Weaving and unraveling in black dog times


Mythic storyteller Michael Meade tells the story of an old woman weaving in a cave. It is as relevant today as it’s been for the hundreds or thousands of years it’s been told around the fire. Here is the story from the White Mountain Apache, adapted from his book, Why the World Doesn’t End.

The old people of the tribes would tell of a special cave where knowledge of the wonders and workings of the world could be found. Even now, some of the native people say that the cave of knowledge exists and might be discovered again. They say it is tucked away in the side of a mountain. “Not too far to go,” they say, yet no one seems to find it anymore. Despite all the highways and byways, all the thoroughfares and back roads that crosscut the face of the earth, despite all the maps that detail and try to define each area, no one seems to find that old cave. That’s too bad, they say, because inside the cave can be found genuine knowledge about how to act when the dark times come around again and the balance of the world tips away from order and slips towards chaos.

Inside the cave, there lives an old woman who remains unaffected by the rush of time and the confusion and strife of daily life. She attends to other things; she has a longer sense of time and a deep capacity for vision. She spends most of her time weaving in the cave where light and shadows play. She wants to fashion the most beautiful garment in the whole world. She has been at this weaving project for a long time and has reached the point of making a fringe for the edge of her exquisitely designed cloak. She wants that fringe to be special; wants it to be meaningful as well as elegant, so she weaves it with porcupine quills. She likes the idea of using something that could poke you as an element of beauty; she likes turning things around and seeing life from odd angles. In order to use the porcupine quills, she must flatten each one with her teeth. After years of biting hard on the quills, her teeth have become worn down to nubs that barely rise above her gums. Still, the old woman keeps biting down and she keeps weaving on.

The only time she interrupts her weaving work is when she goes to stir the soup that simmers in a great cauldron at the back of the cave. The old cauldron hangs over a fire that began a long time ago. The old woman cannot recall anything older than that fire; it just might be the oldest thing there is in this world. Occasionally, she does recall that she must stir the soup that simmers over those flames. For that simmering stew contains all the seeds and roots that become the grains and plants and herbs that sprout up all over the surface of the earth. If the old woman fails to stir the ancient stew once in a while, the fire will scorch the ingredients and there is no telling what troubles might result from that.

So the old woman divides her efforts between weaving the exquisite cloak and stirring the elemental soup. In a sense, she is responsible for weaving things together as well as for stirring everything up. She senses when the time has come to let the weaving go and stir things up again. Then, she leaves the weaving on the floor of the cave and turns to the task of stirring the soup. Because she is old and tired from her labors and because of the relentless passage of time, she moves slowly and it takes a while for her to amble over to the cauldron.

As the old woman shuffles across the floor and makes her way to the back of the ancient cave, a black dog watches her every move. The dog was there all along. Seemingly asleep, it awakens as soon as the old weaver turns her attention from one task to the other. As she begins stirring the soup in order to sustain the seeds, the black dog moves to where the weaving lies on the floor of the cave. The dog picks up a loose thread with its teeth and begins pulling on it. As the black dog pulls on the loose thread, the beautiful garment begins to unravel. Since each thread has been woven to another, pulling upon one begins to undo them all. As the great stew is being stirred up, the elegant garment comes apart and becomes a chaotic mess on the floor.

When the old woman returns to take up her handiwork again, she finds nothing but chaos where there had been a garment of great elegance and beauty. The cloak she has woven with great care has been pulled apart, the fringe all undone; the effort of creation has been turned to naught. The old woman sits and looks silently upon the remnants of her once-beautiful design. She ignores the presence of the black dog as she stares intently at the tangle of undone threads and distorted patterns.

After a while, she bends down, picks up a loose thread, and begins to weave the whole thing again. As she pulls thread after thread from the chaotic mess, she begins again to imagine the most beautiful garment in the whole world. As she weaves, new visions and elegant designs appear before her and her old hands begin to knowingly give them vibrant shape. Soon she has forgotten the cloak she was weaving before as she concentrates on capturing the new design and weaving it into the most beautiful garment ever seen in the world.


6 thoughts on “Weaving and unraveling in black dog times

    • It came into my mind and I trusted it. I’m guessing there will be a lot more of this coming through in the next days and weeks.

  1. Here is something I just wrote my brother, who was lamenting over how to help his children feel okay:

    “I think here is the thing to say to your children (as I am working this myself this morning):

    “There is what we can control, and what we can’t control, and there is so much more of the latter than we like to think. Our job on earth perhaps above all is to find within acceptance: acceptance that a Donald Trump can get elected; or that the Mets can lose in the ninth inning; or that people will needlessly, selfishly, and recklessly be hurt; or that those we love will and do die; that part of being alive is feeling pain and loneliness all the time. Acceptance.

    “And acceptance is not resignation – it’s acceptance, because to accept something is not to bring judgment or fear, but rather it is to find serenity. And acceptance does not mean we surrender agency: we have power every moment to do what we choose to do. Autonomy, to the extent we have it, and to act in this world, it’s a beautiful thing.

    “Acceptance is only really possible if we work on embracing and internalizing the one true thing: despite all, there is grace and love in this world – always – and to that we are free to turn, to draw inspiration from, and to dwell in. We cannot be touched by what we cannot control – other than of course having feelings, and feelings are only that: feelings. Uncomfortable feelings does not mean everything is not okay all the time. For I have come to know that the only true thing – the fabric that holds us all – is love, and nothing can touch that. It just is. And as Isak Dinesen wrote in Babette’s Feast, in this beautiful world of ours, everything is possible.

    “The election of Donald Trump is challenging to all this. It is a challenge. But it – with a certain faithful attitude – can diminish to be the small thing it is in the face of love.

    “There is a reason I wrote in my last newsletter:

    “‘If I should fall
    To the earth
    Or the watery Hudson
    A thousand feet below
    I would sing
    In final prayer:

    “‘”I love you. I love you. I love you”‘

    “Yes: hard as it is to accept, the sun has risen, and is a beautiful morning.”

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