|From Crazy as a Loom|
Like I said, I am nostalgic of late. Or maybe just open to memories, flashbacks of days I thought I had forgotten.
Weaving has taught me a lot about myself. I found it later in my life, and didn't expect to be so smitten. The color, the texture, the incredible way that the woven piece appears before me. I can't explain it. I am willing to go through all the planning, the winding, the warping, the threading, the sleying, all of it, to get to that place where the shuttle flies back and forth, and whatever I have chosen to weave begins to take form. I especially love creating rag rugs as I go. Spontaneously, right off the top of my head. Sometimes I hate them, but sometimes I love them, and it is worth taking the chance. Taking old jeans, sock seconds, fabric scraps, and bringing them back as something brand new, well, it just make me "hot", as my DH would jokingly say.
I kind of knew a long time ago, that I needed to work with my hands. I needed to create something in front of me that came from some deep need inside of me. It made me happy, made me complete in some way that nothing else quite did.
And a picture comes to me clearly.
A barn in the country, that I had rehabbed into a 'studio' of sorts. Some track lighting, some huge old work tables that I had bought at a garage sale. Oh, that's another tale.....these tables that someone built to use as they were building their house, and then had no need for. They made an hour trip home tied 8 ft high on my little Toyota pickup.
But they were perfect to work on, and I see myself, sitting on a stool in front of one of them, dried flowers everywhere, making wreaths. It is dark out, and where I lived then, dark was really dark. The round oak stove behind me was cranking out the heat, silently. I was alone, very much alone, and I was content with that.
My life was mostly a wreck at that time. Alcoholism, someone else's, not mine, was wreaking havoc on everyone in my household. There was no light at the end of the tunnel for me right then, none that I was aware of. It all seemed a cruel joke. There were two jobs to be thankful for, nursing part time in an Emergency room and full time in a maximum security prison, two jobs that wore me down to an exhaustion I didn't realize I owned until much later. There were beautiful children that suffered along with me. There was a house, an old house in the country, that I struggled to hold onto, in spite of the odds.
So, I had not much reason to be smiling.
But this night, alone in a barn, with not one bit of experience making dried flower wreaths, I was happy. I remember distinctly thinking that the world could have stopped right then and there, and it was OK. I don't know why. But from some corner of my brain, some remote little place in my psyche, there was this certainty that change was on its way. I didn't know from where it would come. I didn't think about it really. It just WAS. A serenity came over me, a strength that brought a smile to my face, even while it brought tears to my eyes. It was all going to be OK, better than OK, it was going to be wonderful.
And on the garage find tape player in the corner, played this. Sade. And whenever I hear her voice, and this song, Cherish the Day, it all comes back to me. That feeling. That life is precious, no matter what. That there is a power greater than all of us, a power that brings us together, that makes us strong in any situation. Like all those random threads, sometimes we sit on the shelf,and we don't know what is next. But life comes along, and weaves us all together, into a perfect cloth.