The Tapestry I Call My Life
Perhaps it was the fact that I never much liked looking at my life. Perhaps it was because it presented me with a different ontological view on my life. Or perhaps it was simply that I couldn’t bring myself to look back on those locked away memories. Whatever it was, for an instant that seemed like hours, it kept me standing there. Standing quietly, staring at the so called “tapestry” that defined my life. And, as the moment drew to a close, it filled me with a feeling never felt before; a need to burn, to destroy, to rid myself of my own history.
It started on the right, already a reverse of everything normal and good. And, as it stretched itself out to the left it presented twisted formations of white and red. I knew not what it meant-those times were too long ago, but I recognized the thorns that rapped themselves around every physical manifestation. Looking at my arms and legs I could still see the scars from those cuts. Inwardly I wished that I could share the scars, but they are no longer visible to others; they have tanned to match my skin.
Slowly though, the red and white began to form a picture, and meld with other colors; blues and greens, yellows and oranges. They melded together to form a rough family photo, cracked and taped together in the middle. It wasn’t perfect, but it was something. And though the young lady in the picture lay down in sickness, everyone smiled, for it was not the end.
Soon, the photo faded into a stretch of blackness. It was not empty though; the blackness meant as much to me as the photo. But soon, red cracks began to appear once again, and the thorns showed their ugly faces. I saw it clearly now, the red thorns digging in to me, as I stared in wonder at the petals, so beautiful…so very beautiful. Here the background lightened, in stark contrast to the harshness of the subject. Then, watching as a boy-myself-ran his hand along the stem, I winced in pain as I felt him cut his own hand to ribbons. While all the time the background smiled gentle sun upon the scene.
Next was a simple chair: a cinematic cut from the pain to this solitary chair, guarding its place beside a window, as large as a wall, but steadfastly locked. The boy I came to know sat in the chair, oblivious to the words and rhythms of life surrounding him. Coming closer I peered through it with him, and saw a dying field, chocked by weeds. At that point I knew what was happening to me. A dying, a chocking…the weeds…they were killing me….
Another cut, straight to a happy scene, right outside a new house. Boy and mother smiling, father seemingly cut from the picture. And still, the boy had marks on his hands and arms, where the cuts had not yet healed. I wished to bandage them, but was held back by the thin strip of fabric that separated us both. So I watched as time passed, and for once the colors lightened; they did not darken. The roses showed themselves no more. The white did not smother in the invisible darkness of the light any longer. For once, the boy was happy. Really, really, happy.
Beautiful noises, beautiful words, all resonating from the lips in such a manner never seen before. And with a kick of the feet and a merry smile the boy danced a jig. Moving in a single frame more than anything I’d ever seen before. I began to dance myself, in front of what I had once considered horrible and deadly.
Before I knew it, the scene had changed. The dance had not, the music had not, but the background had dulled. It was black again, behind the dance, but it was not streaked with red or white. It was with streaked tears, if that may be considered a color. (I think it must be as true a color as life.)
So I began to cry. As the boy looked up and up to God, his tears formed chains, and kept him on the ground. A victim of what he has no control over. Still he danced though; still he sung, still he played, still he spoke. But with every word…with every note…a tear streaked down his cheek. For though he played joyfully, his pain was trapped in the background, hidden from most. (Unless they cared to look.)
And as I cried I fell down, and was stuck on my knees, deep in prayer. Hoping for something...anything to give me meaning, I moved my eyes along the end. It was frayed and ripped. Not happy, or joyful, or merry. But broken in every sense.
Picking up my needle, I began to sew. As I danced, sung, played, and spoke within my darkening background. |
