Bless the Warp and Bless the Thread

A weaving song.

Corn beds dug, the human ox team pulls the cart back toward the shed. Sunny spring Farm Frolic photo from Ben Eskilstark. Next Sunday we’ll place corn seeds into the ground.

Greetings Neighbors and Strangers,

A few years back I became mildly obsessed with the word affluence. I wondered how such a state of abundant, permanent blessing had become an unquestioned good upon a planet in swoon. The etymology proved a helpful starting point. The prefix af- points in a direction, towards. The root -flue means flow. Think influence or confluence. The word affluence describes the experience of having the flow directed toward you. Simple enough. What could be wrong with that? Then I came across a downstream story.

An environmental reporter for the Sacramento Bee decides to walk the dry lower reaches of the Colorado River, below the dams that divert irrigation water to the thirsty vegetable and cotton fields, lawns and golf courses, in his own neighborhood. The riverbed, described by Aldo Leopold just a few generations before as “a land of a thousand green lagoons”, looks like a scene out of Mad Max. A desert wasteland.

Upon his return to California, each head of lettuce and pair of cotton underwear appears backlit by the scene that he’s just walked—the dry riverbed of his unintended consequence. The ordinary affluence of a modern life. The diverted flow.

When the U.S. and Mexican governments agreed to allow a one-time pulse of water through the dams, old people who had known that landscape in its un-plundered state wept at the sight. No such weeping was reported in the distant produce and underwear aisles on the receiving end of the River’s blessing.

The word blessing takes the image of flow a step further, sharing a root with blood. We give and receive blessing only by un-blessing another—by diverting the flow. We do this every time we turn on the hose to water the garden, or pick up the ingredients for dinner at the store. With every dollar we actively influence the world. We determine who lives and who dies. But the dry riverbed of our unintended consequences, and the tears that we might shed upon that parched ground, remain just out of sight and just out of reach.

Environmentalism runs into a dead end when it sounds like a scold or a nag. After what he’s seen in the desert, this reporter doesn’t seem interested in shaking a finger or assigning blame. He is inviting his readers to bear witness with him for a few minutes. It can be terribly lonely when you can’t help feeling sad about the social structures of enforced disconnection into which you were born. People regularly respond to these newsletters with a similar sentiment. Often, they tell me that the writing has brought them to tears. But each of us is crying alone in front of a screen. That’s part of the enforced disconnection.

Imagine a world in which neighbors gather regularly to grieve and give thanks for the ordinary blessing of receiving Life from the world. That might be the way humans have avoided the trap of affluence: by allowing the diverted flow to pass through us in the form of tears.

I wrote last week about a mysterious illness that has befallen the sheep flock here at the Farm, claiming at least a dozen ovine lives.

Digging Shallow Graves

In response, I received an outpouring of generous notes, messages and phone calls. From the bottom of my heart, I thank you. I feel less alone knowing that you shed tears in your home places.

Lisa McCollough sent an old Scottish weaving song, which I pass along to you by way of blessing. As you listen, imagine a group of mothers around the looms singing. Just outside, the flocks graze the greening hill. Children play in the farmyard. Other neighbors split wood for the fire, hoe the garden, and slaughter a lamb for supper. The surrounding landscape is the larger body from which their blessings will be drawn. As they sing, they bear witness, together. To the sorrow and beauty of human life. They weave it all into the cloth that will shelter their beloveds. Blue and scarlet, side by side. The song makes me weep. May you be so blessed.

You can listen to Zambra singing the song HERE and find the lyrics below. I’ve sung it through for you on the recording.

With love and thanks,

Adam

White the sheep that gave the wool

Green the pastures where they fed

Blue and scarlet side by side

Bless the warp and bless the thread

May the charm of lasting life

Be upon your flocks in full

From the hill where they rest

May they rise both whole and well

Bless the man who wears this cloth

May he wounded never be

From the bitter cold and frost

May this cloth protection be

Bless the children warmed within

Three times three our love enfold

Peace and plenty may they find

May they grow both wise and bold

Now is waulked the web we've spun

Winter storms may rage in vain

Bless the work by which we won

Comfort from the wind and rain