Quotes About Weaving

No one can tell how the thread of his own life will be woven into the Pattern, or how the thread of a people will be woven. It

The Wheel of Time weaves the Pattern of the Ages, and lives are the threads it weaves. No one can tell how the thread of his own life will be woven into the Pattern, or how the thread of a people will be woven. It gave us the Breaking of the World, and the Exile, and Stone, and the Longing, and eventually it gave us back the stedding before we all died. Sometimes I think the reason you humans are the way you are is because your threads are so short.

Life is uncertainty and struggle, choice and change; one who knew how her life was woven into the Pattern as well as she knew how a thread was laid into a carpet would have the life of an animal. If she did not go mad. Humankind is made for uncertainty, struggle, choice and change.

Across the nations the stories spread like spiderweb laid upon spiderweb, and men and women planned the future, believing they knew truth. They planned, and the Pattern absorbed their plans, weaving toward the future foretold.

The wheel weaves as the wheel wills.

Of course, we believe. The Wheel of Time weaves the Pattern of the Ages, and lives are the threads it weaves. No one can tell how the thread of his own life will be woven into the Pattern, or how the thread of a people will be woven.

If this was another bit of his ta'veren tugging at the Pattern, it was a bit he could have done without. The

I feel that weaving is a precise metaphor for the way in which life is made," she said. "By which I mean individually constructed. Any strand can be woven in at the dictation of the imagination. I think of the philosophy of history as a loom of that sort. It is, isn't it?

Desire and love act at cross purposes. love is a net cast on eternity, desire is a stratagem to be spared the chores of net weaving. True to their nature, love would strive to perpetuate the desire. Desire, on the other hand, would shun love's shackles.

It is amazing to realize what a marvelously complex series of events are constantly being woven behind our backs without our knowledge. It seems that everything has a meaning, if not in our lives, then in someone else's. It is also reassuring that a higher intelligence is keeping track of it all.

Each event touching another; like threads that design in concert, creating the fabric that is life.

They darted like needles through the morning - they wove the bright May morning into a fabric strong enough to support a party.

She watched halflings at work creating ornate wineskins from goat's hide in full view of the public, and she was delighted by the beautiful dolls on display at a stall run by a pair of half-elves. She looked at wares made of malachite and jasper, which a gruff, gloomy gnome was offering for sale. She inspected the swords in a swordsmith's workshop with interest and the eye of an expert. She watched girls weaving wicker baskets and concluded that there was nothing worse than work.

Readings are more like weaving a tapestry. Possibly people are getting a cathartic release - but music is physical. Music pummels you. It's got a beat; it's loud. Whereas this is more cerebral.

It will bear thrice my own," answered Taurus. "It was woven from the tresses of dead women, which I took from their tombs at midnight, and steeped in the deadly wine of the upas tree, to give it strength. I will go first – then follow me closely.

Such flat and distant voices confirm the rhetoric of William Blake: "Grace" is underwritten by constant, speechless suffering, and "culture" begins in the callused hands of exhausted children, weaving robotically in sleep, "going through the motions Ã¢â'¬Â¦ when they were really doing nothing.

He weaves everything together to advance His purposes.

He was a thread of gold running straight into the woof of a carpet woven by a madman.

The silkworm spins out his life, and, wrapping himself in his labor, dies.

The great tapestries of trees had darkened to ghosts back at the last edge of twilight. The early moon had drenched the arches with pale blue, and, weaving over the night, in and out of the gossamer rifts of moon, swept a song, a song with more than a hint of sadness, infinitely transient, infinitely regretful.

Sometimes, when I wake up at night, I feel invisible hands weaving my destiny.

Desenrolo-me como uma meada multicolor, ou faço comigo figuras de cordel, como as que se tecem nas mãos espetadas e se passam de umas crianças para as outras. Cuido só de que o polegar não falhe o laço que lhe compete. Depois viro a mão e a imagem fica diferente. E recomeço.

The marvel of a basket is in its transformation, its journey from wholeness as a living plant to fragmented strands and back to wholeness again as a basket. A basket knows the dual powers of destruction and creation that shape the world. Strands once separated are rewoven into a new whole. The journey of a basket is also the journey of a people.

Then we must say farewell, answered the weaver-woman. But mind you, she added, in her usual sharp tone, if life is a loom, the pattern you weave is not so easily unraveled.