The weaving of threads intrigues me.
I was mesmerized watching carpets go from silk pods
To intricate geometries in a workshop in Turkey.
The Greeks talked of how the Fates wove our destinies.
And I could imagine the weaving hands creating a narrative.
I have an old Persian rug in my house,
That is at least a hundred years old.
We inherited it from my wife’s grandparents,
And I believe that they themselves inherited it.
It isn’t the most beautiful one we own,
But it is the one with the most to teach me. Some threads are faded, some are vibrant
Some are worn where generation of feet have trod.
And its long life has stories to tell that I shall never hear.
But it is a contemplation piece that catches both eye and imagination,
It tells me that we are Is a tapestry work constantly in progress,
Where the threads are most worn—that is where the most stories lie.
But we are more tapestry than rug,
Because we are each a narrative picture
With the threads woven in at different times
Or more correctly, in work and rework.
The tapestry of lives are constantly being woven, repaired, and rewoven
There are some threads that are always with us at the entry and the exit,
Not many, but some precious ones.
There are some that are bright colors and fade
Until they are ghosts still there, but unseen.
Some threads fray and break and must be discarded..
Some are violently ripped out of our tapestry,
While others just wear out over time
There are still others that are strong and never break once sewn into the fabric of our lives.
Up close, the constant breaking and reweaving seems chaotic,
But from a distance, one can see the beauty of the tapestry.
Friendships and loves fray and break,
With others, the vibrant colors fade with time
Still others are made of better material and endure with time.
New threads are constantly being sewn into the tapestry,
Bringing bright new colors
And we never know if they will fade or endure.
Old threads may sewn back into the fabric again
But they are not the same exact thread
They have neither the same color or strength.
The picture of the tapestry is never constant and changes with the years,
And only at the end is it finished.
And then and only then, can one see the whole story
That the tapestry has to tell.