The Tapestry

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Over.

Under.

Over.

Under.


Carefully she wove each day, adding to her tapestry. She knew with her entire being that this was her life’s calling. When she started, she had a beautiful idea in her head of exactly how it would turn out. It would be a lifelong labor of love, with brightly colored scenes, perfect stitches, tightly bound together with seamless edges and continuity. 


Except. 


She was human. 


Some parts turned out just as she envisioned, others were starkly different. 


Now and again she miscounted her stitches, or pulled a thread too tight. Sometimes she became distracted, or tired, or weary. Certain colors were more drab and gray than she had planned, and others ran out before she was quite ready, forcing her to choose a different color and course. 


Still other sections turned out more stunning than she ever could have planned. The colors melted together just so, and the image she meant to create, though sometimes different than she originally intended, was breathtaking. 


Some days she added full, brightly embellished rows. 


Some days she could muster just a stitch or two.


Day in and day out, her fingers told her story as she wove them into her masterpiece. People around her constantly tried to tell her there were easier, more convenient ways to create, that weaving was antiquated and out of vogue. She listened gracefully, sometimes losing sight of her focus before reigning her heart back in, gleaning wisdom all along the way. And without outside validation, over days and months and years, she humbly, quietly put her whole heart and soul into the tapestry. 


The bits and pieces of her work didn’t look like much. A few beads here. A fringe there, added after the fact to help a mistake fade into the background. Even the brightest hues carried flecks of gray, and the darkest, most subdued sections somehow carried hidden strands of gold. And after it all, she didn’t need to explain herself, because the finished product did all the talking. It was clear to anyone who saw the weaving that her meticulous, sometimes mundane stitches had all been integral pieces of the most stunning tapestry that nobody could have envisioned. 


There was nothing flashy about it, per se. To unappreciative eyes, it was just another piece of art. But to those who really knew, who truly felt on a soul level, it was exquisite and heartbreaking all at once. They could see the sum of each color and stitch and how they were all woven together over years to create a scene so stirring and individual that it couldn’t have been planned, could never be replicated, and was certainly not an accident. 


And though sometimes misunderstood and riddled with mistakes, in the end, to herself and those who experienced its moving beauty and embodiment of pure and unbounded joy, 


it was perfect. 

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