An artist named Petro Vrellis created an image with nothing but black wire. Pretty mesmerizing to watch. Which I did five times. I cannot ask him how long the piece took to create, though it consumed two thousand meters of string and a couple hundred hooks to secure them. It began as a single strand, and another, and another. Random stripes bisecting the circle, with no resemblance to the portrait that eventually emerges. 

It speaks to me as I reflect in late summer on the disconnected jabs of meaning that are my routine. Did the sweltering days amount to anything? Will the turning leaves and ripened apples prove that the spring was worthwhile? Is there a continuous thread of significance that ravels through the rows of knitted years? 

A son called just as I was lagging into despair about another child. His words tugged on my heart, like the artist 's fingers did on each string. Slack connections do not hold us together. It is when we pull enough to carry a message that two cups and a piece of rope can transmit sound between a pair of ears playing telephone. 

One knot, or one knit, one wire, one intention. Piled upon each other in splayed and conflicting directions, gradually they build up shadows of meaning. 

There will come a day when I can stand far enough back to see the illustrative nature of this relationship. This endeavor. This aspiration. Until then, I can only imagine. 

The soul of Jonathan was knit to the soul of David, for he loved him as his own soul. 1 Samuel 18