You who stand before Me know by now that your life is intermingled with everyone else’s. You are part of a great orchestra. The Great Conductor nods in your direction, and you play your flute. You pop up and down. You play many parts. You run from one place to another, and you play your flute on cue.

Life is the weaving of a Great Carpet. The threads are intricate and cannot be followed, cannot be predicted, cannot be undone. They have been woven according to a Great Plan. If you could step on this carpet where you are now and see all your threads, you would see a design of such intricacy and vastness that you would be bright-eyed, blinking, and dazzled. You could not comprehend what you caught a glimpse of. No carpet in the world has ever been woven thus, nor will there ever be another, and yet the carpet will continue to be woven. Weavers weave.

This carpet is an extravaganza. It is spectacular. The colors are rich, the stitches perfect. The overall design flows in patterns beyond what the Human mind can perceive. And yet, you weave your threads, and you weave them boldly, and you weave as no one has ever woven before. How can there be such a vast array on this woven carpet. How can there be such possibilities and none of them yet taken until you appeared? Your hand is poised, ready for the next in and out.

At first sight, the design of this carpet seems random, but upon closer inspection, if you could see, you would see patterns, and patterns flowing off patterns, vines and flowers of outstanding proportions. The weaver weaves, and you have executed another in and out, and your hand is poised again, and so you stitch, and so you repeat and yet never make the same stitch. You are a marvel.

You are the threads. You are the weaving. And you are the weaver, and yet you do not know what you weave. You just weave. You work the loom without cease. It is self-generating, this loom, and yet it requires you to propel it. And yet you feel propelled. Sometimes you feel like a rocket shot out of a cannon, as if you have no say on where you go, how far or how close. And yet it is you who shoots yourself out of the cannon. You are the trigger.

You don’t know what you weave, and you don’t always know why. And yet you weave, and yet you weave around with every other thread from every loom, so connected are you. You guide and are guided. You parry. You duel. You punch. You feign. You submit. You engage. You play racket ball. You play hopscotch. You bounce high. You crouch low. And always you are the weaver as well as the woven.

You think you are a separate thread when, all the while, all threads are connected. There is only one carpet being woven. There is just one carpet of such unimaginable beauty, and you are the weaver of it. All the assistants are your imaginings. And the carpet is not yet in full view. . A stitch at a time, and yet there is nothing to show for it, for this is a magic weaving. This is a textile so see-through you cannot see it any longer. You can hardly touch it with your fingers. This vastness of carpet eludes you, and yet it pulls you with it, and yet it leaves without you and yet it is never gone.

You weave in pieces, yet to what you weave, there is Wholeness.