To Weave a Life

The first time I walked into a weaving studio, I knew that this craft would be my calling. Around me, beautiful floor looms made of wood and cast iron click-clacked as students threw shuttles across the warp threads, transforming them into cloth. In the back room, row upon row of shelves held brightly colored yarns. On that first day, I stood in those shelves for a long while, to be quiet and hidden, so that I could absorb the intensity of the moment. I became still and went inward, to be present to the expansiveness of what I was feeling. Even at the very beginning, I knew that weaving was what I wanted to do with my life. In the years since that day, my captivation with weaving and textiles has only grown. Perhaps it is a validation of the surety I felt on that first encounter. It is truly my passion, but I find that “happiness” is too flat a word to describe the impact that weaving has upon my life.

Textiles are so full of color and texture that it seems they would be created out of sheer aesthetic whimsy. In reality though, creating textiles on a floor loom is nearly all based on mathematics. Yarns come in various densities and fiber types, which affect what kind of cloth they will create. Patterns can only be coaxed forth by warp threads drawn through specific heddles on the loom. Weaving is very similar to computer coding, in that every thread needs to be in a precise place. Any deviation from that precision results in an error that is visible in the cloth. In fact, I often describe looms as giant, ancient computers made from cast-iron and wood. The design phase of my process is filled with numbers and calculations, right alongside color and fiber choices. In grade school, math was never my strong suit. It is to my surprise to now be working in a medium in which I rely on it constantly. I feel such a confidence from flexing that math muscle. It is a new-found part of my identity that I am awakening to.

Along with design work, creating textiles is an interplay between materials and tools as well. Understanding the strengths and limitations of various fibers is essential to successful weaving. Having a sensitivity to texture allows for beautiful cloth to emerge. Color is always subjective, but having an eye for interesting juxtapositions is a real asset as well. Weaving tools are a very romantic part of the process, as many are made from beautiful woods and metal. The shuttles I use to throw my weft threads are made from hickory, walnut, and ash. I use a lot of my grandma’s old sewing items, like scissors and needles, as well as many things I have inherited from now deceased weavers, like hand-cranked bobbin winders and yarn swifts. Incidentally, when a pair of my grandmother’s scissors had finally dulled beyond use recently, I reached for a pair of Fiskars scissors. I need quality scissors to cut through my precious cloth, and I was amazed by how they glided through the threads so easily. It is empowering to not only have access to high-quality tools, whether new or very old, but to know how to use them well.

My grandmother was a weaver, but long before I knew her. By the time she was my grandmother, she read books and made root beer floats. Back before even my dad was born though, she was a member of an active weavers’ guild. I visit that part of her life now by digging through boxes of textile fragments that my aunt has saved for me. They exude so much attention to detail and exploration. In one box my aunt sent me, there was a small manila envelope. When I opened it, a pile of hole-punched hang tags came pouring out, stamped with a design that read “Handloomed by Ahlberg.” That is me. So this craft, it is a lifeline connecting me to my ancestors too.

The best part of weaving is that it is the perfect vehicle to express what I have within me. For most of my life, I have searched for a means of conveying my inner landscape. Though I often draw my inspiration from natural environments, and in particular from the lakes and forests of my upper Midwest home, I also seek to express internal things that have no form. This is such a challenge, but I find that cloth is the closest form I can use to do that. There is something about the tactility of cloth, the way it relates to our bodies through touch, which allows it to express something of the transcendent. I want to give form to those often unseen worlds because in doing so, I can communicate something of myself. It never ceases to amaze me that, through weaving, I can grab hold of an idea, drag it from the tangled wild of my imagination, and give it a form in the physical world.

Someone recently asked me, “Is weaving draining for you or is it life-giving?” I have never been asked that question about what I do, and I think it’s a really good one. Though there is plenty of frustration that comes along with the making, weaving is life-giving for me. It is a way for me to express what is too deep for words. In the process of making, questions and realizations are spawned by what is in front of me on the loom. Birthing an idea into tangible form leads to new ideas. The act of creation leads to the continuance of my personal growth.

Happiness is certainly a part of my relationship to weaving, so is joy, but there is so much more depth to what I have found through this craft. I bring all of myself to the weaving process. That includes sadness, frustration, strength, and hope. What I get from the process in return is a deep sense of satisfaction, a feeling of worthiness, and a knowing that I am in my rightful place. I am lucky that I have found a vessel that can hold all those things.