The weaving, she progresses.
I conceived this portion as a nod to early sobriety. I first got sober for six weeks or so; they were the most wonderful six weeks of my life. Free from the toxic load, my body began to rest, and the first joy I’d felt in—what? twenty years?—bubbled to the surface.
But then, I thought, I had it under control. If I could not drink for six weeks, I could not drink whenever I chose. So I picked up again. And that time of joy was followed by eight harrowing weeks where I made up for lost time.
Those weeks are reflected in this weaving by the black, which inexorably takes over from the joyous yellows and passionate reds.
That very black time was more slowly taken over by a more desperate, but defeated approach to my alcoholism. I started again, sincerely, with a true desire to be done. The joy was not as immediate, or as intense. The fight was harder, because I knew it was for real, forever. I didn’t drink again, but the climb out of alcoholism was slower, more marked by depression and struggle.
Truly, however, it was more real, and lasting. And the joy, she came.