fire pit) tromping through the swamp clipping armloads of willow, hauling it back up to the campsite, and weaving it into baskets large and small which we dreamed of using to harvest veggies from our garden that summer.
Every spring since, I have gotten a strong urge in my fingers–like sap rising in twigs–to bend and bow willow scythes into golden cages of sweet-smelling symmetry. I have made big baskets, little baskets, berry baskets, and half-bushel baskets. I just love weaving.
And every place I have lived since we left the homestead I have taken willow with me and planted it in preparation for the urge to weave. Alas, I’ve had to move away from each little stand of willow before it was mature enough to give me basket material.
Lucky for me, my best friend likes to plant willow and, unlike me, she’s stayed in the same spot long enough to reap a harvest.
And lucky for me, I just happened to visit on a day she had a bunch of fresh willow lying around just waiting to be woven.
She made lunch while the kids played and I wove to my heart’s content. Though it had been 3 or 4 years since I’d last made a basket, my fingers remembered what my teachers had taught me, and by lunch time, a small bread basket was complete.
Weaving is something that, when I do it, I feel such joy and satisfaction in the deepest, most Trina-ish part of me, that I know it is something God made me to do.
I’ve always been grateful to the women who taught me to weave: my mother, my friend Kateri, and finally, the world-renown English basketry expert Bonnie Gale, whom I just happened to meet when I was 19, and who just happened to live in the same town as I (coincidence? I think not) and who trained me in the more intricate, traditional techniques of English Basket Weaving.
I’m just so excited that last year I finally got some willow planted in our yard, and in a few more years I should have a harvest of my own.
Meanwhile, if I go missing on a warm day in spring, you’ll probably find me in my friend’s back yard playing with her willow.