This is a brief creative non-fiction piece I have been working on as I make sense of some significant life events.
This is how it starts, the push and pull and the rise and fall. In the centre, in the place where all rivers meet, you will find me. Standing and swaying and weaving with the music of the spheres. Gathering the strands of my life, leading outwards in all directions, from the past, the present, and the potential future, and plaiting them into the strand which is sewn together into the fabric of the world that I create for myself. This is my world. Music and the power to shape things for myself. I have built myself anew, time and time again, reshaping my life one way or another, bending with the varying tides of living and being, of connection and dissection and divergence. In this state of flux, the weaver emerges, with the vision of how warp and weft are meant to come together, an instinctive patterning based on experience, feeling and inspiration.
A new life born from the void; what is this aeon that shifts and sighs and labours without pain, forming without the noise and sweat and mess of bodily existence? What is this new world, this new pattern? Blind movement along unfamiliar paths, treading tentatively, tiny step by tiny step, trusting in a future that remains unformed and unknowable. This is faith, deep and abiding, the only certainty. Faith and trust that there is a pattern, a wider scheme and that this path is one of the threads of the greater whole. The consciousness of life, the universe and everything, that which some call Goddess, surrounds the traveller, the weaver, the woman who gives herself these names and labels. Unfurling, I walk through the darkness, feeling the edges of space and of my own shape, arms unfolding, shoulders lowering and spreading, contours of physical and psychic melding with the shadows that coalesce around me. This is my forward momentum, a path without light and with no guide by my own instinct. This is the moment of flux and the journey through the primordial chaos.
They call it a crisis. Midlife. As if life has a beginning, middle and end, definable waypoints and a predictable endpoint. And what is a crisis? It is the convergence of old paths, a concatenation of happenings and incidents that brings about a shift in consciousness? Is it the confluence of multiple streams in this river of life? It is, in my mind, the point when the threads and plaits of the life that was become tangled, and knotted, until the weaver must halt, unable to continue with the pattern and, knowing that she cannot undo what has been done, must move on and start a new weaving, a new pattern, knit up the fabric of her life with different colours, both new and old. How much she takes forward from the previous weaving is determined by her new perception, her new understanding of what is necessary and what is not, perhaps, or what feeds her soul versus those threads which have tightened, snake like, and brought about the knotted clot she must now make part of the new pattern.
How do we learn? From our mistakes, which translate into experience. The painstaking creation of a life from one action after another, this is the weaving. Action, reaction, consequence. Only by recognising how we have affected ourselves and others, only then can we work with those outcomes and recreate the life we feel is necessary for us. Grief floods the field, like a stain; grief for the life not lived, the choices not made, the time that can never be returned to us, the ways in which we have hurt and been hurt. We see life in one way because for us there is only was, is and will be. But the pain is real, the pain for what we have done to ourselves, to others, the actions that can never be undone. Once a thread is woven into the pattern, it cannot be removed, however imperfect it might be. We cannot unravel, we can only renew, start again, over and over, with better intentions and with trust that the view we now have, looking back, will enable us to make a better tapestry of our future.
This is now. Reaching for the bright threads of life, the greens of nature and life, the earthy browns, the flooding bloody bright red of passion and desire, the warm pinks and bronzes of family and security, the bright silver and gold of inspiration and learning. Love is the rainbow thread, all colours, all colours that have ever been or ever will be possible. But I am the weaver. The pattern unfolds with each twist and turn of the threads, each passage of the shuttle. I have to trust that I will create something better, that there is a new picture that will emerge from the vibrant colours that now lie in my hands. Faith in the future is faith in myself, and my ability to create. This is the weaving.