First Birdsong

8/2 Bockens cottolin
Fall 2015
1st Paradisaea warp

Teksti suomeksi täällä


The Small Kid inspecting my colour choices.

First Birdsong was the first warp I ever wove. I'm greatly indebted to to my mother-in-law who is a weaving teacher; she has pretty much taught me everything I know. First and foremost I'm thankful for her great patience and her self-restraint: she saw my overzealousness and my urge to jump headfirst to the deep end but said nothing. She just helped me to jump in the right way.

It might have been reasonable to weave something simpler first - a rug maybe? - but I was too eager to get started. That's how First Birdsong came to be: the dream of a completely inexperienced but utterly excited weaver-wannabe. When the warp was measured and the loom was dressed I sat at the loom, unable to believe my eyes: I am actually about to weave something!

All the pictures from the early stages of the process reflect my inexperience and my enthusiasm: iPhone pictures taken too late in the evenings with bad lighting but a lot of emotion. I still remember how it felt like to throw the first (wobbly) picks: I am making fabric! I cannot believe it!

I decided to call the first warp First Birdsong. This is what I wrote back then:


It's spring. Or summer. An early morning, sun still lingering behind the forest's edge, grass heavy with dew, every blade bent towards the earth.

Nothing is moving. Even the trees wait, silence laying heavily on the ground. It's still cold and the night has just barely withdrawn to the forest; you can still see the path it has trodden, marked with dewdrops on the grass. Everything is silent, cautious, full of expectation. Even the air shivers while it waits; blue like a hopeful feeling. 

The very first inches I ever wove. Wobbly, uncertain and ecstatic.


If you walk in the forest on a moment like this you are bound to shiver - with chill or with emotion.

And then, all of a sudden: the first bird of the morning, silvery flute high up in the trees, bright against the sunshine. The night becomes brittle and bursts into nothingness - sunshine flows into the world. A new morning has come.

f you stretch out your arm and reach the sunshine you can feel how it glimmers on your skin; you can almost hear it jingle and clink as it sinks deeper into your body.

When I was weaving this warp I thought about mornings and how sunrise is always inevitable. I thought about how it feels to hear the first bird sing in the twilight, or how it feels to bask in the first tender rays of the rising sun. Yellow for the fragile morning light, red and orange for the rays of the rising sun, green for the dew on the grass. I was thinking about new beginnings and the invincible power of life, rising again every morning like the sun. I thought about light and how it will scatter the darkness when it enters the world.

Learning to weave was a start of a new day to me. I wished that the wraps of my first warp could speak something of the hopeful feeling of waking up in sunlight - that no matter how dark the night, there will always be a morning. No matter how heavy the fear, there will be peace. No matter how uncontrollable the worry, there will be rest. No matter how heavy the darkness, there will always be a first birdsong.