Underwater Basket Weaving
Making Something from Discarded Things
In the early days of the pandemic, with not much to do outside of my work and wanting to find some alone time, I found myself in a stuffy closet pondering how much joy I might have for an old pair of jeans. I recognized my old faded friend and remembered the good times, but that was at least 20 pounds and 2 kids ago, so into the discard pile they go. This process continued throughout the whole house and I slowly filled the corners of my garage with the unjoyful discards of my family’s past. As the weeks and months passed in the house, I also immersed myself in a weird collection of hobbies and crafts, including but not limited to: making masks for everyone I know, raising monarch butterflies, canning jam, making pickles, spoon carving, growing sprouts, keeping a pet sourdough starter, turning rocks into paint, and making baskets. That’s right, my free time had become a course in underwater basket weaving.
In my past life as a park ranger, another isolated time in my life, I learned to make baskets from the local native weavers. When moving to a new park, I would routinely make my way into as many classes as I could, to again fill my free time, and escape the loneliness of living in the middle of nowhere. And as a result, I was commonly found working in a park’s Indian village, making rope and weaving dolls and baskets from tule and pine needles. In my current life, it’s a skill I have little use for except trying to impress my children on camping trips. Now in their teens, they aren’t really impressed with anything I do, so it’s just another thing I know.
I have always found keeping busy by creating something unique and beautiful makes me feel better. I guess with all the news and grim reality beyond my front door, my brain likes a good creative distraction. Even as a kid, when I got lonely, I busied myself with crafts and projects I found in old boy scout books. And now, just like then, I busy myself with making things from what I have around the house or find on my walks: wood scraps, pine needles, treasures from a nearby beach, and fabric remnants from old quilting projects.
By December, my little pile of completed spoons and baskets grew into a nice stash for gifts. I tried to brag to my husband that I wouldn’t have to spend any money on holiday gifts this year and he liked the idea. I turned to those bags of old clothes and thought how I could make use of those things and reduce the amount of things we discard by giving it a new life? With scissors in hand, those old clothes became beautiful fabric again and that fabric eventually became a beautiful basket weaved with the memories all this fabric holds. When I look at these baskets, I remember my daughter laughing and playing in that cute green dress, my son wearing that shirt just once at my Grandmother’s funeral, myself pregnant in those jeans. They become a type of photo album of our memories.
These baskets are made of discarded things—coils of old rope from a hammock that was becoming too weathered to use, packing paper cut up and twisted from all the deliveries we receive, seams cut from old jeans, adorable dresses my daughter has outgrown, favorite t-shirts, and beautiful blouses that have gone out of style. The fabric is cut into small strips and wrapped around a core of rope and paper, then tightly tied with raffia or string. I use the same technique I learned from those native weavers who taught me to make traditional coil baskets. Unlike them, I am not very disciplined in my process. Not to disrespect their beautiful traditions, but freeing up my expectations feels right at this time. When I start, I have no idea how big the basket will be or what colors I will use. I just start, dig around in my scraps for what I like, and I finish when I’m ready to move on. As I work, the memories from the fabric flood over me and by the time I’m done, I’m ready to let it go. Nearly all the baskets I’ve made I’ve given away, each one a special gift to someone I love. Little do they know what secrets each basket holds, and that makes me happy.
About the Creator
Lisa
I make things.
Keep reading
More stories from writers in Families and other communities.
When Family Fights
Growing up, I often found myself caught in the middle of family conflicts. My parents had their share of disagreements, and as a child, I never fully understood why these arguments kept occurring. There were times when I wished for nothing more than to escape, to find peace away from the shouting and tension that seemed to consume our home. But as I grew older, I began to realize that these experiences, though painful, were shaping who I was becoming. In my early childhood, I would often hide in my room, trying to block out the sounds of raised voices. It felt like my entire world was spinning out of control. I loved both of my parents deeply, but watching them fight left me feeling torn. I had no idea how to fix things, and no one ever explained to me what was really happening. The confusion and hurt lingered, and I carried that weight with me every day. However, over time, I started to notice the way my parents would act after their arguments. There were moments of quiet reflection and, occasionally, a heartfelt apology. They would sit down together, discuss what went wrong, and work towards finding a solution. Slowly, I began to understand that conflict was not necessarily a bad thing—it was how it was resolved that mattered. One pivotal moment stands out in my memory. I was about ten years old, and my parents were having another argument. This time, instead of retreating to my room, I stayed in the living room, watching them from the corner of the room. As they argued, something shifted. My father, usually the more outspoken one, paused and looked at my mother. “I’m sorry,” he said softly, his voice filled with sincerity. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. Can we talk about this?” It was the first time I saw my father admit he was wrong. It was the first time I saw him vulnerable. My mother, who had been upset, took a deep breath and nodded. They began to talk calmly, working through their differences. Watching them communicate in such a mature and respectful way left a lasting impression on me. It showed me that even in moments of conflict, it was possible to find resolution through understanding and empathy. As I grew older, I learned that family fights weren’t necessarily a sign of failure. They were an opportunity for growth. Every disagreement, every misunderstanding, had the potential to teach us something valuable. I began to see my parents as human beings, not just authority figures, and I understood that they, too, were navigating the complexities of life just like I was. I also realized that family fights were a reflection of love, in a way. When we care deeply about someone, we argue with them. We disagree because we want what’s best, and sometimes that leads to tension. But it’s in the aftermath of those fights that we learn the most about each other and about ourselves. The willingness to apologize, to forgive, and to move forward is what truly strengthens a family bond. As I entered my teenage years, I found myself in the midst of my own conflicts with my parents. I began to question everything—why did they always seem so strict? Why didn’t they understand me? It was during one particularly heated argument that I realized the cycle of conflict and resolution had come full circle. I wasn’t a child anymore, but a young adult, capable of making my own choices and forming my own opinions. I, too, had to learn the importance of communication, compromise, and forgiveness. That realization didn’t come easily, but it was a turning point in my relationship with my parents. I started to communicate more openly with them, expressing my thoughts and feelings in a way I never had before. And, in turn, they began to listen. It wasn’t always perfect, but the foundation of trust and understanding we had built over the years was strong enough to weather the storms that came our way. Now, as an adult, I look back on those family fights with a sense of gratitude. I may not have understood them at the time, but they played a crucial role in shaping my understanding of relationships. They taught me that conflict is inevitable, but resolution is a choice. They taught me that love is not about perfection; it’s about being able to navigate the ups and downs together. And they taught me that, in the end, it’s not the fights that matter—it’s how we come together afterward that defines us. In my own relationships now, I find myself applying the lessons I learned from my parents. When disagreements arise, I remind myself that they are an opportunity to grow, to understand the other person better, and to strengthen the bond we share. I no longer fear conflict, because I know it’s a natural part of life. What matters is how we choose to handle it. And so, looking back, I can see how those family fights shaped my childhood and helped me become the person I am today. They taught me resilience, communication, and the importance of love and forgiveness. The lessons I learned in those difficult moments have guided me through life’s challenges, and for that, I am truly grateful.
By Gowhar ali Khanabout 9 hours ago in Families
Family Warmth in a Time of Change.
Family Warmth in a Time of Change In the 1980s, marriage often looked like a staircase wide enough for a whole world to gather on it. Not just the bride and groom, not even just their parents, but cousins, neighbors, childhood friends, the aunt who cried before anyone else did, the uncle who tried to look stern and failed, the grandmother who carried history in her posture, and the little ones who didn’t yet understand why this day mattered but felt its electricity anyway.
By Sayed Zewayed2 days ago in Families
When True Love Never Questions Your Soul
“And she’s going to learn that this life will hit you, hard, in the face, wait for you to get back up, just so it can kick you in the stomach but getting the wind knocked out of you is the only way to remind your lungs how much they like the taste of air.” — Sarah Kay’s Poem — If I Should Have a Daughter
By Chantal Christie Weiss3 days ago in Humans
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.