Finally, I get to take my laga home. I can’t wait to set-up the back-strap loom.
After my first one-on-one session with my Teacher, I started envisioning where I could attach the loom. Suddenly, everything was a potential place to weave. My Bucky-inspired designer’s mind was on the loose.
My favorite candidate was my mango wood coffee table. I was determined to use two clamps to hold up the dowel. The truth is, I secretly harbored a desire to find any reason to procure metal industrial clamps. Unfortunately, I needed to have the proper angle and tension in order to weave.
So I finally settled on using the double hinges in my mango wood armoire. Two pretty pink cords that used to serve as handles for a shopping bag were re-imagined as loops to hang the sa-u-yan. In the beginning, I would take the cords down after each weaving session. After several times, I decided that it was more practical to just leave them up.
Laga found it’s proper placement in my home.
I slowly roll-out my loom being very careful to keep every thread in place. Starting with the sa-u-yan, then the second puuyan, and then the first puuyan. I use the ipitan to anchor the sakyot making sure that it’s properly aligned. The gedchangan backstrap is well-adjusted to the nook of my back. Inserting the tubungan in between the two puuyan, I carefully balance my body to maintain proper alignment of the sakyot. Everything is set-up and I’m ready to go.
I am one with my laga. Laga, I am.
I turn to pick up the biyaliga, but it’s nowhere to be found.
I am strapped in and immediately feel trapped. I stretch my arms as far as I can, trying to see if maybe it’s hidden under the cloth I used to transport the loom. Nope.
A desperate moment. A sudden sense of panic. A long deep breath.
Still strapped into the loom, I suddenly remembered how earlier in the afternoon, my Teacher explained that the biyaliga must be taken out before the loom is folded. In my excitement to take home my loom, I inadvertedly left my biyaliga at my Teacher’s home.
Freeing myself from the loom, I pace back and forth for inspiration.
Why don’t I have an old school metal ruler at home? I grab a wooden incense holder. But for the life of me, I can’t remember the exact sharpness of the edge of the biyaliga. I grab my jade arc-shaped Gua Sha, a Traditional Chinese Medicine self-massage tool that stimulates the lymphatic system. Disaster averted? Or file under #EpicFail?
Strapped back into the loom, I take a deep breath and pray before proceeding.
The wooden incense holder’s edge is too thick. Argh.
The jade Gua Sha’s edge is perfect. Except that it curves. Waaa.
Our ancestors were indigenius in designing a beautiful perfect tool like the biyaliga.
Breathe. I didn’t want to waste any moment being separated from my loom. But at that moment I wished that I could go outside, salvage some wood and hand-carve a biyaliga. Desperate times result in creative attempts requiring comedic relief.
In a race against the last couple of hours before the sunset, I was determined to make it work. If Tim Gunn was here, he would be proud. Probably deeply concerned, but hopefully proud of my efforts.
The first pass with the incense holder was a disaster. The pakan was suspended in the middle of the sakyot, refusing to merge with the rest of the weft. The sharpness of the Gua Sha made the weave tighter. But then I discovered that it really tightens the weft after the second pass. Once the cross-hatch is achieved, when you sudsod tap using the Gua Sha, it makes it look better. I give it a chance. And then come to the humble conclusion that it doesn’t look quite right since the pakan now angles to the left.
Saved by the setting sun. Counting down to a reunion with my beautiful biyaliga…
Several weeks later, reunited and it feels so good. Balance restored. And all is right in the world.
Just as every living creature in the circle of life has its purpose, so does every tool in laga weaving.
Photo Notes (top to bottom): Gedchangan back-strap, biyaliga, tubungan taken April 5; laga came home on May 7; biyaliga in action.
