I used to sit at my loom, weaving, dreaming, at peace. I dreamt of the past, of women before me weaving to clothe their families, weaving to earn a living. I dreamt of the present, of indigenous weavers around the world, weaving patterns to celebrate their traditions, to ensure a future for their children. I dreamt of the future, of my finished projects. I pictured Daniel asleep snuggled up in his blanket, I imagined Sarah wiggling her bare toes as she stood on the fleece rug, and I envisioned my parents dressed in their shirts on their fiftieth wedding anniversary. In the shock of the bloody brain, I lost my dreams. But a few weeks after the first bleed, when the initial shock wore off, I discovered new dreams, dreams of recovery, and I started looking to the future.
As I began my search for a path to reclaim my life, I started dreaming of living, of moving beyond a mere existence. I did not want my life to revolve solely around the bloody brain.
Once again I dreamt of weaving. I dreamt of silk fabric, brushed with the colors of sunset on the ocean, flowing like the waves, reflecting light like the ripples on the water. I dreamt of colors and patterns emerging as I wove row by row. I dreamt of waves undulating across the fabric, and of the tide ebbing and flowing up and down the length of it.
As I envisioned this project in my mind, the realization grew that I needed more than a dream, more than a distraction-I needed motivation, something tangible to reach for. I pictured a submission to the yardage exhibit 'Ebb Tide' at the weaving conference, Convergence 2008. I would call it, 'The Wave of Reflections at Sunset.'
Before the plans for the surgeries were finalized, I purchase the silk yarn and the dyes, but severe vertigo and precarious balance prevented me from moving beyond that. I couldn't weave, I couldn't even take the first step toward weaving.
I placed my project on hold, but I continued to dream. I would weave my dream after the brain surgeries.