And Again, I Weave: Reflections on a Mind Disrupted

DEC 15, 2016

We lay upon a beautiful carpet. A rug woven from the hands of those who love us. We coo and smile and wriggle our toes. We fight to sit so we can begin to explore the colorful ground underfoot.

With time, all clumsy fingers and squinted eyes, we yearn to create our own carpet. Our own rug to stand upon. We gather scraps of fabric and bits of thread here and there. The taller ones help our unskilled hands to weave. We look to the patterns below and around, mimicking what we see to be beautiful.

With time and effort and sweat, we are able to stand upon our newly woven rug. Familiar and soft, we feel safe. Proud of what we have created. It is our own and it is good.

Years pass, and we add new fabric, new thread, and new textures. Sometimes vibrant cloth gives way to unexpected grays. On occasion our hands bleed from the roughness of the cloth. And yet we continue to weave. Forming patterns we recognize and new patterns of our own creation.

And we sigh with satisfaction as our carpet becomes large enough to support ourselves, and the ones we love.

And yet, after years of toil and loving diligence, my rug unraveled. Knots slipped and gave way.

And I fell. Hard and quick, I tumbled to the ground.

With an aching head I gaze at the world from a new angle. Upside down, I begin to see the truth of what I created. What I’d hidden. What the patterns look like from below.

I cry.

My world, my foundation, was wrong. From underneath, the patterns aren’t beautiful, but broken, jagged, and knotted. From below, holes had begun to wear away. The snug ties had lost their grip.

I cry.

But I begin to weave again.

A new carpet must be created. A better one, stronger and more correct than the first. Only a few threads from before are worth salvaging. I must fine the new.

Fighting the urge to weave familiar patterns, I create. With my head throbbing as a reminder of past faults, I shape.

I weave, weave, weave, looking to higher places for inspiration. Desperate that this rug will hold. That this rug will support me.

And with shaky legs, I stand. While not as lovely, this rug is studier than the one that came before. The stronger fabric is rough, but my weaving has made the fibers tender.

With calloused hands, I wait.

I wait for the fall.

Will it work? Will it stand? Will my work prove to be enough?

But it won’t. And I know that now.

There is always a layer beneath what I can feel. Below what I can understand. There are lies at play I can not yet see. Figures I did not know guided my hands. I am not my own and I am not safe.

For at any moment, the fabric below will give way. I will discover a new fault in my work. A deadly fault that causes pain.

I will fall.

And yet, again I will weave.


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