For years, the women of Cerinza have supplied Colombia—especially the Cundiboyacense region—with esparto baskets. Those classic red-and-green-rimmed cazuelas used to cradle clay pots of soup or to serve empanadas and other treats at countryside eateries. And the placemats—essential on any table where traditional food is served. These women brim with pride when they spot their creations on TV, featured in a commercial or a soap opera. They know no two pieces are alike. Even if made by the same artisan, one after another, each basket is unique.

Sixteen of them came together over twenty years ago, and their lives are a beautiful reflection of what it means to grow up in the countryside of Cerinza, dedicated to the esparto weaving craft. Raised by mothers who made their own sieves for filtering cuchuco and baskets to gather peas, beans, corn—and to carry panela, salt, lard, and rice from the market on Sundays, God gave all of them the creativity to invent their forms. And so, as their mothers taught them how to light the stove, tend the cattle, cook, and sweep, they also taught them how to weave. They remember hugging their mothers and watching closely how they worked. They learned by observing—until, around age ten, they were taught how to divide the strands of esparto, how much to add, and how much to take away to shape a basket. In the lives of these women, who are lifelong friends, knowledge passed not only from mothers to daughters, but was shared among neighbors and friends.

Back then, they’d gather by the Minas River when its waters were still clear—to bathe, to play soccer in a neighbor’s field, or jump rope. Now, these same friends gather around their baskets. Many are like Penelope, weaving while their husbands are away for work, building bridges and roads across the country. Their days in the fields are long. They begin at five or six in the morning—tending cows, chickens, pigs, collecting firewood to cook the breakfast broth, and to make lunch with the potatoes and corn they harvest themselves. Between tasks, they work on a piece—though they can’t take it with them as they walk the fields, because the wind would dry the fiber and make it brittle. So they weave after lunch, before lighting the fire again for dinner, while listening to carranga music on the local station, watching TV, or chatting on speakerphone while they work. Their hands weave without looking—how could they not, after a lifetime practicing? And on Sundays, they all go down to town for mass and to buy whatever they need—carried, of course, in one of their own baskets.

Sometimes their backs, waists, or knees ache from long hours seated in their craft. And always, there’s the joy of reunion—when husbands return from distant jobs, and when friends gather at the association’s shop, where they display their work. But no matter what happens, they are never alone. They are bound lovingly to one another by the shiny, sturdy fibers of esparto.