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On Saturday my family went to the pumpkin patch.


As I get older and my children grow, I am finally beginning to see how tender, how necessary, these yearly rituals are:  the temporal accent that outlines and articulates the rushing-river of moments, of hours, of days and years.

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I picture the story of a family, or indeed of any single life, as a tapestry.  In the making of a complex tapestry in, say, France, 1432, the weaver would first produce the outline for the story to be told, called a cartoon.  And then, through the conjoining of the supporting warp and colorful weft threads, the artist’s hands, working in reverse to the plan, would bring the outline to vivid life.

First, the idea, then the taking shape; finally, realization.  And then, inevitably, the slow fade, from brilliant intricate thousand-shaded color to the hazy remembrance of it, washed by time to mere gesture.

The rituals unfold: summer leaves droop then alight, days in school begun, a visit to the pumpkin patch, and then the costumes of October’s end.  Autumn.  A new panel begins: winter tableau.  And, even though the outline is there, already written, the very act of the weaving changes the form of it.


What tales these threads do tell, of all of us, and how we each yearn to see the weaver’s hand.

I do so love the creatures who inhabit the loom of my life:

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