the fibers woven over and under
to interlock in a wonderful know of love and passion
the colors of the soul intermix in the strands and then you can’t see
where one ends and the other begins
Woven. The intricacies of relationships, the complexities of lies, defenses, insecurities, and the raw vulnerable revealing of self.
Woven; My current, beautifully complex, beautifully woven; life.
what a random word: woven. woven. w-o-v-e-n. woven. i feel like i am in the spelling bee again. “can you use it in a sentence?” i was always too proud to ask for that. i am a pretty good speller in general. can’t remember what word i misspelled to lose the spelling bee.
The bad things are woven into her mind./They are inescapable. Just there. Waiting to be acted upon. They won’t be. Not for now. Not until she succumbs to them. But they are there. Woven into the fabric of her being. This depressing creature that will not leave.
The wooden basket was woven together by hand. The immaculate detail was enough to leave any one standing in the center of the market, staring at it, in awe. The old woman’s knobbly hands were aged with work.
It was woven as cleverly as the bayeux tapestry – her web of lies. Little inconsistencies that mounted and mounted, knitted together to make a complete double life.
The words were intricately woven into one another, a mixture of the sweetest lies and the coldest truths. Like stitchings in a patchwork quilt, the blended together to make their own beautiful and deadly mixture.
Baskets that native american women used to make, and shawls too. Mostly baskets though, hair perhaps? Hair woven with ribbons and stuff. Or baskets with woven designs. Or shawls with woven designs. I tried weaving a basket once.
our hearts and just like our hands are just like a quilt; woven together beautifully to create a swirl of color and patterns that please the eye and warm the soul.
Weaving our lives into the lives of others, tangling our fates. One string pulls another pulls another until the connections take a form of their own. But the thickest of blankets is rarely beautiful, and the finest of laces is easily ripped apart.
there is always truth woven into the lies. there are always lies woven into the truth. no one will ever tell you the entire truth. no one will ever tell you something that is an entire lie. every human being has faults, and those show through in what they say and what they do and how they present themselves.
THere was a woven piece of cloth sitting by the door. this was the biggest clue we had and I wondered where this clue would take us. The cloth had an interesting weave. It was not a tight weave but a loose and rather awkward weave.
My thoughts are woven into unthinkable patterns…they float and weave and get blown away by the wind…I wonder if I will ever be able to recapture them. Or if they are lost forever.
The blanket lay between them while they sat in silence, on the floor. The teepee hide door flapped gently in the breeze as the smoke rose up to escape from the top. Each woman seeing what they needed to see in it as they gazed into the flames. They sat there feeling like it was good to be able to share a quiet moment with another person, each feeling easy in the solitude. The mother and daughter had made that blanket years ago. It was the first stitch the mother taught her daughter and now it lay between them like a bridge, connecting them to their own past.
All threads are woven into the pattern. The pattern is predetermined, but certain threads can still change the pattern. These threads are called ta’veren. In this age, there are three. All three from the same small town formally known as Manetheren. Anyone know what I’m talking about yet?
Maybe once our lives were put together. Like a broken thread pieced together with scotch tape. Then we lost that thought in a cluster of lies that brought us from the desert to the forest.
My green ribbon, woven in and out of the eccentric braid that my mother, taught by her mother, always put my hair in in. It was a “special occasion”, for the one that gave me the green ribbon, and taught my mother how to braid, would no longer be able to see it again. Yeah…Special….
Woven into the fabric of her life were threads from childhood, and being a young adult… friends and lovers that came and went … Now towards the end, she looked at the tapestry and was satisfied.
Woven. Having taken a basketmaking class, the instructor said she’d be interested to see what I would do with words. She was also the teacher of the creative writing class. I was intrigued, having never written that way, and wondered what she saw in my work to make her say that. I did try to take the class, but schedules didn’t quite work out, so I took basketmaking one more time, maybe to show her that I’d taken her idea seriously, even though it didn’t work out.
The rich, vivid colors were woven intricately into the tapestry. It was a memorable piece of work, but admirers did not realize it told the stories of her past.
Like all the things we work with in the day and how it connects to the fabric of our own stories. Things seem pretty disconnected at times. Like the way a random act of violence can have the effect of bringing the victim onto the journey to wholeness, it is pulled together to the art in his life and the passions I pursure.
I remember writing in my high school applications about how stories were woven through every part of my life, managing to summarize myself into OKAYHALLOILIKESTORIES. I thought I was so brilliant and so did the application readers. I wish that something I wrote would stay good, stay liked, surpass the judgement of my disgustingly ever-growing elitism.
The texture of the old brown sofa is rough, the threads woven into a herringbone pattern of rust and oak and charcoal and bronze. Tufts of stuffing escape the seams. It is a sofa of memories, a past of laughing children and loving family gathered together. A family that, today, no longer exists.
The fabric was woven with her favorite colors. She wondered what she could make with it. Would it be a dress, suit, or something totally different? She loved the feel of fabric. It’s why she chose to work with ito begin with
The tapestry above my head was woven like day old spaghetti. It smelled good in a familiar way and had the texture of a housewife. It didn’t capture dust the way they usually do but reminded me of my childhood and how I used to make forts out of sheets and couch pillows. It had a buddha in its center.
woven like a quilt your grandmother makes for you. she sits all day thinking of you and devotes her whole being. but you get it and think its just a woven blanket.
The people I am closest to are like a thread; God took a handful of these people and has woven my heart and life together with them. Without them I would simply fall apart, and tear at the seams.
it was woven into the fiber of his soul, as much a part of him as was his blond hair, or the freckles on his nose. The desire to be part of something greater, to help others, and in so doing, maybe help himself.
Together, they criss-cross. They slide over and under. They trace over the vertical and the horizontal and then dip down before running back up again. Their strands reach and fold and twist. There’s no backing down or pulling away. The constant stream of motion– of unity– doesn’t allow for such costly selfishness.
the fibers woven over and under
to interlock in a wonderful know of love and passion
the colors of the soul intermix in the strands and then you can’t see
where one ends and the other begins
Woven. The intricacies of relationships, the complexities of lies, defenses, insecurities, and the raw vulnerable revealing of self.
Woven; My current, beautifully complex, beautifully woven; life.
Baskets are what comes to mine. The soft wood weaved on easter filled with hollow chocolate bunnies and plenty of memories from my childhood.
Many lies are woven out of spindle fragile threads for shiny slimy lines. Transparent to the eye knows where to look.
what a random word: woven. woven. w-o-v-e-n. woven. i feel like i am in the spelling bee again. “can you use it in a sentence?” i was always too proud to ask for that. i am a pretty good speller in general. can’t remember what word i misspelled to lose the spelling bee.
The bad things are woven into her mind./They are inescapable. Just there. Waiting to be acted upon. They won’t be. Not for now. Not until she succumbs to them. But they are there. Woven into the fabric of her being. This depressing creature that will not leave.
The wooden basket was woven together by hand. The immaculate detail was enough to leave any one standing in the center of the market, staring at it, in awe. The old woman’s knobbly hands were aged with work.
It was woven as cleverly as the bayeux tapestry – her web of lies. Little inconsistencies that mounted and mounted, knitted together to make a complete double life.
The words were intricately woven into one another, a mixture of the sweetest lies and the coldest truths. Like stitchings in a patchwork quilt, the blended together to make their own beautiful and deadly mixture.
Baskets that native american women used to make, and shawls too. Mostly baskets though, hair perhaps? Hair woven with ribbons and stuff. Or baskets with woven designs. Or shawls with woven designs. I tried weaving a basket once.
our hearts and just like our hands are just like a quilt; woven together beautifully to create a swirl of color and patterns that please the eye and warm the soul.
Weaving our lives into the lives of others, tangling our fates. One string pulls another pulls another until the connections take a form of their own. But the thickest of blankets is rarely beautiful, and the finest of laces is easily ripped apart.
there is always truth woven into the lies. there are always lies woven into the truth. no one will ever tell you the entire truth. no one will ever tell you something that is an entire lie. every human being has faults, and those show through in what they say and what they do and how they present themselves.
WOVEN:light?yes,light.mass and matter are all an illusion. we are all made of light.
THere was a woven piece of cloth sitting by the door. this was the biggest clue we had and I wondered where this clue would take us. The cloth had an interesting weave. It was not a tight weave but a loose and rather awkward weave.
My thoughts are woven into unthinkable patterns…they float and weave and get blown away by the wind…I wonder if I will ever be able to recapture them. Or if they are lost forever.
The blanket lay between them while they sat in silence, on the floor. The teepee hide door flapped gently in the breeze as the smoke rose up to escape from the top. Each woman seeing what they needed to see in it as they gazed into the flames. They sat there feeling like it was good to be able to share a quiet moment with another person, each feeling easy in the solitude. The mother and daughter had made that blanket years ago. It was the first stitch the mother taught her daughter and now it lay between them like a bridge, connecting them to their own past.
tighter, always tighter. little scratchy patterns running like veins. too intricate to follow. too terribly confining. and dishonest.
“We’ve got new information on the pigtail snatcher.”
The sophisticated Det. Kimberly Jones Woven was called in to put together all the twists and turns in the case.
“We need to unravel this asap…to find out if there is a link with the “lace and twine” case.
“I’ll get right on that Porky.”
All threads are woven into the pattern. The pattern is predetermined, but certain threads can still change the pattern. These threads are called ta’veren. In this age, there are three. All three from the same small town formally known as Manetheren. Anyone know what I’m talking about yet?
Maybe once our lives were put together. Like a broken thread pieced together with scotch tape. Then we lost that thought in a cluster of lies that brought us from the desert to the forest.
My green ribbon, woven in and out of the eccentric braid that my mother, taught by her mother, always put my hair in in. It was a “special occasion”, for the one that gave me the green ribbon, and taught my mother how to braid, would no longer be able to see it again. Yeah…Special….
woven like a fabric
many lies told to create a life that seems real yet is deceiving
as the spider has used its silk in the process of weaving the web
Woven in and
Out and over and under
Various threads
Evenly spaced make
Neat bracelets
She told such vivid stories, that it wasn’t until she was finished that the children realized she had woven a moral lesson into her words.
Woven into the fabric of her life were threads from childhood, and being a young adult… friends and lovers that came and went … Now towards the end, she looked at the tapestry and was satisfied.
Woven. Oh what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive.
Charlotte’s web comes to mind too.
Woven wound the wintery whythm of the whispering willow, the wascally wabbit wan.
Whe Wend.
For weal.
Woven. Having taken a basketmaking class, the instructor said she’d be interested to see what I would do with words. She was also the teacher of the creative writing class. I was intrigued, having never written that way, and wondered what she saw in my work to make her say that. I did try to take the class, but schedules didn’t quite work out, so I took basketmaking one more time, maybe to show her that I’d taken her idea seriously, even though it didn’t work out.
The rich, vivid colors were woven intricately into the tapestry. It was a memorable piece of work, but admirers did not realize it told the stories of her past.
Like all the things we work with in the day and how it connects to the fabric of our own stories. Things seem pretty disconnected at times. Like the way a random act of violence can have the effect of bringing the victim onto the journey to wholeness, it is pulled together to the art in his life and the passions I pursure.
I remember writing in my high school applications about how stories were woven through every part of my life, managing to summarize myself into OKAYHALLOILIKESTORIES. I thought I was so brilliant and so did the application readers. I wish that something I wrote would stay good, stay liked, surpass the judgement of my disgustingly ever-growing elitism.
The texture of the old brown sofa is rough, the threads woven into a herringbone pattern of rust and oak and charcoal and bronze. Tufts of stuffing escape the seams. It is a sofa of memories, a past of laughing children and loving family gathered together. A family that, today, no longer exists.
Her hair was woven into braids and artfully draped around her head in curves.
Together the lies he wove
into a tapestry,
and for all this while he strove
the beauty still to see.
The fabric was woven with her favorite colors. She wondered what she could make with it. Would it be a dress, suit, or something totally different? She loved the feel of fabric. It’s why she chose to work with ito begin with
The tapestry above my head was woven like day old spaghetti. It smelled good in a familiar way and had the texture of a housewife. It didn’t capture dust the way they usually do but reminded me of my childhood and how I used to make forts out of sheets and couch pillows. It had a buddha in its center.
woven like a quilt your grandmother makes for you. she sits all day thinking of you and devotes her whole being. but you get it and think its just a woven blanket.
The people I am closest to are like a thread; God took a handful of these people and has woven my heart and life together with them. Without them I would simply fall apart, and tear at the seams.
it was woven into the fiber of his soul, as much a part of him as was his blond hair, or the freckles on his nose. The desire to be part of something greater, to help others, and in so doing, maybe help himself.
Together, they criss-cross. They slide over and under. They trace over the vertical and the horizontal and then dip down before running back up again. Their strands reach and fold and twist. There’s no backing down or pulling away. The constant stream of motion– of unity– doesn’t allow for such costly selfishness.