I have been given a vine. It’s long and unwieldy. I study its length, look around at the overwhelming mass from which it stems. I see others with their ends and middles and off-shoots.

I begin to weave forward and over as best I can with the thickness of this root. Others around me do the same, searching for their under over pattern, their out and through. I look back in the hopes that my movements are untangling the mass as I go.

A hum enters my belly and my eyes close as I trust my body to find its ancient rhythm, before body and mind were separated and indoctrinated. I know what to do.

I sleep with it, study it, move with it over and under and through, carry it as my symbol of sovereignty, my personal scepter, into the next day. Others continue across and under, twisting wide round and around again. Without words we slink together seamlessly– our thick slippery middles, our wild aimless roots, our careful tending to the mass, pulling fellow weavers out into process, separately and together, slowly finding our way through.