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The fabric of my life has many threads. There's the warp, those long strands that encompass the whole length of the life. And then there is the weft, crosspieces that intersect with the warp and form a solid fabric on which ride the elaborations and enrichments and embroideries of my difference.
I've never thought of my life this way before. The warp, you know, can be as drab or as colourful as you wish (let's not burden this new thought with details such as who warped the loom in the first place. Or who is the weaver passing the shuttle of the weft over and under, over and under.) Let's instead think of the variety of threads that can be woven through this process. Glistening silk, tough and shining, holding colour so brightly. Or perhaps my warp is woollen, shorn and carded, spun and twisted, dyed to please me. The warp doesn't have to be a single kind of thread but can combine them all, a variegated warp open to every possibility on the journey. And whatever its makeup, its appearance changes once the weft is woven through it, pulling the perhaps random variations of colour and texture into a multicoloured plaid. What a work of art is fabric. What a work of art is the fabric of my life. Our lives.
Do I have time to ornament it? Sequins, beads, faceted jewels, one-of-a-kind buttons. Shining embroidery threads to create rows and waves of flowers. Gardens of colour. More. More. More decorations.
Look! This lovely length of colour is turning into song. The melody rises, dissonance melding into assonance after sharpening the ear, pointing the senses. The song of the fabric rises, mixing metaphors with abandon, and the weave of my life shimmers still with possibility.
Musings blog: http://www.scenesfromthejourney.blogspot.com
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