Riding in the back seat, my two dear friends talking in the front, I chose to listen to music on my phone and just kind of zone out for a while. Sometimes in the morning I’m not ready for a lot of conversation, and this was my introverted way to cope.
We traveled smoothly along a highway free of snow and ice, passing a few towns, seeing farm land and old barns now and then. The sun was partly obscured by thin, high clouds, giving everything a creamy white softness, gentle on the eyes.
Many of the sights were familiar because we have been on this same road many times, either in this annual pilgrimage or on our own separate journeys. Winter had made it all brown and dull, but even in that, it was a beautiful ride.
Passing one old barn yard I noticed the holes in the roof, the broken down fence, the rotting wood siding, and wondered to myself for the hundredth time what it was that drew my attention to those old relics of the past. I thought of how the man made stuff rots and decays eventually.
A still, small voice told me that yes, what man creates will be lost, but you, who I love, your soul is eternal and will never go away. In that fleeting moment I was inspired. I held those words in my own heart. The music in my head phones continued and we soon reached our destination.
Later that morning, I sat in a room that was quiet except for soothing music in the background, listening to instructions by a dear friend for making a woven heart, hearing and reading about meditative practices. A place to create, an opportunity to simply be in the moment.
The still, small voice called to me again.
I have woven you together,
every cell, every hair, each heart beat.
Woven, from the first strands of love.
Delicate fibers spun by my hands,
gathered together in rhythm and cadence,
each tiny fiber of divine.
From my weaver’s loom,
draped around this beautiful soul.
My woven paper heart was coming together, and it took a while to pull it into the shape it was intended to be. A simple bit of creating, but so full of inspiration. My pencil was busy writing the words that poured forth, words that now covered the outside of a large envelope.
In the weaving
we are born.
From the shaping and pulling comes our strength.
As we share this fabric
that is our life….
which has no hem….
blankets the lives we touch.