Weft and Wool of Goodbyes

Last Fire in the Rogue Valley

Goodbyes make me sad....at least for the moment. It seems that a few miles distance, or a closing door turn our view to look ahead...not behind. For me, I guess, the hard part of the ramp-up to goodbye, is knowing its coming.

Our crew says goodbye on a pretty regular basis. Goodbye to relatives, new friends, old friends, homes, apartments deep in Istanbul, and the list goes on.

I guess the reason this is on my mind is that tomorrow we say goodbye to my parents and the Rogue Valley. I love this place...it is home. But, so is Istanbul and Los Angeles. Kinda hard to figure that one out, but it is best said as one life being lived at three locations.

A weaver of Turkish rugs once told me how the day of the weaver goes, so goes the weaving. The personality of the weaver is wound up in the weft and wool of her making....how, as this woman in some village or another, goes about her day of cleaning, cooking, gardening, tending to the children etc., she also weaves. And that the quality, or lack of, the weaver's day is transferred to the rug.

Not the tangible quality that we would call skill....but the earnestness of each knot that is tied, the emotion and physical state that was present as they were cinched into place...that is what makes hand-tied rugs so valuable. They are an extension of the life of a weaver. The larger the rug...the longer the period of time in its making and the more of the weaver's heart, soul and emotions will be knotted into place. The tears of the weaver can sometimes stain the knot. Grief. Loss. A loveless marriage. Who knows?

But, I didn't intend to go there......

Tonight I am burning the last cedar I will burn for this run in Grants Pass. Cedar burns fast and hot...so I am sitting here listening to the crack and sizzle of the wood, knowing that just 3 hours ago it was whole, and round, until Stanley and his grandpop split it right down the middle.

Is is smarmy for me to connect that to goodbyes? Maybe so.

But tonight as this load of cedar makes it music, it reminds me of the cycle of coming and going, It reminds me of the (only) silk rug I own, today, waiting for me in a dark and lifeless apartment on the Asian side of Istanbul. And, it reminds me of tomorrow morning and somewhere along Interstate 5 when my parents will follow us as far as they can. And we will say goodbye again.