8 minute Interlude

This is a mid-morning song to the evening sun. When I see you, I will have something to show you - the basket of finished work from the day. It might have some threads that need tightened, but it's form will be profound. Solid. Complete.

I have been weaving it on this loom for the last six months, and as it stood, inert, ungrowing, I criticized it. Decided it wasn't smart enough. "I can only bee what I am," it said, "I am not big enough to cover over the entire upstairs rooms of your brain. I am made to make you warm in winter, spring and fall, and to make a foot-bridge to the next right thing on your path. Let me be what I am." "But I need you to be magical, and to fly me to the places I think about," I said, "I want you to be a gothic cathedral to my intellect, and to make the children weep because of your beauty and sadness. I sprinkled little sparks of my own life into the threads of your pattern, and so you must be perfect."

"This will never get done if I have to be perfect," the unfinished drapery retorted from it's rack. "I am function. I am meant to be useful, and not an embodiment of your identity. Finish this. Move on." And so, because the design was unarticulated, but all the threads were there, I have been weaving night and day. Sometimes it tells me to use the green thread. Sometimes there's a snarl in the industrial spools, and needs snipped off and re-attached. It has taken on the shape and size that will make it into what it needs to be.