“You see, when weaving a blanket, a (Native American) woman leaves a flaw in the weaving of that blanket to let the soul out.”

— Martha Graham

The consummate weavers have been popping up all over the place lately.  Hey, spiders, are you trying to get my attention?  First there was the nighttime web in my back yard last week, still inhabited by its impressive owner.  Today there was a smaller and uninhabited web clinging to the corners of a piece of playground equipment at the park.

Perhaps this web had begun as a perfect, symmetrical example of exquisite spider artwork; but in the morning light, it was not nearly so regular as the ones I would draw as a child, carefully making sure that each piece was the same size as the last and that the result would be as carefully executed as any fabulous work of stained glass.  Maybe a bit of life had happened to this web, but I found myself staring again and again at the irregular but wonderful patterns it displayed.  The oval in the center might have been a self-portrait, with many legs reaching out toward the larger rounds of weaving.  Beyond its reach, the symmetrical rounds begin, and they are beautifully executed; but it is not the symmetry that draws my eye again and again.  It is the differences.  We might call them flaws, but the diamonds and peaks and triangles and tears are so uniquely beautiful that they make my heart dance.

The web hangs on to the corner of the chin-up bar.  Like the dream-catcher in my window, it opens a portal in the center and allows only some things to pass through without being caught.  Like the tapestry that represents my life, this perfectly imperfect web shows its vulnerabilities, shows its differences, and opens itself wide enough to allow this viewer to glimpse the soul of the weaver.

We must be careful, as we weave, not to be too caught up in perfection.  You need a hole or two in your weaving to make it interesting and uniquely yours.  You need some flaws so that your soul can escape and give life to your work.