The good thing about ribbons is that they can be sewn together again. The composite may not look the same as the original; indeed it will have more texture and more fascinating patterns than any fabric imaginable.
We each have the power to be the seamstress. We may not have that power all the time. I know that I have ripped up my own fabric of life and seen my ribbons fly away in the wind. But I still manage to piece together a fascinating piece of work when I have the ability to pick up the sewing needle again.
The problem is that we cannot necessarily "will" ourselves to sew the ribbons together and not rip them apart whenever we choose. At least I can't. And sometimes I throw away the wrong pieces. But life is full of trial and error. Some of the ribbons we end up with, we may try on and then discard. That's ok. We will make a different pattern next time. And it will be beautiful in its own way, and totally our own.
Lots and lots of ribbons. There are so many different kinds of strips of cloth that we call ribbons. Each is as special and unique as the purpose they were created for.
There are tiny intricate ribbons that are beautiful and very fragile. Ones that are meant to be glued to a scrapebook around a treasured picture and covered to be appreciated. There are those indestructable strips that many little girls used to cover ugly elastics holding a pony tail. Also, all those odd coloured ribbons we used to cover wire coat hangers those coald winter monthes, while we listened to Grandmother tell tales of many moons ago. Ribbons that finished a special shirt or coat. Ribbons that reinforced botton holes. Ribbons that we braided in our hair or twirled on our wrists.
A lump of coloured fabric in the bottom of the sewing basket. A moment of imaginative oportunity. A whirlwind of thought then brought us to a world of fantasy. A ribbon on the end of a knitting needle is a faery's magic wand. The energy is collected by the floating and twirling ribbon in the air. A bunch of ribbons become the magical hair of Rapunsel flowing down the tower wall. A ribbon sewn to an old dress, contains magic words that call the witch god-mother. A ribbon twining little hands together become the shackles of a pirate who is over thrown and thrown overboard by the prisoner. A birron is the fluffy boa of Ms May, batting eyelashes and drawling her famous invitation ... why don't you come up and see me sometime?
Today, I see a hurricane of ribbons twirling, twisting and failing about. Each is a possiblility, each is the beginning of a story I cannot complete. Each ribbon is a piece of fabric unraveling. Each ribbon is a piece of me coming apart at the seams.
