Over 20 year ago, I arbitrarily came across the following passage from Sonnet X by Edna St. Vincent Millay 😛 TAGEND
Upon this knack senility, in its darknes hour, Rains from the sky a meteoric shower Of details . . . they lie unquestioned, uncombined. Wisdom enough to leech us of our hardship Is daily spun; but there exists no tower To entwine it into fabric
I was just learning to spin and weave and so was struck by this passageway. I’ve been entertaining Millay’s paroles ever since.
Weaving is a fascinating process that the olds in numerous cultures belief was a gift from the Goddess. Before the Industrial Revolution, draping was valuable because of the sheer sum of both labor and skill necessary to create it–tasks that were principally delegated to women. The process of collecting, emptying, and cooking flower or animal fiber to be spun into yarn or recital is a lot of work. And all you have now is spun fiber. It still needs to be pigment and used to warp the loom–a tedious and time-consuming process. Next the meander itself–dancing the shuttle in and out across the width of the warp–over one, under one, over two, under two–or some more visually pleading blueprint which is also more complex to do. Finally, the waver fabric must be measured, trimmed, and sew to make a garment.
As I developed older, these commands continued to echo in my memory. Wisdom enough to leech us of our scourge/ Is daily spun; but there exists no tower/ To knit it into fabric. I began to belief on what kind of loom would be required to entwine spun profundity into the fabric so desperately needed by humanity. And so, when I celebrated Cronehood, I took Star Weaver as my supernatural reputation, said that he wished to do my own small contributed by healing the world.
Eight years ago, while I was training to become an interfaith minister, our work one evening involved a trance. I don’t cancel what the unconsciousnes was supposed to be about, but I vividly be remembered that my flavor flew up into the stars and studied the night sky. Everywhere I could see places where the fabric of the Universe was worn or even torn. Clearly it was necessary to re-weave this fabric–to entwine the stars that form the warp and weft of our universe into a stronger and more beautiful entire. What would one use in this process? What does one gyration into fiber that can be used for this sacred project? No sooner had I invented this question than the answer came back loud and clear–you have to spin your fiber from Love–and that Love is attracted from your heart.
In the years since this vision, I’ve added a few cases ropes to my fiber spun from affection. I crave a coalesced fiber, affection mingled with tendernes, clevernes, respect, and will. As any spinner will tell you, the strength of the fiber is improved by blending multiple filaments into the yarn.
A large-hearted part of the conundrum presented by this poem was solved, but I still couldn’t conceptualize the loom. The loom is crucial–it plies arrangement for the fibers during the knitting process, accepting the weaver to ensure both the fortitude and durability of the fabric as well as the beauty.
This poem has been haunting me lately. Because it is true that we live in a knack senility, in its twilight hour. And it is true that a meteoric shower/ Of actualities sprinkles upon us every day. And it is also true that they lie unquestioned, uncombined. We have the information, implements, and prudence we need to leech us of our complaint but are totally clueless as to how to use them.
Recently, an feeling couple of dates reopened old weaves and at 3 am I found myself sitting on the deck, gazing at the wane fourth moon, and moaning. But there exists no loom–there exists no loom–there exists no loom preserved reflecting in my someone. Gradually an persona began structuring in my judgment. I received a monstrous clique of women, threshing chunks of magically rotated fiber back and forth across the middle of the curve. I identified them catching the wool, anchoring it in their hands and overstepping it to the next girl to then toss across the circle. When each woman was impounding as countless strands as sense right to her, they began reciting and then weaving. This was a kind of weaving I had never seen before. It is hard to knit in a circular pattern–I know because I’ve tried. But somehow, before my attentions, these women were doing it–moving their hands with care and deliberation coupled with flashing rate in blueprints I could not recognize but longed to learn.
As I reflect on this see, I know in my centre that it is true. Women make up the tower we need to spin healing fabric from the ability that rains upon us. Our loom is not a hard, rectangular arrangement made from wood, but a soft organic roundabout been established by women, whose handwritings are enrolled in the mystical production of healing the world. This is work for women because the facts themselves are generally drawn from the logical, rational surfaces of humanity. But merging those facts–spinning them with love and pity and weaving them into a fabric that can leech us of our scourge -that is the work of the individuals who delivery the world countries and cannot stay where you are any longer watching it rip and tear apart. It is the work of Dreamtime–a task to engage in when flitting on the verge of sleep, when you can invite your feeling become members of the Star Weavers as they re-create the world with love attracted from their centers, and information pulled from the mind of science.
Mary F. Gelfand is an anointed Interfaith Minister and a Wiccan High Priestess. She comprises a doctorate in education from Teachers College, Columbia University and is a gifted teacher and mentor. As a Unitarian Universalist, she has served in both local and national leadership capacities, including five years as national council president of the Covenant of Unitarian Universalist Pagans( CUUPS ). She is an experienced educator of Cakes for the Queen of Heaven–adult education platform focused on feminist thealogy and the Great Goddess. Mary acts on the Leadership Council of the Abbey of Hope, an interfaith outreach community in Maine, where she regularly contributes to their weekly Reflectionary. A drill Pagan, her spiritual life is rooted in the hertzs and seasons of the natural world which are so richly noticeable in New England. She reads and teaches about feminist theology, the Great Goddess, mysticism, and the whodunits of Tarot. As a fiber master, she enjoys weaving tapestry and knitting knacks for strangers and friends.
Read more: feminismandreligion.com