The little scrap of paper stating this command has been taped on my floor loom for nearly a decade. The words are carefully drawn in italic text with a red pen on lined paper, carefully cut out around the letters. The words come from antiquity, channeled from my daughter, drawn by me, read by anyone who sees my loom. A command from Athena. A love letter from the Universe.
It is always fun to tell people that I am a weaver. It is a rather particular craft – the equipment being somewhat esoteric to regard – and equally esoteric to use well. This is a craft that requires commitment. Frequently, when I have perused eBay for looms, there are partially-woven pieces still on the for-sale loom – unfinished labors. What is their reply to the goddess?
Sorry, died. Sorry, too hard. Sorry, the colors were ugly. Sorry, life intervened. Sorry, wrong craft.
I get the wrong craft part. I had visions of spinning my own yarn for my weaving. Finally late last summer I purchased my spindle and yards and yard of Blue-Faced Leicester and went to spinning class. The younger woman who sat beside me at the table said she’d only been to class once and that I was sure to enjoy it. We were the only students in attendance that day, and I relaxed. It appeared she would be a good companion for this journey. Our goddesses would commune.
I was mistaken. Early on, it became apparent that I was going to be left way behind on this trip – not just because the equipment was esoteric, but the language needed a dictionary, and Miss Enthusiastic had easily commanded the attention of the teacher. She was well on her way to Spinning Nirvana before self-introduction was complete. She reported that after the 2 hours of laboring on the spindle last class, she had devoted the entire month spending her unemployment check on spinning wheel rental and new rovings to combine, her unemployment hours driving from shop to shop for supplies and then back home to spin her yarns. She bent over the rovings on the table to confide with a smile that her husband (not-unemployed) had been making dinner most nights. And the house was in quite a state. *hearty laugh*
The teacher and I oohed and aahed over her lovely yarns – and they were indeed truly beautiful. She had not only spun her little fingers to the bone, she took an on-line dying class for her rovings and spun them into concoctions that would make Rumplestiltskin jealous. Of course the teacher was smitten, and in that instant I morphed from student to audience. My goddess was tone-deaf in this space.
My goddess has had a good run. We have sung in magnificent cathedrals, tiny airplanes, and corporate meeting rooms. We have sung with others and their goddesses in hospital beds, in nursing homes, from altars and choir lofts, at pianos, at typewriters. We’ve used watercolor paper, origami, color crayons, handbells.
The sellers of those eBay looms had found a place where their goddess didn’t sing. They did the best thing – followed Athena’s mandate, honored the reminder of the Mother – allowed the goddess to sing where she could be heard.
The spinning supplies are in my closet. We don’t sing. It is not the fault of the Enthusiastic one or the Teacher. It is just that my goddess hasn’t had the desire to sing there. Things could change – or they might not. Perhaps it doesn’t matter.
Each of us has a unique presence in this universe. No one in history or the future will ever be like us. We each have our own song to sing. Your gift to the universe is the unique song the Universe gave you sing. If you do not sing it, it will be lost.
Take your goddess by the hand. Find the places where you sing. Whether anyone hears or appreciates you, trust that your song will become a response to the command from Athena and a love letter in reply to the Universe.