![]() Why else make a whole day's journey?īut the basket – to have to abandon it! I burst into tears and ran. Suddenly I heard a commotion, someone calling my name, and there stood my parents! Come to take me home, I was sure. Still I hated their endless natter, and here at camp the soft pleasant language of encouragement, the pervasive good humor, was as sweet as the grass that now pillowed my head. I already knew that loving them equally didn't help, that theirs wasn't my fight, that they each loved me despite it. My mother was smart and right my father would have fun in his life. ![]() It surpassed my love for my family, and at home I was guilty about it.Īt camp this guilt had gone and there was such relief from home, where my parents' bickering knotted the air. Which pleasure was more important to me than any other feeling. For two years I'd played piano and tap-danced, but the basket seemed the very shape of my pleasure in doing, or making. But in the morning the damp, pliant skein and the texture had thrilled me. ![]() The night before at the lake I'd been shown the reed, soaking, beautiful as it was, presumptuous to alter. Lying on a mountainside, where my sister and I were at summer camp, I had my hands in the air pretending to weave the clouds, as I had that morning begun weaving a basket. I started leaving home when I was six and weighed thirty-eight pounds. ![]()
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