Long ago, the midwife tattooed teal marks
On the forehead, cheeks, and chin
Of the haggard woman who sat by the fire
Patiently twisting lamb’s wool into a spin.
She gently held the spindle in her hand
And continued to precisely formulate
The puff into substance, then to yarn
Just a bit of perfection, a means of changing her fate.
The fire crackled, sparks burst from burning branches
The smell of the orange twigs twisted upwards
She had all the time in the world to spin
Sitting with a sanguine smile, she sat forward
Every now and then she would switch hands
And position, but she kept on spinning.
No one knew better than she that life was a struggle
Life wasn’t easy yet somehow she was winning.
Her ancient technique of rug making
Had been passed down from generations
Of hunter-gatherers, tillers of the soil
Semi nomads moving to different destinations
Until they settled in the semi-arid steppes
Of an ancient land, blessed by prophets of long ago.
She built her home from nearby stones
Raised sheep, wove rugs, and tried to move beyond her sorrow
Of poverty, of ignorance, of following blindly her spouse.
Weaving her rugs had bought her liberation
A new way of life, hope for her children
Food on the table, framed by her own determination.
Soon, the lamb’s wool would be all turned into thread
And she would then weave a carpet of red, gold, and indigo
From patterns painted in her head
And lovingly creating a whole new way of life
And a better world for her and her progeny.