After working at a weaving supply store for seventeen years, I know that people who need to weave know it in their blood, their guts, their bones. Many of us have such difficulty explaining this need to outsiders. Where does this blood and guts passion come from over yarns and cloths that machines can make a hundred times faster than people can?
Weaving is not a pathetic past time for bored people, or privileged old ladies, or impoverished Indigenous who make handicrafts for tourists. Weavers have held on to their ancestral threads, and very quietly continue to make the world with their fingers. The slow entwining of the horizontal with the vertical... Most of us have forgotten how to call in the Fates who we embody as we work. And why would we do that? Is that really who we are? The spinners of Fate and weavers of the fabric of Reality?
We are just people, but we need to remember what that really means. Maybe weaving, like any endeavor that feels right in one's bones is much more important than we know.