myth for woad

I was a weaver since this tree was young. I spent my life searching of the plants with correct fibers. I pulled the swaying herbs and prepared them in water and heat and mixed them with substances to break them up and they come out long and perfect and I dye them with every color summer can imagine.

It took many years to understand how not to break the fibers. They would tear and I would drown them accidentally. They were covered in stinging insects. They were to hard and I would battle with them until they broke or cut me. I tried for ten thousand days and weeks and years and decades. I don’t know, I lost time in constant practice.

The trees grew up and up and the world around me began to become more bold. I know because I did too. The massive fiery bird flew so high in the sky that it became the sun. We watched it grow there too, learning how to fly and expanding tis massive wings we see at sunrise, and the tail with the colors of evening as she flies.

I got so bold that I made a blue robe for the sun. The largest robe you’ve ever seen. By then I had become so proficient at weaving, you could not see a stitch with your eye close it wet the seam. The sun loved the robe and danced when she saw her self in the reflection of the water. She blushed and in the water bloomed bunches of tiny yellow flowers. When you see sparkling flowers in the water, it’s the sun admiring herself with her countless yellow eyes.

The sun did not know who wove her cloak by then because I have become so blue I merged with it - into it. I am lost in it. I wove my story into woad. And when the color fades off me, so too will the sun’s blue robes, and all the blue of the sky will be gone it will be up to you to give her a garment. It will be up to woad to tell the story. I hope you’re practicing.