Confessions of a Weavaholic

I wonder about my fascination with sadness. I see a river of sadness and I want to dive into it. I want to get caught in its current. I want to feel it nearly drown me. It isn't a negative feeling for me. It is like I am riding a wave that wasn't intended for us. That is too scary and dangerous for us. It is no wonder no one wants to come with me. I don't know if I can ever explain the amazement it brings me, enough to convince someone to join me in the venture into the depths. Flowing through the beat and the swish of the current, brushing right over the riches of the river floor, absorbing it into my skin, down the avenues the earth has created for itself... its most simple and obvious pathway to balance. Only fishes were meant to be there, not me. But I see it anyway. It is a gift that I can bear the heaviness and bright white beauty. It is a silent one. It is a free one. There is no breathing there. There is no sleeping....

I can't even kid myself about it though. It is hard to let go of the nagging that draws me into that river. Something always wants to bring me to that dark underworld, the scary forbidden place, as though I need to keep it in the light. Is that so? As though it holds answers I still need to find in it, for me and for the rest of the world to know.

I know the only way to go there is alone.