A basket is more than just another thing- but a sacred holder and shaper of space, innately magical, a tool, a friend, completely without bias to what it holds and whom it helps… many things of life could be said to have these qualities but none define 'either' the sacred element, in such an organic way, as a well made basket.
Coiling vine, woven reeds, rags sewn together, hemp bound handles, whittled wood a good basket is made of earthy things, gently refined or raw.
A basket is not a bag, I have never had a bag, that I could taste the prairies of Africa, smell woody rainforest canopies and know the weeds of the world… a bag is shallow, to the depths of a real basket.
Baskets sculpt the shadows of our house, and hold roundness and potential, their truth reminds those hardened edges and sharp junctions, of their starving straightness.
I made a basket once, the manifestation bloomed over days, eve’s daughter and me went gathering, offering salty sweat for the vines... we triumphantly emerged from damp tree territory, scraped and thorned, to weave our basket webs and build our nest upon the round.