The Trefoil Muse

“I am a weaver; a weaver of words.

Writers are weavers of words.

I am a writer. 

Oh, what tales we Weaver’s weave when our well scripted words are spun together into a magical yarn.

I am a writer; a weaver of magical yarns. 

I am a Weaver; a weaver of magical yarn.

I am a Weaver.”

I have always been a fan of folklore, myths and parables.  Recently, I came across the story of a Wise old Weaver woman hidden in a cave. Every culture has mystical tales that tell of Weaver’s hidden in places unknown or away from civilization.  Their only company a big black dog. They weave beautiful capes, robes or blankets with ethereal cords from the cosmos which are never completed because chaos (the dog) intervenes to unravel their work, at which point the Weaver’s begin again.  The myth is that if the Weaver ever completes their work, the world will end.  These Weaver’s have been creating this article of beauty since the beginning of time.

During the winter months, I began to weave.  It all started because of boredom.  I am an active person.  I don’t deal well with boredom.  Boredom led me toward the need to purge.  It’s astounding the amount of items that one accumulates and then holds on to for no real reason.  The time had come for me to remove needless items from my home – make more space – let’s say; in those dark, shadowy closeted spaces one like me hesitates to venture into.

I read a piece of prose by Andrew The Lonely Author at www.thelonelyauthorblog.com ; it started with, “love hung in her closet,” what an enchanting thought!

I am a little terrified of what might be hanging in my closets – cobwebs and skeletons.  But, there is proper timing for everything and the time for purging was now. Continue Reading »