I saw my muse at her loom this morning, weaving the tapestry that is my life; as is her way, she was beginning to set aside the threads that have most recently been dominant; she had, in her hand, a new color that excited me, and she picked up some old colors that she had teased me with and set aside months ago. What pattern will she create next?
I didn't see.
She never shows me the pattern, just the colors. She is the weaver woman, the lace maker, the embroiderer of my creativity. She leads; I follow. There are days, weeks, and years where my only task is to thread the warp of her loom. I used to fight her; I would argue and rage against the mundane chores she set in front of me; complain that she didn't understand me, didn't support me, didn't give me what I needed and wanted. She would look at me sadly and wait for me; she placed the threads in my path again and again, until I reluctantly picked them up and did her bidding.
I'm older now, and we've been together nearly half a century. I trust her. She has never withheld the threads I needed, never designed anything that hurt me. I have come to understand that the pattern is not for my eyes; not for my glory. It is not mine to know. I pick up the threads she is offering me; feeling the comfort that comes from working with faith.