Christmas Day

A sea of white. Gently rolling hills cross the field like waves. Their back are covered with ivory white snow. At the horizon this gently rolling sea of white mixes with the sea of blue that fills the heavens. Both marred only by the passage and the timid calls of animals running in the fresh air. Little rodents crisscross the snows darting here and there. Overhead sparrows mark their territory with lazy swoops and cheerful calls. Above all a pale yellow sun shines down casting long shadows against a cold stone tower, and the figure of a woman perched by the windowsill.

Small flakes of snow cast off from the roof by some meandering creature fall by the window to join their brothers once more in the white plain of snow. The woman looks out at the sea, gazing out trying to spot some difference in the rolling hills and the sands that encase them. With long strokes she runs a simple comb through straight locks of brown hair. Pearly fingers follow the comb playing through the strands feeling the soft hair, warm under the sun. A small sigh escapes her lips as another snow drift tumbles from its heavenly perch. The soft sound mixing with the crackle of a fire slowly burning the dry logs sending out another wave of sparks into the empty air.

Encased in billowing sheets of cloth, white and golds under a comforter of rainbows. Colors mix on the heavy sheet weaving their eager journey through and around one another, swirling along the folds of the cloth, creating waves here and now spirals there. The colors spin throughout the garment creating a beautiful picture of life and rebirth. On one edge chaos begins, the threads spinning a violent chaos before merging into the rolling hills of order.

The threads pass a journey through time quickly rolling through the heavenly garden with that deadly apple before leading onto a scene of a tall mountain. A mountain bathed in a river of golden threads streaming down from a clear blue heavens. A mountain created by blocks of silvers and grays mixing and merging their way up the hollow path. A mountain on which stands a man, caught between the gold of the heavens and the grays of the earth, in his hands he holds two stone tablets. This scene weaves itself into another, of a great tower stretching towards the heavens. This tower mocks the puny figure of the mountain next to it, but the sky is not weaves with threads of gold. Instead there is a chaos of reds and blacks intertwining with the heaven bound threads.

Slowly these pictures go from one to another. They weave their images around in brilliant tableau stretching over the length of this quilt. At the end however the threads stop and a new series begins. Bathed in a sky which rolls from a black pierced only by a brilliant star, to a pale blue marred by a shining sun the sky flows through this tiny image. On the ground three camels might be found and on them the three riders one might expect. Illuminated by the light of the sun and the star lies a small wood house. Woven in brilliant threads of golds and silvers, it seems to glow in the morning light. At the seat of the manger, intersected by the darkening night and the growing day lies a child. The sun and moon and stars all shine down on him, and above his head there is a weave, a halo, of colors. Behind him lies the darkest expanse of night heralding three riders, and before him a glorious new day about to dawn.

The cloth shift as the woman stretches, her lithe girlish form leaning against the cold stone of the tower. She gazes out over this sea of white before her, covered in this brilliant tapestry. The strands of well combed brown hair fall behind her back, creating their own little patterns against the somber silk shawl that covers her thing shoulders. The rest of her body is covered under blankets and as she sits there gazing at the soundless expanse of white and blue before her, feeling the crackling of the hearth behind her, and smelling the fresh breads of morning wafting through the tower she hears the first bells tolling the advent of a new day. A Christmas day.