It was the last thing I wanted to do for myself.

I am often weaving memory pieces for other grieving people. Folks give me the clothes of beloveds who have passed on, or the fabric or clothing that they once loved but can no longer use, or precious pieces of fiber or fabric that have worn down so much through the years they are still treasured but aren’t functional.

I take those fabric, cut them into strips, and weave something new: a tapestry, a scarf, a wrap, a shawl, a wall hanging, a shirt, a vest, a picture.

In weaving, I take something invisible—a grief, a loss, a person no longer huggable or holdable—and make something visible, touch-able, tactile, hold-able. It’s a powerful and moving process that I am always honored to be a part of. There is so much healing to be had.

And yet, for me, it took awhile…

And I had two sets of baby socks, never worn, never unpackaged, sitting for a number of years in a special memory box in my closet. One pair of yellow with ducklings on it, one pair of white with little yellow ducklings on it. They were stored in a memory box with a very few other things to commemorate the brief visit of our daughter Fern who came for only 17.5 weeks in utero before moving on.

Weaving memory pieces for parents who have lost is my honor and truly a healing joy. Weaving for my own loss, however, I kept at a distance. It was more unconscious than on purpose. Like procrastination. I don’t know what worried me. Was I afraid to feel the grief again? To cut those little socks? 

Why did I hesitate to close the circle?

What’s interesting is that I wove a circle. On purpose I chose to weave a circle, though many of my other pieces are rectangular, square or clothing. A circle felt most right to me, representing the womb, the circle of life, the continuity of love, the infinity of connection.

Grief is a heavy and dense companion. Unmovable at times. Unrelenting at others. As I went through the process of creating a memory tapestry for myself, I felt some grief, of course, but also, a sense of loveliness began to arise. As the yellows and whites and pinks formed in spirals on the circular loom, as I held the fibers and built up the texture, I felt very close to Fern and I thought about all the gifts she has given me over the years.

I don’t mean that we ever put down our grief—or ever should. But it shifted as I created and it shifted when I was finished and it shifted when I hung the tapestry on my bedroom wall.

I have a friend who says, whenever someone passes, “May the grief move through you gently.” The key word here for me is move. The grief moves. It does. In a spiral or a circle, in a dance or in a rage, in a whirlwind or tornado, in a butterfly’s wings. It moves.

Which is one of the better aspects of grief, however long it may seem to sit on us so oppressively and so the same, it does move—especially when we move it.

I take the tapestry and hold it in my hands, something I never was able to do with our little one, and something I did not do with the socks. I am grateful for that. I am grateful to hold something between my hands. I am grateful to be a weaver and to take what I have, however small, and watch it, ever so gently, bring new possibility.

It is my honor to weave for other grieving parents, any colors, any style, anything–tapestry, shawl, clothing, blanket. You can always email me at sam@thesamanthawilde.com or use the contact page and please visit https://thesamanthawilde.com/home/weaving-1/grieving-parents-memory-weaving/.