The Weaver came in the night with a broad blue thread the colour of a cautious spring sky. She sewed my guts back together. It was messy sewing, but I was no tidy thing to fix. I had been torn apart, and she reassembled me.
She took my left hand, and plunged her needle all the way through the flesh of my arm, just beneath the wrist. Then she set about stitching me into the landscape. Those stitches in the same pale blue silken thread were even and regular - this was deliberate sewing, not the emergency restoration of my abdomen. She sewed me in place, sewed me into the hills, putting me back into the land where I belong.
It did not hurt. Not really. Not as much as being torn open. Not like being lost and cut adrift had hurt. Sometimes there are no kind or pain free ways of doing things. Sometimes the mending is harsh.
I had been lost for a long time, and needed weaving back into myself, threading into place in some way. Perhaps she could not come to mend me until I was that open. Perhaps it was only when I had been ripped apart that she had reason to sew me together. The breaking was brutal, the mending uneasy and I regret none of it.
I feel the threads of blue tracing through me. I feel where the stitches hold me to the hills. I do not know what this will mean for me. I woke to clear instructions about Awen and the threads of inspiration. Feeling my brokenness sewn together and the necessity of not giving up.
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