The Mourning Line

“It takes months and months to hand-knot a carpet of this size. When the weaver got just up to this purple line, someone they loved died. They spent time mourning. They let the rug sit on the loom a bit. And once they felt ready to pick up this work again, they knotted a row of bright purple to honor their loved one.” -Kelly Housholder, Sapere Collection

I have been drawn to Ramin since I saw the story of the purple line. Kelly, a rug collector and educator, names all of the carpets in her collection. These pieces are the antithesis of mass production. They embody the heart and soul of their weavers, and so it feels right to refer to them as beings or characters with their own histories.

I meet Kelly on a quest to furnish the first house I’ve ever owned. The first time we speak on the phone, I like her style. She is casual, warm, and knowledgeable, willing to consult for free, and completely lit up with passion when she talks about rugs. She’s also a mom of three kids, so she understands all of my questions about how an antique Persian carpet will survive under a dining room table. 

She suggests a few carpets for my space, including Ramin, but the design and blush tones don’t fit the aesthetic of what I think I’m looking for. I end up going with Firouz, a century-old Bidjar adorned with repeating willow trees. 

Still, weeks later, the grieving allegory in Ramin’s story is imprinted on my mind. I dream of the purple line floating in space before me and then color, a slightly but markedly different shade, pouring out on the other side. 

We all have ways of marking these lines in our lives. The rebound after a long relationship, the funeral, the scattering of ashes, the big move, the name change. Life is a tapestry that we are weaving, both alone and with others. If this is so, then we need not abandon our loom after a loss. We can walk away for a while, go quiet, reckon with the abyss. When we return, changed by what we’ve seen and felt, we can weave a bright Mourning Line and then choose whatever comes next.

I think about how stripy my life would be as a carpet. A bright line for each friend and lover I’ve said goodbye to, the fellow skydivers who burned in young, and then even more for the teachers, acquaintances, and relatives. Add in the failed relationships for dazzling effect! 

I carry this image around with me all day, and then slowly something else comes into focus. Our lines can be bright but they can be subtle, too. The birth of my daughter was joyous and I love her with ferocious amazement. Yet her arrival also signified an ending: of bodily autonomy, of myself as not-Mama. I grieve that loss and celebrate the gift of parenthood all at once, weaving a cascade into my tapestry.

I write to Kelly again, tell her about my dream, and she sends me Ramin to see for myself. As soon as it is unrolled in the center of my home, my husband and daughter are drawn right in to its bright softness. “Look at the pretty purple!” my daughter says, and it’s her new favorite color for now. And that is where Ramin belongs, right in the center of this space I have claimed for myself and my family. A space that called to me exactly because I wanted a spot in the world to feel both safe and free, where I could pause to behold my many losses, the fights I’ve endured, the love I’ve chosen over all. 

Of course, I will play cards and build forts and drink tea on this carpet. I will cozy up and know that even if the abyss is just outside, I choose to weave on, unafraid.