She sits at Her great loom, pondering Her next thread. The warp yarns have been stretched onto Her loom of the world, creating a structure of earth and sky and sea. She had already woven in some weft yarns—ferns and flowers, feathers, fins, and fur. Her cloth is colorful, but She feels it lacks soul. There is no depth, no music, no dance to it.
She selects a deep mahogany colored yarn and weaves it into the next row. Then, in a rush, because She can imagine the creation that is taking shape, She adds strands of onyx, peach, pale olive, and gold. Here, a newly spun yarn. Already She senses a new depth to the tapestry emerge. Next, an older thread that is a bit worn. There are flamboyantly colored yarns and beige ones. Some individual pieces of yarn are starting to unravel, but being held tightly in the cloth, they contribute to the whole as well.
The Goddess completes Her tapestry, removes it from the loom and holds it at arm’s length. The whole of Her creation is beautiful to Her. She remembers each thread that She has selected and woven into Her masterpiece. “Oh, there’s the thick golden braid. And there, the delicate pink shimmering one. And this dear reddish one.”
As She admires Her work, She notices a strand that has come loose. She tries to work it back into the cloth, but it catches on Her index finger, and when She draws back her hand, the yarn pulls free from the cloth. The whole piece begins to loosen and shift.
The Goddess of the Loom is distraught. Her magnificent creation is beginning to fall apart, that single strand of yarn somehow responsible for holding the whole. As She begins to repair the tapestry, trying to strengthen the sagging areas, She notices that threads of like color and texture are migrating toward one another. It is as if each type of yarn was pulling together. Were they thinking that they would be stronger if they were together? The Goddess steps back and watches as her creation rearranges itself, forming islands of matching yarns. The older, worn strands that She had selected can’t hold together well on their own. The lustrous threads, when seen together, seem to dominate the piece. It is patchwork now, not the harmonious, glorious, whole cloth She had imagined. It holds, but loosely, and She can see that it won’t last.
The Great Weaver pulls a random piece of yarn from the newly rearranged tapestry, and Her creation completely unravels at Her feet. Strands lay in piles of like-colored haystacks. The warp yarns, the structure on which the threads had been woven, are still secure and strong. And the yarns that the Weaver had woven in first, the plants and animals, are still in place. It holds, but it is a duller piece without the additional threads.
She begins to weave again.
Now, She breaths a prayer into each piece of yarn as She adds it back, reminding each strand that She has chosen them and that they are beautiful. The continuous strand runs back and forth through the warp. The Goddess of the Loom murmurs as She weaves, “You are more stunning when you are are next to those unlike you. You are all part of the whole.” Her loving fingers are nimble and fast, yet strong, as She weaves again the tapestry that She had first imagined. It emerges on Her loom. Now, each piece of yarn is held in place by the structure of the warp yarns and the rows and rows of interlocking single threads.
The Goddess removes the numinous tapestry from the loom again and hangs it among the stars, marveling at what She has wrought.
And She saw that it was good.