Warp and Weft
Warp and Weft: 15 August 2020
I was in a museum a few years ago with Dad and we happened upon a large loom. Being an engineer and having spent the bulk of his early career in textile manufacturing, Dad liked looms. He ticked off the names of weaves: plain, twill, satin, jacquard, velvet; and showed me how to weave a basic twill. The design evolves from the interplay between the warp and the weft.
The shed is the space between the raised and unraised warp (vertical) yarn, and in this space the shuttle moves back and forth, weaving in the weft (horizontal) yarn. The loom holds the warp under tension so that the weft is free to move. After each pass (called a pick), the pattern of raised and unraised warp strands can be reversed, building the weave.
It is brilliant, and ancient, and fascinating. Beautiful in its simple precision.
As with most beautiful and precise things, the loom allows for endless variety by allowing one set of factors (the weft) to have free reign within the parameters kept by another set of factors (the warp).
To keep my balance this year I’ve had to keep reminding myself not to confuse my warp with my weft.
Most of you probably know that my father died last week. In light of that, a few of you suggested that I might give myself a break and skip the blog this month. Believe me, I considered it. In fact, I made a list of difficult emotional events of the past twelve months. Major surgery; unexpected, large house repairs; cancer and recovery; cancellation of vacation and summer plans; racial justice work; illness and death.; and of course, global pandemic. Okay. I’m allowed to feel depleted.
But almost all of that is weft. Life flinging itself back and forth across my warp yarn. The bad driver, the leaking refrigerator, the bully.
Still, so much of my weft has been miraculous this year. Diving back into the Enneagram at a women’s retreat. Leaning into family time before everyone was sick of quarantine. Mark being declared cancer-free. Reconnecting with old friends at their mountain rental. Helping to facilitate an intense six-week conversation about racial justice with a dedicated group of church members. Dad’s doctor calling to pray with him the night before surgery. Reveling in a week with cousins at their beach house and feeling nine years old again. Spending more time with my brothers than we have in years. Celebrating my mother-in-law’s birthday the week after my father’s death. The weft of life shuttling back and forth.
Which brings me to this.
Since reading it in a novel recently I’ve been chewing on the word boustrophedon. It’s a type of writing resembling a plowed-by-oxen field; that is, left to right, then right to left. In this ancient writing technique, often used in stone carving, every other line is written with mirror-image letters in reverse-to-normal order. Like the loom, it is brilliant, and ancient, and fascinating. Beautiful in its simple precision.
Here’s an example.
Writing as weft: a continuous back and forth, a repetitive motion like breathing, or lovemaking, or the ebb and flow of the tide. Both parts necessary for the whole.
And so if life is my weft, then what is my warp? What is the fixed tension that holds space for life to move through me? Some of our warp is bestowed at birth. A lot of it we shape ourselves. The warp threads are our daily practices and what we might have control over. Am I kind to the checkout person? Do I curse at bad drivers? Can I admit a mistake? Do I stand up to the bully? All the small daily choices that shape our character. Character is the emotional muscle memory we rely on when under stress.
Annie Dillard’s famous observation, “How you spend your days is how you spend your life” can feel ominous. Like every day should be a 24-hour sprint. I should be making something of myself, having adventures, traveling the world, before it’s too late. But I’ve come to think that it’s not so much what I do on any particular day, but rather who I am that day that matters. How you treat the least among you is how you treat me, says Jesus. The daily habits of decision making create the character that becomes my warp.
When I can look back and see the pattern of my life, see where the consistency and tension of my warp allowed the pattern of the weft, I want it to reveal kindness, and dignity, and resiliency. I try to practice those things in daily decisions, in hopes that they will form the vertical strength of my life.
And so, although I’m so incredibly grateful to those who are trying to take care of me, I have to post this month, no matter how paltry an offering. I have made enough mistakes to know that when I’m avoiding something because of inertia, that’s when I need to plow forward even more. Yoga, meditation, workout—when I’m tempted to break a routine, that’s generally the time I most need the practice.
This practice of writing is a commitment I’ve made that forces me to grapple with things I’d rather ignore. This month it’s a love letter to all of you who have asked me how I am and how you can help me. It’s gratitude for your food and flowers and words. This writing is my left-to-right plodding gift, and you reading it is your right-to-left gift to me—a shared breath between us. Thank you.
