She sits, hunched forward over her loom. Her eyes intently searching through the vast array of yarns. “Which yarn would look best, for this part of the design,” she wonders as she fingers the yarn to determine texture and strength while examining the color in bright light.
The pattern had taken her so long to design, in her mind she saw the completed work, beautiful—if only in black and white. Now is when the dream becomes reality as she selects her materials and places in line after line, upon the large loom of her life.
Her heart rate races, as she feels she has found the perfect yarn, and begins to weave her dreams, so beautiful, so colorful, full of depth and texture she had never imagined possible. Her imagination races forward 8 lines, dreaming of how that next part of the pattern will look with the beautiful yarn she has found. She dreams a new, vivid, colorful dream. Her hands carrying the yarn through while her eyes are glazed over with daydream. They are affixed on some indiscernible object in the vast fields of dancing grass out her window. She is so caught up in her dreams and her planning, that she fails to realize that the new yarn is too bulky for this section, creating gaps in her design. She is too caught up to realize that her foundation yarn is frayed. Too, distracted to noticed the gap she has just created. The yarn fits poorly in this place, and the pattern is missing something essential.
She continues on, line after line, without ever looking down. She wants to get to line 8, then line 15, then line 23, for the picture in her mind is so clear, so perfect, so beautiful—for the lines to be laid in the future. She forgets to notice where she’s at, to check the progress. She misses out on current beauty, caught up in the dream of future beauty.
After line X she looks back at the progress, in a moment of reflection on the past, and sees that somehow she has gotten far, far off-track. The whole pattern shifted, too high on one side, too low on the other. And there, her heart sinks, is a large hole. On the other side, a row or two below, evidence of frayed yarn, threatening to unravel the piece.
Tears fill her eyes, what can she do? Her heart is woven between the lines, her being now a part of the art. Not only has she woven herself into the past, she is part of the future as well, with this pattern, with this yarn. However, she knows it would be foolish to continue on with the errors in place, for the whole thing could unravel. No, not all at once, not even in a few days, but it could, indeed, over time fall apart. Yet, this is not the greatest error, it is the weaving herself into the future, before the future is here. How do you undo, what has never been done?
She knows, her in her novice skill, can never correct the errors of this rug. Unsure how to even correct the errors of the past, she knows she cannot unweave herself from the future as well.
Lifting her eyes from her piece, she notices she is not alone. The one who gave her a loom, the power to dream, and yarn to weave, sits beside her with the deepest of compassion in His eyes. Fearful to give up full control she tries to get him to help, while her hands are still at work—while she tries to create what has not been done, so that it can be undone. She would do something, and he would undo it, thinking she hadn’t tried hard enough, she would begin again. Only to have Him take it out, once again.
In exhaustion and confusion, she stands up from her stool, and takes a seat on the other side of the master weaver, giving Him full access to the loom. Carefully, tenderly, His hands work over the piece, unraveling a section, and building it up again, filling in areas that had once been empty.
It looked vastly different from the dream in her head, and discomfort became a constant friend. It seems abstract, from where she sits, she cannot see the pattern. It is too large, the scale too grand, to tell what is being created from where she stands.
Once the errors corrected, and gaps filled, He takes her hand, and places a piece of yarn in it, apparently at random. In confusion, she looks at Him with questioning eyes. What is she to do with this yarn? Yet, she weaves it in. Once that yarn runs out, again, he hands her another, and another.
It is beautiful, she must admit, but she still a different pattern in mind, yet, she continues to let Him guide.
What it will be, we will have to wait to see. But each line, she admits, seems to fit so well with the last, even if the future is still a mystery.
She cannot even imagine 8 lines ahead, but the struggle is to pretend she can, and weave what she thinks should come next, and deny the yarn in His hand.
Thread through my fingers,
Under and over,
Weave the wool,
Create the dream.
Imagine the possibilities,
Of all that life can be,
The loom so large,
The pallet so vast.
Each new day,
Gives meaning to the last,
Creating a work,
Beautiful and unique.
Planning and dreaming,
Create the look you seek,
One thread at a time,
Wove into my life.
Until the error is spotted,
Back ten dozen lines,
A hole left unfilled,
3 unders all in a row.
A frayed thread,
Which may not show
Is all it takes,
To unravel it all.
I really like your poem!
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