Tangled Threads

  Great Aunt Gertrude was appalled when she saw the tangled threads in Susie’s embroidery basket. Why, some colorful yarn was even creeping out over the edge so that the lid did not latch properly!

            “My child,” she exclaimed, “What a tangled mess you have allowed your threads to get in to! When will you ever learn to be neat?”

            Okay, I’ll admit it, right off; Great Aunt Gertrude never actually said all that. Why, she was always much too polite to burst out like a firecracker, but nevertheless Susie got the message loud and clear, for as you well know, Body Language, and Eye Contact Can Speak Volumes. I do give Susie tribute, though, for blushing prettily as her matronly ancestor asked for some empty bobbins to wind the various colors of embroidery cotton on.

            It is not to Susie’s credit, however, that she went her merry way, chattering gaily about this , that, and nothing in particular while her aunt studiously toiled over that appalling mix up of colors.

            Unfortunately Susie never did learn to be neat; at least not where that cute little basket of cotton was concerned.

            But…

One day she carefully, and patiently removed a strand from the basket, and

            Thought.

 Yes, even dear, sweet merry little Susie could have a profound thought now and then.

            This thread is like my life, she mused. It is tangled up with the lives of so many others. I could yank at it and cause knots and snarls and other damage, or I can work it, and my relationships, out carefully.  I happen to like this golden yellow the best, but to do my whole lighthouse scene in this color would be ludicrous.

            These various shades of blue and greens will do well for the water, and the white for where it dashes against the rocks. Each color (like individuals) has their only unique personality, and I want to treat them all with tenderness and respect.

            Well that was enough philosophical thinking for the day, and as Susie bent her shiny, blonde curls over the emerging picture, her patter flowed like the lovely rippling of a brook, and was not weighty at all! But what does it matter? The thought was being stitched into the fabric of her disposition where it mattered most anyways!

P.S. Forty years later Susie, a grandmother now, came across the basket of tangled threads, and diligently separated them all and wound the strands on pencil crayon stubs before embroidering a blanket for the first grand baby. What may have caused her to change?

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