I am not a self-taught weaver, but taught by the baskets themselves. A gifted basket using eel-trap techniques. Two thrifted, age-brittle flax baskets, spliced and braided. The extraordinary collection of moody, low-lit weavings at Okains Bay museum, chance encountered. My eyes and hands recognise the diagonals and crosses, the ribs and the spokes, the warp and weft of organic material, even before I learn a new technique. Someone in my ancestral line knew these shapes, these patterns; my fingers echo the hands of unseen teachers. But my teachers are primarily the plants themselves. Each plant has stories and preferences, and the conversation changes between seasons, storms, lunar phases …