Weaving is inherently a cyclical process. Over under, pedal 4, then 5 and 6 together, back to one, with tabby fitting between, and then over again. Especially considering a floor loom that has a consistent tie-up, we see this repetition of an image, whether it be due to 2, 4 , or 8 shafts. Eight different throws, then the same again, sheltered into chunks of time.

But this cyclical order of operations expands itself to the weaver. Our speeds fluctuate, in the late evening I’ll find weaving an inch of double-cloth agonizing compared to myself at the bench at 2pm earlier that day, wrists fresh and untouched. 

We have neural cycles that also make this form of a reset. When we enter our sleep cycle, our ventricles take the opportunity to wash away actins and myelins into our bloodstream, away from our processing center, for them to build up again due to the labor from our brains functioning in the first place. When Spring submits to the heat of summer, so do the trees, dropping their gumdrop seeds in resignation, daffodils bowing their heads in indignation. The plant matter burns away, and the shells of the debris get mashed into dirt and compost. When we weave, we leave our thrown wefts behind. Every chunk of warp we weave before we advance the warp and re-tension the strings is just slightly different than the one before. It functions as a marker of time, like reading tree rings, or examining the debris on the earth and knowing what month it is as a result.

The one thing we can do, however, is physically turn back the clock, unweave the threads of time and reset a cycle if we need. It gives the weaver power, and that very decision is what makes the cycle of weaving more malleable than that of a seasonal process, or even the one that cycles in our brains.