You cannot unknot the threads of life, nor can you predict them. You may think that some stitches have been dropped or entwined in the wrong place, but the tapestry of life follows a design beyond your ken, and, yet, you are a weaver of it. You work the loom of life. In and out go the sleys, faster than your fingers, and yet your fingers go fast. They whirl in flight as life is sewn. Your eyes see a small part of the carpet you weave, and yet you can’t take your eyes off it.
There is yet a Master Weaver who plays a flute that you vaguely hear above the clicking of the loom. He supplies you with the colors and the yarn. You are always supplied. You reach your hand out, and a new skein is there. Weaving in and out go your fingers. You follow the rhythm of the Weaver Who is a Master Flautist as well. He is a Receiver of your goods. He supplies you, and you supply Him. You and the Weaver and the One Who plays the flute are as interconnected as the threads you weave. It is hard to discern who is the seller and the buyer. Warp and woof click along rapidly.
At night the looms, for all intents and purposes, are still, and yet the cloth is woven in the stillness. Who knows what dreams the cloth is made of. The threads are dyed. Each breath of yours weaves the mystery still in stillness. There is great continuity. Interruption is not. Pause is merely timelessness. The energy of the looms goes on. The energy is ceaseless, the same way your heart beats. It beats a song. All the hearts weave themselves as it were. All follow the pattern and the beat that the Master of Infinity started. All is play bounced off from the first note, the note that is still playing in the background and in the hearts of all.
Your heart weaves the loom of life. Your heart calls the tunes. Your hands, connected to the heart, weave a tapestry of song.
Notes are played out, one after the other. Threads are sewn, stitches in and out, and notes exchange themselves, seemingly random yet played with a firmness. There are no loose stitches, and there are no wayward notes. All is an ensemble, like a dance where the dancers meet together, the same way woven cloth is draped, hands taking the corners, bringing the cloth together, and the notes meet in continuously played music. In and out go the notes. Click clack go the knitting needles and the trains along the tracks. Clickety-clack. The music comes from all directions. And yet, one song is sung. One song is heard. One orchestra plays the one song. The song is passed from mountain to mountain.
The crickets sing it. The birds take wing. The stars contribute. The sunrise plays a soft note, high noon a crescendo. And yet all is overture. All is preamble. The real moment goes on behind the scenes. Beyond the curtains a master performance goes on. The key on the piano is pressed, and the note is played on the intertwined stage of Earth. This is a stellar performance. Know that notes make music, and stitches sew cloth. Your heart has been called to this concert. You take your position. The loom sings its song, your fingers fly, and the most beautiful flute music is heard ever so faintly, calling you to vespers.