If not gems, I would work with textiles. I collected them: handmade quilts from the Amish of Ohio; colorful hammocks woven by Mexican net fisherman; centuries-old lace from Spain; shell and raffia loincloths from the Amazon; embroidered pillowcases from Midwestern wives of the 1940’s; antique kimono and ikat weavings.
Naturally, I was attracted to an Indian-cut bead necklace of variegated colors of spinel and tanzanite. It looked woven, like the sinuous lengths of Cambodian silk I draped over my shoulders.
Warp and weft weave the life of a fabric. Warp threads are the lengthwise strands of a fabric through which weft threads weave back and forth. The warp gives strength and structure; the weft creates pattern, color and depth. Woven too tightly, the fabric buckles and is repellant. Too loose, threads can turn to tangle. Thus, weaving is an art and a science.
The threads of my life had become too tightly bound. At 42, I had to loosen the warp and weft if I wanted room for anything else in my life. I wrote a new vision for my life, one that included love and a family of my own. It’s one thing to ask God for the goodies, but you have to climb your own way out of the pit.
I helped my staff find new jobs, quit writing articles and said “no” to trunk shows and seminars. Then, I went about my life – watching the wind in the leaves, cooking more meals for myself, hanging out with my parents, reading, and slowing down. I even took up belly dancing.
This unwinding, though wanted, was a dismantling of what I had built my life and ego around. It was unnerving.
Yet, my life was calling, and I had to make room for something new.