how not to weave

I haven't woven in a very long time, too long, long enough to forget some of the finer points involved as this heap of lovely, tangled linen will attest.  I decided not to get out my ball winder and just wind a skein of yarn directly using the back of a chair.  I know better than to do this but stubbornness united with a desire for immediate action and led headlong into this mess.  As the yarn became more and more tangled I found myself falling apart, my heart cramping, knotting into a ball.  Until finally I gave up and walked away from the disarray I had made and stood a few feet off with a bent head, tears rolling silently down my cheeks, alone, in my silent house, candle flickering in the back ground.  I stared for a time at that wreck of yarn and felt the weight of my own internal tangle. The tears fell.
People keep telling me to be grateful as if gratitude will cure everything and I am.  They beat me with it whenever I raise my head from my internal cramp and voice the ache of loneliness that occasionally grips my quiet hours.  I am grateful. I am grateful for two amazing and healthy boys. I am grateful for a warm and lovely home. I am grateful for a strong and healthy body. I am grateful for the amazing grace that keeps unfolding in this life. I am grateful for a wonderful job that I adore. I am grateful for food to eat, clean water to drink, the beauty of this earth and the gift of life.  I am grateful.  The knot remains, a tangle of good intention, once orderly and full of hope now a confusion of knots and ungainly mishaps.  Is something like that worth untangling?  Is it even possible? Tomorrow I will likely cut it off and throw it in the trash or burn it or set it outside as a nest for orphaned animals.  For now it sits on the floor, a self portrait in tangles, parts overlapping parts, a labyrinth of string.