sufi · Day 141 · Week 21
The Loom's Prayer
Week twenty-one, and the small hands inside you are practising their first movements — like a weaver finding the rhythm of the thread.
He did not stop weaving to pray. He let the weaving be the prayer.
In the narrow lanes of Kashi, where the river was never far and the smoke from morning fires hung in the alleys like a soft grey shawl, there lived a weaver named Kabir. His house was small. His loom was old. His door opened straight onto the lane, and anyone walking by could see him at work from dawn until the lamps were lit.
Kabir was not a temple man. He was not a mosque man either. He had no thread of caste around his neck and no holy book in his lap. He had only his loom, his wife Loi, his small son, and the sound of the shuttle moving back and forth across the threads.