in and out,
up and down,
over and over.
she wove her strands of life together,
patching hole after hole.
eventually she saw it was more than the threads that gave her strength,
it was in the very act of weaving itself
that she became strong.
I read this last night on Wholly Jeanne‘s beautiful blog and it jumped off the screen at me.
Yes. I do this, all day long: I weave, stitch, try to patch the holes. I am nothing more than a collection of tiny scraps. I often feel overwhelmed by a sense of frantic chaos at my core, often grieve the way I completely lack an animating principle, central passion, or unambiguous direction. Instead I am a mass of loose ends, a kaleidoscope, a mosaic of tiny broken pieces. I want so badly for the pieces to make sense, for a meaningful whole to emerge out of the pile of shards.
How deeply reassuring it is to imagine that there might be meaning in the weaving itself. That it’s not the result but the act. That even if I don’t ever piece myself into whole cloth – even if the fragments don’t add up to anything – the effort is worth something. This is a balm.
I don’t feel strong these days, nor whole; I feel broken a lot of the time, and afraid that I am not moving towards the wholeness I so desperately desire. There are moments when a surpassing calm floats over me, a feeling of peace and sureness in whose embrace I cannot imagine ever doubting again. But that passes, and I’m back to the self I know so well, to all the jagged pieces, the frayed edges, the endless holes that appear as fast as I can patch them.
What can I do but weave on?