I just found this in some old files. It’s something I wrote years ago but had forgotten. I still believe it.
What if life isn’t a tapestry, a garment patterned by events, moods, cycles, and stages? Where even a slight change in weave changes the visual effect? What if life, instead, is a collection of swatches, where not the pattern, but the very fabric itself provides the illustration?
Some phases might be unbleached broadcloth. These times are straightforward and functional. Sturdy and strong, but unadorned.
Other times are more delicate, like linen. Crisp and cool, linen phases look pristine, but add a little heat, a little moisture, or a little pressure, and the fabric crumples.
Flannel phases are warm and safe, comfortable and sheltered.
Satin cycles are sleek and sexy.
Burlap patches feel rough and unhewn. They scratch and irritate, and they’re tough to break through.
Taffeta stands up, crisp and sassy.
Cotton times wear soft but true, dependable.
Nylon periods are something made from nothing.
I am a swatch book. You can get to know me by flipping through my pages, using all of your senses to understand who I am and where I’ve been. See the all colors, strident and faded and shimmering and dull. Feel the textures, smooth and rough. Smell the sweat and tears and celebrations that stain me. Hear my crackle and snap under your fingertips. Taste my life through these snippets of cloth. Find me, not in my design, but in my very foundation.
Rearrange my pieces over and over again, and my nature does not change. The elements of my life are indelible; my swatches are product of that which has already happened. No amount of reordering will produce another end result; life is not retroactive. Only a new swatch will adjust my character, piece by piece.