The root of their unease was this: they were formless. After drinking nectar to ease their thirst, they resolved to shape a realm worthy of their might. In one restless age, they began their work. Earth gathered dust, stone, and fragments into a swelling sphere. Air pressed it close, binding it with her heavy gases. Water circled restlessly, awaiting her moment to join. Fire, long neglected, at last seized his hour, unleashing his blazing chariots upon the newborn world. The Earth and Water melted into rivers of molten flame, bursting from Air’s hold, and the globe flew across the void like heavenly lava.
The four deities faltered, unsure. Then Air, straining to restrain the mass, drew a breath deep and mighty. Three times she exhaled, her eyes half-closed against the scorching vapors. And from that divine breath, creation surged forth.
Mountains rose and plains spread wide. Volcanoes roared, rivers ran, and oceans formed in the cooling dark. Forests sprouted, deserts sprawled, glaciers shone. With each breath of Air, forms appeared and set: creatures of every kind—mighty elephants, graceful giraffes, swarms of bees, herds of bison, flocks of swallows, serpents, dolphins, wolves, and hummingbirds. From the last weary exhalation of Air, there came forth humankind: a man, a woman, and twin children. Yet all were hollow and transparent, crystal vessels awaiting substance.
The Entities watched, wearied yet curious. They resolved to test their creations, stirring calamities, hungering to see the effect of their power. The new beings moved within their fragile shells, and with each trial thin filaments began to grow within them. These threads wove thicker with every challenge—famines, storms, and plagues—and slowly filled the hollow beings with yarn of many colors. No longer fully transparent, they clothed themselves in bark, feather, scale, fur, and skin.
The plant kingdom was first to weave its threads, aided by the hidden work of mushrooms, who spun networks through root and soil so that the forests whispered together. The animals followed, crafting marvels in defiance of the deities: spiders wove their webs, salmon braved rivers, birds traversed vast migrations, giraffes stretched toward the heavens, whales swelled into leviathans, dolphins learned the gift of milk, and the hummingbird mastered stillness midair. Most wondrous of all, the caterpillar remade itself into a butterfly through mysteries even the gods could not fathom.
Humankind too grew, though with greater struggle. They wandered as nomads, filling their emptiness with threads of knowledge, watching the skies and the stars, learning from the forests, rivers, and the marvels of other creatures. When beings died, their filaments of memory and deed were entrusted to those who remained, weaving new strength into the living.
Thus the world became a great tapestry. Some threads grew so vast they spanned seas and mountains, binding all life together in a globe of wisdom. Yet others were cut short, vanishing before their story could be told. Humanity, fragile but enduring, came at last to understand. They chose storytellers to guard these threads, to carry the myths and memories across lands and oceans, so that the hollow crystal of human nature might never remain empty.
And so the Yarn in the Jar endures: the infinite weaving of life, story, and memory—preserving all creatures against the weight of time and the trials of the gods.
For stories never die.
Lazzaro, 2024
“I don’t develop; I am.” _Picassso