Weaver

It is cliché to say that life is made up of many threads, like the threads in the weaver’s cloth. Strange how I am just now realizing that every thread on the loom impacts the other threads in the cloth.

I have lived and still live a sheltered life. I grew up in a safe and loving family, went to college, married, had a child. I grew content with my choices, with my existence. From all outward appearances, one could assume I have it all: good job, wonderful family, my health. I wondered, though, if that’s all there was to living.

My spirit felt starved. I felt like I was drowning. That was not all there could be, was it? I took things for granted and I was taken for granted. Although I felt free to do what I wanted, I was shackled to the life I chose.

Breaking free was impossible, physically at least. Emotionally, my spirit found sustenance and began to soar.

Then all was lost. Castles in the sky are not meant to be reality. Castles in the sky can never be reality.

Reality is relative anyway.

The Loom continued its unceasing toil, changing the warp and weft of the threads. Some came unraveled at the slightest touch, a frail thread of old silk, not meant to be continually handled. Other threads rejoined and reformed into something stronger. Some snapped in two pieces, broken right in half.

The pattern is unseen as of yet. There is just the barest hint of a pattern, in fact. There is still much to weave in this life, and the Loom has a long way to travel yet, as well as more work to do. There is always work: the threads must be kept taut, the cards of thread cannot get tangled, the skeins of every color must be watched and inserted at the appropriate times.

When the threads do converge and tangle, sometimes they create more interesting patterns than if the weaver had forced the joining. Sometimes, the tangles are fierce and difficult to remove. Sometimes, there can be a little of the tangle left over, in the form of a knot or some such thing. Sometimes, the threads have to be knotted, or else the entire piece of cloth may fall apart.

Funny that.

Sometimes a person grows so dependent on another person that the aforementioned first person can’t see the forest for the trees. Sometimes, no matter how hard we try, we fail at knotting those threads in time. Stitches drop out and have to be caught up, and that is a hard task to accomplish.

But somehow, the weaver takes back the stitches, adding another few here and there to balance things out. Of course, this may cause the cloth to be malformed, to have an ugly gap or hole where the stitches were lost. Perhaps the hole can be patched with more cloth, or with something else, but the hole is always there. It is a constant reminder of the missing stitches, the missing part of the weave.

Sometimes the rent cannot be mended. Instead, it gapes open, widening and fraying at the edges. The patch fails, and the gap bleeds color like a fresh wound.

The variegated colors make a colorful patchwork against the backdrop of the natural world. We are all made up of infinite varieties and infinite materials. Some are silk; some are wool, cotton, and even polyester. All contribute something worthwhile.

Finding enough cloth to patch the hole is difficult. Where does one focus energy? On recreating the missing stitches, by taking out the last row? or instead, on adding more stitches to make up the ones that are missing? It is hard to say. Sometimes the stitches can be easily removed, and reformed without much effort. Other times, too many rows have passed and it would take too much work to remove them all and fix up the missing stitches. Each weaver has to determine how to fix his or her own cloth.

I am not good at fixing my cloth. I tend to dwell on mistakes that I’ve made—well, not really mistakes, just strange movements in the cloth that I was not prepared for. I learn from all the funky warps in my cloth.

But there is one gaping hole as well. I will patch it as best I can, but the patch often fails, leaving the hole raw and open. I suppose that in time, the hole will be covered up permanently, and the pain I feel when viewing it will go away.

A zigzag pattern forms, like those old 1970s afghans your mom used to crochet. Do you remember those? I remember the red/pink/brown afghan my mom crocheted. It was a ubiquitous fixture around the house when I was growing up. Red and pink and brown. Whatever was she thinking? I guess that was a popular style back then. (Don’t even get me started on the avocado green kitchen and sunflower gold sun clock.) I passed through those threads, adding some of them to my life story, forgetting others. But that particular afghan is always there.

Speaking of the variegated colors reminds me of my grandmother’s leftover yarn afghan. It was not done in any particular pattern. She would crochet a long row of double-crochet stitches for about two rows, tying off fringe on either end, then take up a new color and do the same, attaching it to the first row. It was barely wide enough to cover me when I lay down on the couch, but I loved that afghan. She made it, that’s why. When she passed away, no one really wanted that blanket, because she had used it a lot when she was sick, to keep warm, and seeing it was a very painful reminder. But my family ended up keeping it. I am glad that we did, because I think it would be more painful not to have it. It is really painful when all you have are memories of a particular person or incident.

I am a packrat, a keeper of things. I keep a lot of stuff; clutter should be my middle name. I am sentimental, though. That’s all. Not crazy pack-ratty; just sentimentally pack-ratty. Oh, except when it comes to books, then you could say I’m slightly crazy pack-ratty. I cannot help but keep things that hold a special place in my heart. I remember, too, the people, places, and incidents that shall always be held sacred, even if that is what is causing the hole in the weave.

All the things I keep form threads—memories as well as physical objects. Some of them have frayed off, like the threads of friends I had in high school but fell out of touch with; other threads are still vibrant and strong. Some threads are made of strong nylon and nothing can cut those connections. Some only appear to be made of nylon, and are actually quite weak when tested.

Nonetheless, the weave is constantly being adjusted for pressure and strength. The only thing constant is change, and that is reflected in the weave. There are the paths not taken, the regrets, the what-ifs—they all end in a dead-end pattern. Then there are the endless possibilities—the threads that stretch beyond my sight like innumerable stars in the sky.

How does one know which thread to add and which to subtract? That is an eternal question. The weaver cannot know until the thread is added whether it will be a useful thread to follow, or a not-so-useful thread. One can only hope that every thread is useful. It does not always turn out that way, however.

Sometimes we have to cut away the threads that are choking us, tangling us, keeping us from healing or moving on or finding a new path. They encase our feet, tripping us up, holding us hostage in the brilliant hell of our own creation. Some people can never get beyond those choking, stagnant vines. They remain mired in their own misery, again, unable to see the whole bolt of cloth. They see only their tiny small corner, where it seems that no more threads exist.

They use blunt scissors, sawing and sawing, only to have two threads spring up to replace the one they cut. Their spindle stops spinning and the skeins jumble together.

I have felt that way before. I have felt that way quite recently, in fact.

How does one untangle the jumble?

One thread at a time…

Start with the most obvious threads, the ones that are constant and (mostly) unchanging. Then, once those are established, choose one color and work with it, calmly and rationally, rewinding the skein, untangling the knots, removing the knots that cannot be unknotted. Then, start over slowly, rebuilding the cloth where you last left off, and find your sharp scissors!

Starting over is hard to do.

How does one start over when the hole is still there, mocking the weaver? “I’m unfinished, ha ha ha!” it seems to say, while I stare into the Loom, wondering how things went wrong.

But…

Although the hole is there, it is but a tiny part of the whole cloth. It can be ignored, and not lose any of the beauty of the rest of the bolt. In fact, the hole is easily camouflaged, since it is hidden in a shadowy corner. If you don’t look too close, you can’t even see it, even if the weaver knows it’s there. And, another thing: even though it’s there, it was worth the entanglements and knots to have it there—albeit a constant reminder.

Some things are worth the cost.

If I had to say, I would say that my cloth is made up of several different types of materials. I like cotton and silk best, so those two types are used throughout. I don’t care for wool; it’s scratchy and smelly. Nylon threads shoot through the cloth at regular intervals to strengthen it, especially around the heart area. In spite of the nylon, the cloth is actually quite comfortable and cozy and friendly.

I weave in a companionable silence, with this journal to remember my thoughts as I work the loom. I record the memories here in this book, talking quietly aloud as I weave each strand into place.

I am the weaver, but yet I am not in control of the Loom. Sometimes the Loom does things on its own, adding threads that should never have been added, and removing others that were part of the cloth’s foundations. The Loom has a mind of its own and throws in things time and again that I didn’t expect to see.

Sometimes the Loom creates an interesting attraction, but it often unravels into nothing. Other times, the Loom adds something wonderful, something seemingly perfect, something special to the overall look or theme of the cloth. It is dazzling in its perfection, its rightness, but all too soon, like a child with a broken toy, the perfection fades to show the reality and I look away, to another more interesting part of the cloth.

I use the seam ripper to tear out those parts of the cloth I no longer need. That is what causes the occasional hole. Sometimes other people use their seam rippers to cut my cloth, and that hurts, leaving the big gaps. I repair them as best I can, but it’s hard, especially if my cloth still wants to include them.

Ah well. I take up the needle and thread and fix what I can, patching here and there, using old cloth and new cloth together, creating a patchwork of interesting designs. Some of the patching is spotty at best, noting issues I still need to fix or deal with, or wait for the Loom to add something interesting.

The weaver weaves, and I wait to see the finished pattern. Each pattern is multihued and fascinating. I wonder what threads will be added next, and which ones shall be cut away.