I sat down at the loom and felt… right; just like that first time, more than fifteen years ago, when I learned to weave. I felt as if I'd come home, as if this was where I belonged, sitting at the loom, weaving. While I wove, throwing the shuttle back and forth across the width of the fabric, advancing row by row, I knew I was always meant to be a weaver, I knew I'd been a weaver in a previous life.
I hadn't woven in four years—life had got in the way. I sat at my loom and wondered: how could I have forgotten that weaving was such an integral part of my self, a part of the authentic me?
When I told a friend about it, she told me that I'm finally coming back to myself after a draining semester followed by an exhausting trip. She’s right, I've also felt that I've been healing.