I am drawn to metaphors and one of the metaphors I like for life is a tapestry.
The tapestry of my life is going to be very rich and very vibrant, that I know. There will be a lot of purple and turquoise and fuchsia joy in it, but lots of black, too, and the depth and magnitude that proclaims. Dashes of silver and gold light the sky, moons and stars of pure grace and amazement. If you look more closely, the colorful shapes are all women, hundreds and hundreds of women, all colors, all shapes, all sizes, with one hand clasping one another and the other hand reaching for the stars. The moon and the sun will co-exist in the sky, as they do in our sight at dawn or dusk sometimes. They are goddesses, each of them, smiling, cradling us.
The tapestry will speak of peaceful satisfaction and also of angry questions without answers. It will speak of loves that have endured and loves that have not. It will include all the friends I have ever treasured and all those I have yet to meet. Children will dance and laugh at our feet in some scenes, in others we are alone with each other or ourselves. There will be women at the edge of a great trampoline bouncing other women into the sky, as in the Eskimo game.
Glittering magic wands will fleck the tapestry here and there – they are the pens with which I have written and the magic of my writing circles.
At first the tapestry will appear unblemished, a perfect weaving. As you look closer, though, you see the places where the thread snapped, or where the thread stayed beneath the surface of the cloth for too long, frayed edges here and there. There will be spots where there are loose ends. But for each broken thread or row of stitches that seem to lead to nowhere, there is a place where the thread is mended, the pattern picked up again, each a place of healing.
Perhaps the cloth will be the pages of my books.