Stories are what we gather to explain the path of our lives. We take these stories, these individual threads, to the loom of Time, and weave them there into the fabric of how we have lived. I love the walk through the crazy marketplace of this world, everyone draped in the beautiful fabric of their lives. You see colors and patterns that catch your eye, some that make whistle in admiration, some that make bite your lip to prevent yourself from asking “What the hell were you thinking?”.
As a young woman, she traveled not with money, but with extra clothes that she would barter for what she needed. It was just safer that way. This strategy worked uneventfully until one day she approached an elderly merchant in the market to trade a pair of jeans for, oh I can’t remember what. He pointed to the rip on one of the knees and explained that, in this condition, they weren’t worth very much.
She explained to him that they were an excellent pair of jeans, and that tears like that were the height of fashion in Europe.
He shook his head slowly and with the voice of a patient counselor explained back to her: “Young lady – when you’re rich, having holes in your jeans means you’re fashionable. When you’re poor, it just means that you’re poor.”