The Weaver and Their Basket

The weaver returned again to the place where they trusted the soil. Fewer contaminants here, they thought. Approaching an osoberry bush growing slightly above the path, the weaver stopped and allowed their gaze to pass lightly over a few individual leaves. Finally, they selected one, reaching toward it gently.

The weaver held both sides of the leaf's stem lightly enough to prevent bruising. And, in one swift motion, they pressed their thumbnail in, cleanly slicing the leaf from the stem.

Raising the leaf, they traced their own jawbone slowly before placing it in their mouth. They closed their eyes softly, allowing the flavor of the leaf to move through its stark transitions--first, a light melon sort of taste, then a bitterness like sucking on a cucumber rind.

The weaver chewed until the leaf was a paste in their mouth and only then did they swallow. They chose a few more leaves--leaving the plant with plenty to soak up the sunshine and keep growing taller--and wrapped them inside a cloth to protect them before sliding them into their pouch. In thanks, the weaver poured some of the water from their canteen gently onto the roots of the shrub.

Walking further into the creekside overgrowth, they nodded to the non-human beings in their path. They'd been stewarding this patch of red osier dogwood for several years now--coppicing each fall, propagating each spring. The shoots were plentiful, growing in their curving, arched manner over and around the path the weaver had made for themselves. Before entering the place where the dogwood was thickest, they stopped, admiring the smooth gradient on its bark as it transitioned from a stark red to a supple green.

They came to a place on the path where one of the dogwood branches had sprung free, partially blocking the weaver's way. They could bend the branch back and weave it into the pattern. They could even ignore it entirely, bending themselves instead under the branch. But, they were here to harvest, and this branch had a fine look to it, its buds and pores soft to the touch, not yet having fully leafed out.

With a tender hand, the weaver stroked down the thin branch--first-year growth of a mature tree--until their hand came upon the crook from which the branch split off a trunk. With a deep breath, the weaver pulled freshly sharpened pruners from the holster at their hip and reached toward the branch. They paused, offering a moment of gratitude for the tree that had grown this shoot and adjusting the angle of the pruners to leave a mildly diagonal cut that would make it easier for the tree to seal the wound. Taking one more deep breath, the weaver cut cleanly, catching the severed branch with their other hand.

The weaver continued in this way, selecting branches that were growing or might have grown into the path when the shoots were new and bending back older, sturdier branches. The latter they secured with a gentle under-over weave with the other nearby trees and branches, adding to the natural, living archway.

By the time they exited the dogwood grove and came more fully onto the creek bed, they had collected two dozen dogwood rods of various thicknesses, most of them narrow and straight.

Never take more than half, the weaver reminded themselves, smiling at the pleasant knowledge that they rarely, if ever, took even that much, and the grove will thrive.

The weaver sat, silently watching the water move in the creek, for long enough that a young deer came through the area, bending briefly to drink from the flowing spring. The weaver inclined their head to the deer but did not otherwise move, keeping their gaze gently averted. They did not want to frighten the creature.

Once the deer moved on, the weaver stood and opened their canteen, slowly drinking the last of the springwater they had brought with them, inviting the soothing cascade of cool liquid as it moved down their throat.

That done, they bent down near the creek and filled the canteen, not bothering to put the cap back on as they walked on the edges of the dogwood grove, offering gifts of water to areas that looked dry.

When they felt satisfied, they filled up the canteen one last time and walked along the path, dripping the water steadily down onto one side of the path before turning around and tending to the other. With a deep breath, they placed the cap on their empty canteen and pulled out their pruners again, eyes searching for branches that were ready for a basket.

After they had collected what they suspected numbered about one hundred meter-long dogwood rods, they took out two small spools of twine they had made themselves, the plant material rough under their fingers except where it had begun to wear smooth in places.

Gently tying the rods, they placed the bundle over one shoulder and walked carefully back to their camp.

--

At the fire, they began to hum to themselves as they picked up a rod from a batch of dogwood they had harvested previously. This batch had dried and then soaked for over a week in water. Holding the rod slightly closer to the fire than their own body was, clothed only from the waist down, they waited patiently until the osier fibers were supple and relaxed. Then, gently, they placed both hands at the top of the rod.

Slowly, they bent the osier sapling at two-inch intervals, back and forth, back and forth. The weaver closed their eyes and waited until the sensation felt right in their fingers. Was the dogwood pliant enough, yet?

They did not want to break any, if they could help it.

For hours, the weaver sat in front of the fire until the sunset faded into stars, gently bending each rod this way and that. This way and that. Before they finished with any single rod, they tested it against their thigh, running the length of a rod over the rounded curve of the left side and then the right. Sometimes, the rod would feel relaxed after one test, sometimes it took many. Each rod was different. The fibers in the center of any given rod curved in a slightly different direction, and the weaver was still learning this fiber's particularities.

When the last rod of the pile had sufficiently given in, its fibers listening easily to guidance, the weaver began to weave.

Choosing the first few always took time. The weaver gazed, the flame reflecting in their eyes, at the pile of osier rods.

Which of you would like to be the bones of this basket? Which of you will allow yourself to be supported by others and support in return? Inevitably, if the weaver waited long enough, they received an answer. One of the rods would reflect the fire in the shine of its tender bark or another would put out a reluctant, shadowed, heel.

The dogwood knows which rods are strong, the weaver thought.

In the end, the weaver chose six rods, though they tended toward odd numbers. But then, of course, there was the rod that they would use as the first thread. Looking toward the splay of saplings in front of them, they selected one of the thinnest--easiest to weave through the others.

The beginning of the basket was always the most difficult part. This center would set the template for everything else. The edges of the basket would always reflect its core. The weaver set three rods in one direction and three rods the other direction, creating a tilted crossroads, nesting them under and over each other. Then, they held the thin thread of a rod. The weaver began with the end of the rod, folding it inside a pocket between two of the bones. They then wrapped the long end of the thread around each of the crossings in a crosshatch pattern--a crossroads of crossroads. Blessed meeting.

The weaver had the sensation that the dogwood appreciated this significance as well.

Following the pattern they had set for themselves until the center was complete, they used the rest of the thread's cordage to weave around each half of the six original rods--over, under, over, under, over, under. The weaver leaned toward the fire, warming the rods further in places that felt stiff, slowing down to care rather than cause a kink.

The center of their basket was organic but geometric, planned and grown, woven together.

An object of gratitude. Of ritual. Of ceremony.

With the center complete and the outer layer begun, the weaver stood and uncovered a thatched roof on the ground to open their makeshift cellar. Choosing a sliver of dried meat and a squash, they return to the fire, allowing the warmth to melt off their shiver.

As they ate, they looked toward the stars and back down to the basket. Up to the stars and gently down to the basket.

Were they watching? The gods, or maybe the ancestors. Were they paying attention?

Or perhaps they were somewhere else entirely.

The weaver tore off a small section of the dried meat and chewed slowly, periodically turning the remaining bundle of rods at the far edge of the flame so they would continue to warm. Gently, they placed the squash into the fire, eager to smell its juices.

Picking up the center of their basket, they ran their fingers over the smooth rods, bent into place exactly as the weaver's hands had guided. They placed the rest of the meat into their mouth and chewed, savoring the salty, leathery texture. Having swallowed, they looked at the pile of rods, ready to select a new one to weave into the patten. Each of them called gently for the weaver's attention, but they chose one closest to the flame.

Following the pattern they had set for themselves, they weaved. Over, under, around. Under, over, around. The rods bent and danced and slid softly against the skin of their hands. The weaver moved their small log seat a little closer to the fire, chose another rod, turned the pile. Over, under, around. Under, over, around. Each end, they slid in between two other rods to secure it and kept going. A new rod. Over, under, around. Under, over, around.

Before they knew it, the weaver had doubled the size of their basket-in-progress, and they stopped to marvel at the being forming out of only a handful of rods and the movements of their hands.

They smiled, imagining the delight of the goddess who might receive such a gift. Such a container was an altar in its own right.