I’ve been visiting loved ones. It’s been a while but not unusual for our family. Growing up we gathered regularly, annually to begin with and less frequently since we all left home and created families of our own. Catching up has been bittersweet. Perhaps it always is? Realising how much life is lived without being in it together is a surprise. Lives have been lived. Lives have come to an end. New lives have been welcomed.
It shouldn’t be but every time I see someone after a break I’m shocked by how much they (we) have aged, by how much they (we) have done in the interim and by how disconnected we’ve become. Then I tug on those family ties and realise it doesn’t matter at all. We’re still connected by the same threads that were woven decades ago.
Sounds like the fabric of family life, doesn’t it? I’ve always been curious about the patterns woven by those threads.
I went on a side quest to revisit the old myths about threads and weaving as analogies for life. The one I knew best (though not that well!) is that of The Fates. The Greek mythology version, in fact, featuring the trio of sisters destined to weave the lives of humans. Clotho ('the spinner') spun the thread of every life and determined when they would be (born) woven into the fabric. Lachesis ('the allotter') measured the length of that thread deciding just how many days and years available to the life of that person and Atropos ('the inflexible'), whose unrelenting scissors snipped those threads, choosing just how death would visit.
Tugging on the family fabric has been both joyous and sobering. I sat around the table with relatives and was reminded anew of the things that make me who I am. I sat with those who share my name and recognise myself in their quick, dark humour and revelled in the verbal play. After so long away from it the return was so satisfying. I saw where my physical strengths (and strange genetic weaknesses) heralded from and laughed with those who share my memories of one highly anticipated, embarrassing dance, where cousins rehearsed and performed for their parents who, beers in hand, hooted and applauded.
I hear about frayed wefts that aren’t being tended to and worry that it will become unrepairable. Worse, that when someone took up the ends to splice it back together, the warp would have been tied off and bound. That it would be too late.
My Nan used to shake her head when referring to her brothers who lived out their lives side by side. There came a time when they could no longer recall what spat had sent their wives into all out war, but those men didn’t speak to one another over that wooden fence for over forty years. It was a warning to us she shared with wrinkled nose and admonishing finger waving. ‘Don’t ever be so petty and stop talking to family. It’s a waste.’
Nan’s brothers sadly weren’t unusual then and such fractures aren’t unheard of now. Over time I’ve learned that, sometimes, there’s very good reason to intentionally cut ties with someone and release yourself from the weave. Those threads need to be tied off securely to enable new fabric to be woven strong and smooth.
The material of us is ever changing and the cutting of threads is an inevitability. The pattern of ours heralds an imminent end that is already turned a solemn shade. We decry the unfairness of it. We complain that previous weaves had led us to expect a completely different, far more pleasing, design. If we had choice in the matter we’d weave the pattern uninterrupted but Atropos has designed it differently and won’t be deterred. Our pleas fall unheeded as we knew they would. The fabric will be woven as designed. You have to try.
If we look back the changing pattern of our family fabric is stunning. The twists and knots and flowing colours, some stretched to full length and others shockingly short. Every single one is beautiful. Every single thread is perfectly placed and integral to the weave. The material has settled into a familiar well-worn throw that any of can shrug onto our shoulders and know it will fit. It strikes me that there were people there as it was woven who were saddened when threads were cut short, who celebrated when new weaves were begun, and who gloried in the strong weft of the longest threads. They too knew what this resistance to change feels like and they, like me, were unable to change the design.
I’m ridiculously proud of my family ties. They’re weird and they’re wonderful. Most importantly, they’re mine.
PS I’m a huge fan of the Adelaide based “Charlesworth Nuts” company whose name beautifully sums up our family attributes but must confirm we aren’t actually related…
Beautifully written Melinda. I’ve never meet a family fabric that doesn’t have some unique quality, weave, colour, texture or fray. That’s what makes family, Family. Ps there a weird looking unicorn in your rainbow photo?!?!