The Miracle

lyocell (tencel)
hand painted by Paradisaea
January 2017

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"The size of a poppy seed.

That’s how big you were when I first became aware of your presence. Just a bit bigger than this dot here:  . 
Tiny, almost invisible.
And yet my whole universe
centered immediately to that little dot, 
to you.

And in a few weeks your heart would start beating."

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The theme for the Miracle warp slowly formed in my mind during the fall of 2016. Nourished by several discussions with many other mothers, it gained momentum and finally one frosty morning, in the bright glorious sunlight, it came all together.

I wanted this warp to speak of what it feels like to expect a child. Not only of what it feels like to be pregnant, but of the whole process. I wanted the warp to somehow capture the whole range of colours, the whole scope of the expectation, no matter the way you wait for a child.

First and foremost I’ve been thinking about how it’s always a miracle. A child is always a miracle. It’s something we cannot control. We don’t choose to have children, they’re given to us - in a way or another. And they’re magnificent. Something good, magnificent and wonderful that we don’t control must be a miracle. And, honestly, the way children are born is just breathtaking. Two tiny cells?

And then suddenly there’s a person forming? It just leaves me speechless.

Babies are always miracles - tiny seeds that will grow to magnificient flowers, growing hidden from our eyes, beautifully and fearfully made.

Sometimes, though, the miracle doesn’t come easily. That’s why I didn’t want to just think of pregnancy. Sometimes the dream of a child is not a simple one. Sometimes there are disappointments, fears, frustration. Even pain. Waiting, without knowing how long it will take. Sometimes we don’t get pregnant at all, but still wait for a child - a foster child, and adoptive child… And the expectation and fear and joy is just the same. 

It’s not always easy. But if the miracle then does happen, it may be even a bigger one. Sometimes the winter before spring is a long one, and all seeds sleep under frost. But when the spring finally comes, the joy might be even more astonishing.

The warp is hand painted tencel. The colours are inspired by light on snow, the magnificient spectrum of colours on a frosty sunshine. Somehow in those colours there’s already a promise of all the flowers, waiting under snow.

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I’m indebted also to Captain Jim with the inspiration. I read trough the Anne Of Green Gables series (first time ever) this autumn and there was a quote in “Anne’s House of Dreams” that I simply loved:

It always amazes me to look at the little, wrinkled brown seeds and think of the rainbows in ‘em,” said Captain Jim. “When I ponder on them seeds I don’t find it nowise hard to believe that we’ve got souls that’ll live in other worlds. You couldn’t hardly believe there was life in them tiny things, some no bigger than grains of dust, let alone colour and scent, if you hadn’t seen the miracle, could you?
— L. M. Montgomery

The process of working with this warp is also quite a personal one. My Dressember pictures might have revealedl it already; we’re expecting our (quite possibly) last baby, due in late May 2017. This autumn has been one of a excited wait for a miracle, mixed with the fear that always accompanies the joy, waiting anxiously for the first heartbeat, the first ultrasound, and then waiting for the nausea to end, and then wondering whether you actually are pregnant at all when the nausea does end, and then the moment when the whole world stops when you feel the first kick, you freeze in the middle of something and wait anxiously to feel it again.

It’s a miracle. And it’s scary, cause it’s a miracle you cannot control. We just wait, and the flower grows all by it’s own - or is tended by Someone else, so capable and caring and loving I couldn’t compete at all. So, we wait and we trust. Even when we fear.