Eighth Day

Eighth Day

by Guest Blogger February 09, 2013

by Richard Cummings

Three strands of scarlet wool.

Under, over; one.
Under, over; two…three…four…five…six…seven…eight…nine…ten.
My left hand slides down three strands of scarlet wool…tangle.

Wool is natural, fragile. The strands break as the gnarled scarlet is unwound.

Try again.

Under, over; one.
Under, over; two…three…four…five…six…seven…eight…nine.
My left hand slides down three strands of scarlet wool…another tangle.

Wool is natural, fragile, but the strands hold.
They will let me try again.

Under, over; one.
Under, over; two…three…four…five…six…seven…eight.
My left hand slides down three strands of scarlet wool. They separate, and my hand passes.

The wool is natural, soft against my skin. The red of its scarlet strands seems significant, holy? I apprehend the color and note its appropriateness for my task.

Under, over; one.
Under, over; two…three…four…five…six…seven…eight.

The feel of the wool on my hands as I braid is a peaceful mystery. Am I caressing, or am I being caressed? Who is master? Who is yielding? We are not too dissimilar, these three strands of scarlet wool and I -- atoms, molecules, created stuff. But, I need these three strands to be shaped; I need these three strands of scarlet wool to be shaped into other than they are.

Under, over; one.
Under, over; two…three…four…five…six…seven…eight.

Again.

Under, over; one.
Under, over; two…three…four…five…six…seven…eight.

Repeat.

How long have I been? Time seems irrelevant as my breathing, my hands, and the three strands of scarlet wool commune in a reverie of movement and color. My mind succumbs to the rhythmic task of three and eight. Man and material converse through touch, a dialogue of shaping and yielding. I know what I want. Three stands of scarlet wool speak to me -- their nature, their boundaries.

Under, over; one.
Under, over; two…three…four…five…six…seven…eight.

There is more here than three strands of scarlet wool. There is more here than I. The space feels thin as my work becomes a prayer of three and eight. Three strands are one, dancing in their entwined unity. My hands join the dance and are welcome. We shape the dance together. I feel the three, and they feel me.

Under, over; one.
Under, over; two…three…four…five…six…seven…eight.

Why eight? Why not ten?

The strands reply by their yielding. Eight it is. It happens at eight and not at nine. It happens at eight and not at ten or beyond. The strands reply in an ancient tongue; a language older than language but somehow new and never spoken. Can it be spoken, or written?

Under, over; one.
Under, over; two…three…four…five…six…seven…eight.

Our dance continues as long as I abide in its indwelling. As strand crosses strand I think about shaping and forming. I think (or is the dance telling me?) about sacred time, the passing of the hours, the years, the aeons. Time is not mine, yet I am here. I was then. I am now, living…in the eighth day.

Under, over; one.
Under, over; two…three…four…five…six…seven…eight.

Three strands of scarlet wool. 




Guest Blogger
Guest Blogger

Author



Leave a comment

Comments will be approved before showing up. We don't allow comments that are disrespectful or personally attack our blog writers.


Also in Ruminate Blog

Two Words I Didn't Know
Two Words I Didn't Know

by Guest Blogger May 16, 2019 8 Comments

I love that idea, that we are pilgrims on a journey through time. I love that we humans try so hard to find our places on that long road. And I love that you and I are ineffable, numinous pieces of some great mystery we will never fully understand.

Read More

Now
Now

by Guest Blogger May 14, 2019

I wake with a kind of jolt in my stomach: I know where I am, but I do not know when I am. When in time am I? Are my children both sleeping in the other room? Will I hear their small feet pattering on the floor as they come in to wake me? Will they tumble into bed with Eric and me?

Read More

Meditation: Our Modern Prayer
Meditation: Our Modern Prayer

by Guest Blogger May 09, 2019

As a witness of thought, it struck me deeply that I must be something much more than what had been running through my mind. I was so identified with thinking that I truly mistook thought for who I was.

Read More