Weaver

It was one of those rambling discussions that tend to occur at four AM when everyone was sobered up, tired, but too revved up to sleep.
We assembled on the roof of our apartment house, waiting for sunrise. We’d exhausted one topic after another. Then, finally, one of our more philosophical wits started rambling on about the nature of life. We all chimed in with what we believed, heard, or intuited in our brief lives: it was a river, an arrow, a vast ocean, a dream of deities beyond our ken, and on and on we went.

As dawn approached, we were down to five diehards, each seeking the best reception for their theory and holding that theirs was not only correct but would someday be eponymous with their name. You could choose Monk’s theorem, Ducthies hypothesis, or Jade’s ultimate conjoining of possibilities.
We five bickered bitterly on this so much that we missed the moment the sun peaked above the horizon, which had been the reason for staying up.
Finally, a friend suggested that life was like a woven fabric. There was a warp and a weft, and how things interlaced influenced your path in life. The fabric of your life was multicolored with different textures because there were a wide variety of threads in the warp and weft. How you used your fabric was up to you. You could, to an extent, choose threads or influences and how prominent they would be in the final weave. In other words, she suggested that we were the weavers of our life. We might not have total control of what threads were given to us to weave into it, but we could control how we incorporated them into the fabric.

My friend was a spinner and weaver, which influenced her vision of life. I found it superior to arrows, rivers, or dreams of gods.

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