The Weaver

It was a marvelous evening. The sky was a deep silken blue and the ocean seemed to be throbbing like a joyous heart. The lapping of the waves upon the sandy vastness held the tremendous vitality of a beloved's embrace.
A graceful body arose from amidst the waves and with lightness stepped upon the soft sand. The body was so balanced yet so light that the waters were unhurt and not even a ripple was heard. The moonbeams played upon the naked body with a familiar fondness.

He was a weaver by choice and hence by profession. The threads seemed to understand the nuances of his fingers and the loom would never cease its rhythmic dance. He loved the feel of the woven threads and a passion was aflame in his soul. In every piece of cloth that he wove there arose patterns that spoke of a thousand and one emotions: the fall dance of leaves, the ecstatic first flight of a fledgling, the power unleashed by lightning, the soundless throb of a valley, the masks in the hearts of men, minds torturous in self tyranny, the suppleness of a dancer, the evanescence and the eternity of Life.
His weaving was like a sublimation, and it cast a burden, an ache in the heart of every onlooker for it demanded that they be free to observe, that they possess the abiding strength required in awareness, that they be like little children so that they would see clearly without splinters distorting their vision, that there be honesty so that they would not deceive themselves. Watching his brocades was like watching oneself and wearing the cloth that his tireless fingers had patterned was like the elemental forces playing havoc.

In the night, he slept beside the loom like a child satiated by the day's adventures.

Late in the night, there was a knock upon his door and it sounded like a command, desperation and a beckoning.
He opened the door and a little boy hardly ten years of age looked up to him. He spoke like a torrent, "I have watched you day after day and night after night and I want to learn from you. I don't know what these things that you make are called but they are beautiful and I too, must learn to yield to the threads as you do. Many are frightened of you but I am not. I think that you are good and I know that you are honest.", and he said that like the crack of a whip.
The big man looked at the little man and said, "This is not fun nor is it a joke. It is very hard work."
"Yes, I know", the little man said with conviction.
"Then come on in and I shall show you."
The little man joyously bounced into the home of the weaver.

Soon the little man and the big man were found walking hand in hand in animated conversations. The little man was curious about nature and had many questions to ask.

Why are there so many different colors of flowers?
Why are trees so tall almost as if they would touch the sky?
Why is the sky blue?
What happens to butterflies after they die?
Do we also die?
Don't waves need rest?
What do birds do for a living?
Where do stars hide during the day?
He loved reflections and wished he could reflect the whole earth upon a surface and live there.

The little man and the big man hunted beetles, discovered hideouts, guarded nests, collected leaves and argued over cloud-shapes. Their laughter was like a bellowing and many children came to inspect and act as knowledgeable critics of the weaver's work.
The big man taught the child the art of weaving and a fragile thread of merriment wove itself endlessly in his form and soul. The little man and the big man wove and in their weaving one could not discern whether the threads yielded or the fingers moulded the shapes.

She uttered a syllable, "Death", and he looked up into her motionless eyes. "It is like death"; she said and laughed quietly, as she walked away.
He had quit what all mankind pursued - survival

Wearing a garment fashioned by his own fingers, he stood silently as if he could wait no more, yet he waited till the longing abated and words sprang out of his mouth. The moment was poignant in simple surrender.
"I have no wish to carry this physical any further. I have no wish to cringe and crawl around. I have no self-respect that binds me to this strange land. Neither is my throat parched nor my feet murderous in their climb towards success. I have no gods, no rituals and no beliefs to lure me. I have watched bodies clad in beautiful clothes yet the ugly, the monstrous and the pitiful selves are not hidden. I, the creator have no more any desire to weave. I long to live, to live simply, joyously, deeply…I have come."
He closed his eyes for what seemed a long time. He then opened his eyes and looked at the new land enveloped in a glorious twilight, the germinating seeds, the few birds, the laughter of the waves, the predator and the prey…
His eyes held an ethereal reality, a penetrating kindness and a stark honesty.
He removed the raiment and walked within the waters. The moonlight fell upon him and began to glow with a strange brilliance.

He sat at the loom. . .