Every person and event coming in and out of our lives forms part of the fabric  which each life becomes.  Our forming starts when we come into this world (no, I don’t wish to debate when life begins, that’s not my point).  The fabric does not exist until we put our hands to threads, dark, some of them; light; gossamer; wool or linen, sometimes synthetic. We weave, we pull the threads in and out, making the beautiful pattern.  In places what we create seems dark and sad; in places the picture has radiance.  No thread nor any part of a thread does not belong.  If a strand comes to us, it belongs in our tapestry, in the scenery which we create.  So I do not regret any single part of the whole.  Though there be spots which become worn or tattered, still I can find a needle and a spool of strong thread with which to mend the rips and tears.  I gently shake out the tapestry and trace those places worn thin with frequent folding.  I smooth the surface and close my eyes, feeling the cloth beneath my hands, luxuriating in the intricacy of its contours, not regretting the time which I have spent at the loom.