Previous Challenge Entry (Level 3 - Advanced)
Topic: In and Out (04/30/09)
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TITLE: The Weaver' Work | Previous Challenge Entry
By Jim McWhinnie
05/03/09 -
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There is the deep, deep red thread, the color of cherries in the last days of harvest. The weaver needs and chooses such a thread. There is the old, old gold, the autumn gold of maple leaves that gather on the country in a Canadian October. And the weaver chooses it as well. It will serve the weaver’s purpose well. From time to time, a thread or two of white, or a thread or two of black are set in place. The white is offered to give the forming cloth a glint of life and light, the black to give the cloth a sense of weight and timelessness.
In and out and in again, the shuttle passes thread from one hand of the weaver to the other, letting the shuttle sail on its own for one adventuresome moment of apparent freedom. In and out and in and out again.
These threads winding in and out among the other threads are but the servants of the weaver and the working of the loom. In one side and out the other. In one side and out the other. The weaver keeps the faith.
The loom so awkward in its dance is yet so efficient in its work. Therein is the beauty of the loom, its doing of the background work A tamping, a tightening, a tracing of the warp upon the weft and the weft upon the warp. Back and forth. Back and forth. The clacking of the loom does keep the rhythm as if to count the beats of the weaver’s nearly silent song, the humming of patient creativity.
One passing of the shuttle seems to have left no progress at all. Even two or three or just a few seem to have made no gain. But at the close day, the loom gives proof that the laying of threads one by one has done it work. Once more, the weaver has traded a one day of life for a measure of woven cloth. It has been the obedience to the weaver’s rhythm, each thread in their proper time, in their proper place that creates the something more of the something at first unseen. One passing of the shuttle, one dancing of the loom, one traveling of the thread, is always but the servant of the something more.
My days are as the thread, my life of faith, the loom. And the Weaver is the one who weaves of my days and way, the something more, the something at first unseen.
But what of the cloth? It is called an eternal life, a weaving of the threads of earth with the threads of heaven, warp and weft, in and out.
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