Finding Inspiration in the Rhythms of Mountain Life
The Rhythm of the Loom
Helen sat at her loom on the porch, shifting the shuttle through the shed, then pulling the heddle to the weft.
Left, pull. Right, pull.
Though her hands ached from shucking and snapping last night with the neighbors, she relished her time this morning.
Weaving was precious time, when she could let her mind rest, then wander. She noticed her fingertips were still a bit purple from the dyeing vat.
“Why is it that the color stays on my fingertips for so long, and washes from the threads so quickly?” she wondered.
Melodies of the Mountain
A tune sprang to her lips, matching the rhythm of the loom. “As I went down in the river to pray, studyin’ about that good ol’ way…”
Helen had a nice voice. She often sang at the loom and in the choir at the church. Viola had a dulcimer and played it occasionally at gatherings. They made a good pair. They and the other women made up songs sometimes as they sewed, canned, and quilted.
“I’d like to come to the canning with a new verse for the women to learn,” she thought. She ran through the lines in her head.
A New Verse for the Holler
It’s time to harvest in the hollers.
Berries, corn, potatoes.
Put away your lace and collars,
Peppers, beans, tomatoes.
The Good Lord gave us mountain homes.
Garden, fire, and hearth.
Our days are sweet as honeycombs.
Laughter, love, and mirth.
Lord, give us rain.
Lord, give us shine.
Lord, be in these mountains,
We’ll let our hearts be Thine.
Here, they would repeat the verses and chorus they had. Helen pulled the heddle, trying to think of what might fit next.
It’s time for weaving in the hollers.
Shuttle, weft, and loom.
The wool and beets are getting taller.
Scour, spin, and bloom.
The Good Lord gave us rhythms sweet.
Heddle, left and right.
To guide our hands and tap our feet.
Ratchet, weft, delight.
Lord, give us rain.
Lord, give us shine.
Lord, be in these mountains,
We’ll let our hearts be Thine.
“That’ll do.” She thought. She repeated the new lines over and over. Paper was still hard to come by up here. She’d have to remember. So on her wanderings went, as the shuttle picked up speed, for the precious hour before supper, when the men came in from the fields.
Mirror of a Modern Mom
Escaping the Car for a Moment
“I’m so sick of this car.” Kate had been running teenagers around for hours. She was grateful for the chance to get in the sunshine for a hot minute and stretch as the kids’ ball practice began.
Life really had been too fast-paced lately. Like butter melting on a hot biscuit. She sat on the hillside, closed her eyes, and breathed. The scent of Virginia spring swirled on the breeze. Thick enough to taste.
She had been ignoring her column lately. She was just too busy to… and then the poem started to flow:
No Time to Be Inspired
It’s time, I know, to try and think.
Think of something great to write.
But that extra shift at work calls,
And my show is on tonight.
I sit up at my piano
Fingers ready, poised in air,
But the melody evades me,
And my children need my care.
Growing desperate, I get out my paints,
Staring at the canvas, hard.
But my book club meets tomorrow,
And it’s time to mow the yard.
My living room needs decorating.
I teach Sunday school this week.
But my thoughts are whirling madly
And my calendar looks bleak.
I’m too busy, quite decidedly,
To set my soul afire.
Creativity will have to wait.
I’ve no time to be inspired.
One Precious Hour
Smiling, Kate lay back on the grass and let her stress seep into the earth. One precious hour to soak in the springtime sunshine.
