_
1 THE WEB
The Strands are golden-
Memory’s skein.
The shuttle weaves back and forth, joining
Here and there,
Past and present,
Then and now,
You and me.
As my heart and mind perceive it,
all are lit with an inner glow.
The threads are slender but strong.
They float with gossamer softness,
but can cut like a knife,
as the heart pulls and tugs to try to hold them here.
To see things so precious, in memory’s eye,
is inevitably to try to hold them.
And it cuts. And it cuts.
I see the web. I caress the strands.
Parts of it I weave of my own volition;
parts of it I see becoming.
Parts of it surround me and hold me up.
Parts of it go beyond my sight-
Deep into the earth,
Into the beyond
To the source of all things.
Part of the weaver’s art in this setting is to realize
what strands to manipulate and what to let float free;
always remembering that one is both weaver and part of the web.
Where I cannot go, I send my prayers.
The Strands are golden-
Memory’s skein.
The shuttle weaves back and forth, joining
Here and there,
Past and present,
Then and now,
You and me.
As my heart and mind perceive it,
all are lit with an inner glow.
The threads are slender but strong.
They float with gossamer softness,
but can cut like a knife,
as the heart pulls and tugs to try to hold them here.
To see things so precious, in memory’s eye,
is inevitably to try to hold them.
And it cuts. And it cuts.
I see the web. I caress the strands.
Parts of it I weave of my own volition;
parts of it I see becoming.
Parts of it surround me and hold me up.
Parts of it go beyond my sight-
Deep into the earth,
Into the beyond
To the source of all things.
Part of the weaver’s art in this setting is to realize
what strands to manipulate and what to let float free;
always remembering that one is both weaver and part of the web.
Where I cannot go, I send my prayers.
_ 2 TAPPING TREES
_
I am not young anymore.
I am 58, and I first tapped maple trees when I was about 28.
So, 30 years of this.
The spring gives its first little hint in a February thaw.
I look out, and start to muse. I can feel the drill in my hand, and I can taste the sap.
I go back and forth- ‘It’s too early, I’m too tired’-
But as a few days go by I am lured, and go out to see my trees.
Drill and tap in hand, I talk to them about the winter and the coming spring.
I go to the mom tree, matriarch of my farm, elder when I was a child, but still living now.
I tell her I am worried about how thin she is getting, and how I don’t want to harm her.
Her sap is so sweet. She outperforms all the other trees.
Her roots must be in bedrock.
This past summer I built a greenhouse on that end of the house,
and I think maybe she likes the warmth on her root blanket.
When I come to another, younger tree with the same taste to the sap,
I am sure it is one of her many offspring.
She puts out so many seeds every year.
We are both a lot older than when I first saw her 53 years ago.
But when I walk about carrying buckets, and drinking sap,
I am taken back to my younger years, to my son when he was very young,
to the farm in West Virginia and my first sap operation.
Everything I have done externally, has happened inside of me as well,
and adds to the web of memory.
The sap I drank became part of my body.
I carry the generosity of the trees,
and try to give back to them as I can.
(spring of 2010)
I am not young anymore.
I am 58, and I first tapped maple trees when I was about 28.
So, 30 years of this.
The spring gives its first little hint in a February thaw.
I look out, and start to muse. I can feel the drill in my hand, and I can taste the sap.
I go back and forth- ‘It’s too early, I’m too tired’-
But as a few days go by I am lured, and go out to see my trees.
Drill and tap in hand, I talk to them about the winter and the coming spring.
I go to the mom tree, matriarch of my farm, elder when I was a child, but still living now.
I tell her I am worried about how thin she is getting, and how I don’t want to harm her.
Her sap is so sweet. She outperforms all the other trees.
Her roots must be in bedrock.
This past summer I built a greenhouse on that end of the house,
and I think maybe she likes the warmth on her root blanket.
When I come to another, younger tree with the same taste to the sap,
I am sure it is one of her many offspring.
She puts out so many seeds every year.
We are both a lot older than when I first saw her 53 years ago.
But when I walk about carrying buckets, and drinking sap,
I am taken back to my younger years, to my son when he was very young,
to the farm in West Virginia and my first sap operation.
Everything I have done externally, has happened inside of me as well,
and adds to the web of memory.
The sap I drank became part of my body.
I carry the generosity of the trees,
and try to give back to them as I can.
(spring of 2010)
3 WEB RULES AND MUSINGS
_
I have woven, and continue to weave, a web,
And I am proud of it.
Some of the strands are gossamer, and some are steel.
It spans time and space, and connects many places and people.
I can justly say it is a privilege to have you use my web.
But not to break it, or take it away,
or give it to someone else,
or take away the tools I need to make it.
You have tried (and continue to try)
to do all these things.
It is not wise to try to dominate or dis-empower a weaver,
nor to destroy the weavers web.
You may need that web, and the goodwill that goes with it.
Weave your own web, and enjoy it.
I have woven, and continue to weave, a web,
And I am proud of it.
Some of the strands are gossamer, and some are steel.
It spans time and space, and connects many places and people.
I can justly say it is a privilege to have you use my web.
But not to break it, or take it away,
or give it to someone else,
or take away the tools I need to make it.
You have tried (and continue to try)
to do all these things.
It is not wise to try to dominate or dis-empower a weaver,
nor to destroy the weavers web.
You may need that web, and the goodwill that goes with it.
Weave your own web, and enjoy it.
_4 THE WEB; LOVE AND INTERCONNECTEDNESS
_
Look at the psyche as a surface available for interface.
The skin is considered in some contexts to be an organ of physical perception.
The psyche can be considered as an analogous surface; an organ of psychic perception
Physical connections precede this and provide a template for understanding.,
Stepping back into the womb, see primal pre-birth connections
from the placenta through the umbilicus, to the heart.
Then, after birth, nursing at the breast awakens connections with the mother.
Then, connections with siblings and family, the wider circle of community,
And finally, sex, mating, and the initial circle is complete.
But also consider
All the deeper, other, richer connections-
To God, to the earth, to the biosphere- to the elements-
Plants, animals, home itself,
Neighbors, sects,
Earth/sky/water, guardian spirits,
The living and the dead.
All the connections forming a web of psychic filaments or threads.
Contacts, but also acting as conduits for the flow of- what?
Energy, information, emotions, communication.
'The milk of human kindness'.
Look at the psyche as a surface available for interface.
The skin is considered in some contexts to be an organ of physical perception.
The psyche can be considered as an analogous surface; an organ of psychic perception
Physical connections precede this and provide a template for understanding.,
Stepping back into the womb, see primal pre-birth connections
from the placenta through the umbilicus, to the heart.
Then, after birth, nursing at the breast awakens connections with the mother.
Then, connections with siblings and family, the wider circle of community,
And finally, sex, mating, and the initial circle is complete.
But also consider
All the deeper, other, richer connections-
To God, to the earth, to the biosphere- to the elements-
Plants, animals, home itself,
Neighbors, sects,
Earth/sky/water, guardian spirits,
The living and the dead.
All the connections forming a web of psychic filaments or threads.
Contacts, but also acting as conduits for the flow of- what?
Energy, information, emotions, communication.
'The milk of human kindness'.
_
5 Someday, I will rest
_
The great loom is silent.
The lathe no longer beats
The fabric is done,
The work is done,
The weaver has gone home.
Each stroke and thread has built the cloth,
The fabric of her life.
All the strands of love and joy
Washed by the tides of gain and loss.
2009
The great loom is silent.
The lathe no longer beats
The fabric is done,
The work is done,
The weaver has gone home.
Each stroke and thread has built the cloth,
The fabric of her life.
All the strands of love and joy
Washed by the tides of gain and loss.
2009
_ 6 THE ENERGY TIDE
_
It’s been a rough winter so far for the greenhouse. The tropical plants were tumbled in without ceremony just before frost. Then the hot tub-crown jewel of the operation last year- leaked despite all efforts. After pushing the plants around to attempt repairs, we finally gave up, put the lid on the tub, and piled plants on top.
The plants are larger than last year, and never got re-potted during the summer. So they were big and somewhat scraggly, going into the solstice.
The gallant electric heater has continued to keep the temperature above freezing, but the supplemental lights never got powered up this year. So, pale they have been, lasting through the snows and near-freezes.
I added a second heater when the outdoor temperature went to -15*
Now it is 1/29/11; better than a third of the way through winter. Plants feel the currents of spring before we do, in the strengthening of the sun. I realized that I had been nurturing the plants since October. But when I went to adjust the windows tonight to their evening setting, I felt a sudden wave of energy from the plants. They were telling me that the time is coming for them to nurture me. I felt the tide of energy turn and it was with incredulous joy that I felt the pale strangers come into their strength. It was as if I had been carrying them and suddenly they were carrying me. They went from an energy sink to an energy source. It wasn’t until the tide turned that I remembered how much strength and vitality I get from them during the warmer months. Last winter, somehow, with the tub and the lights, I had never really lost that feeling.
It’s been a rough winter so far for the greenhouse. The tropical plants were tumbled in without ceremony just before frost. Then the hot tub-crown jewel of the operation last year- leaked despite all efforts. After pushing the plants around to attempt repairs, we finally gave up, put the lid on the tub, and piled plants on top.
The plants are larger than last year, and never got re-potted during the summer. So they were big and somewhat scraggly, going into the solstice.
The gallant electric heater has continued to keep the temperature above freezing, but the supplemental lights never got powered up this year. So, pale they have been, lasting through the snows and near-freezes.
I added a second heater when the outdoor temperature went to -15*
Now it is 1/29/11; better than a third of the way through winter. Plants feel the currents of spring before we do, in the strengthening of the sun. I realized that I had been nurturing the plants since October. But when I went to adjust the windows tonight to their evening setting, I felt a sudden wave of energy from the plants. They were telling me that the time is coming for them to nurture me. I felt the tide of energy turn and it was with incredulous joy that I felt the pale strangers come into their strength. It was as if I had been carrying them and suddenly they were carrying me. They went from an energy sink to an energy source. It wasn’t until the tide turned that I remembered how much strength and vitality I get from them during the warmer months. Last winter, somehow, with the tub and the lights, I had never really lost that feeling.
7
The Dance of Spring
As I struggle through this spring, sick at heart, mind, spirit, and body,
I fall farther and farther behind in my goals.
And I grieve, on so many levels.
I want the challenge and pleasure of trying and succeeding.
I am not having that.
Over and over, I try and fail- or have no energy or will to try.
But beyond all the rest, there is the feeling of loss.
Of not being part of the great circle,
Of honoring the Creator in the spring dance.
You are my father, my mother,
my creche, my lover, my partner.
And I can't take my part.
My heart- which these days is so often hard,
and bereft of feelings-
is torn, and I cry.
It is at least a feeling.
At least I have that.
But I want the dance.
Tell me I'm not too old and sick to dance with you.
To go out the window
at the call of your love.
To plant, to cultivate, to harvest, to nurture.
To hold, to love, to help.
To walk the dry land, and the swamp.
To see the flowers,
and hear the frogs.
To dance the joy of spring.
My step is slow, and halting.
Sometimes I feel I can barely move.
But my love for you takes me onward.
To walk in your footsteps,
To reach out to find you,
With all of my being.
When I fall, take my last breath,
Take the dust of my body
And the love of my heart
Let them dance
with the wind and the rain,
The sun and the night.
Send them to play among the stars,
So I can always dance with you,
My beloved.
***************************************************************************************************************************
4/20/16, edited and published on website 4/10/18. This might as well be read in a lot of sections, drawing on much other material. It is most akin to #5 on this page ('Someday, I will rest'). One might add- nearly 2 years later in 2018, this feeling and drive are still very much in play. Despite heart and other health issues- you tell yourself you can't do it- and then you do it anyway. Or not.
The Dance of Spring
As I struggle through this spring, sick at heart, mind, spirit, and body,
I fall farther and farther behind in my goals.
And I grieve, on so many levels.
I want the challenge and pleasure of trying and succeeding.
I am not having that.
Over and over, I try and fail- or have no energy or will to try.
But beyond all the rest, there is the feeling of loss.
Of not being part of the great circle,
Of honoring the Creator in the spring dance.
You are my father, my mother,
my creche, my lover, my partner.
And I can't take my part.
My heart- which these days is so often hard,
and bereft of feelings-
is torn, and I cry.
It is at least a feeling.
At least I have that.
But I want the dance.
Tell me I'm not too old and sick to dance with you.
To go out the window
at the call of your love.
To plant, to cultivate, to harvest, to nurture.
To hold, to love, to help.
To walk the dry land, and the swamp.
To see the flowers,
and hear the frogs.
To dance the joy of spring.
My step is slow, and halting.
Sometimes I feel I can barely move.
But my love for you takes me onward.
To walk in your footsteps,
To reach out to find you,
With all of my being.
When I fall, take my last breath,
Take the dust of my body
And the love of my heart
Let them dance
with the wind and the rain,
The sun and the night.
Send them to play among the stars,
So I can always dance with you,
My beloved.
***************************************************************************************************************************
4/20/16, edited and published on website 4/10/18. This might as well be read in a lot of sections, drawing on much other material. It is most akin to #5 on this page ('Someday, I will rest'). One might add- nearly 2 years later in 2018, this feeling and drive are still very much in play. Despite heart and other health issues- you tell yourself you can't do it- and then you do it anyway. Or not.
_Introduction/discussion
_
‘The Web’ is a most potent and significant metaphor for me. This sequence of pieces draws energy and depth from the weaving metaphor. It is, what it is. The poem ‘Passion’ (in the section entitled ‘My Son’) also uses this imagery. It is just what I ‘see’. These are the words and images that make sense of the experience.
I have been a hand-weaver since 1979, and it has been a deep source of empowerment to me. It was in 1998 as I was building my barn, that I realized the deep kinship between myself as a weaver and those other weavers of the animal kingdom, the spiders. I was slowly working my way along the framework, moving my scaffold, climbing up and down, bolting steel girts into place and then covering the framework with sheet metal. As I worked, I could see spiders going up and down, doing their work as well. I had to laugh, as they move so much faster than I. I suppose in a sense I am better at heavy lifting. But their silk is proportionately far stronger than my steel.
‘The Web’ is a most potent and significant metaphor for me. This sequence of pieces draws energy and depth from the weaving metaphor. It is, what it is. The poem ‘Passion’ (in the section entitled ‘My Son’) also uses this imagery. It is just what I ‘see’. These are the words and images that make sense of the experience.
I have been a hand-weaver since 1979, and it has been a deep source of empowerment to me. It was in 1998 as I was building my barn, that I realized the deep kinship between myself as a weaver and those other weavers of the animal kingdom, the spiders. I was slowly working my way along the framework, moving my scaffold, climbing up and down, bolting steel girts into place and then covering the framework with sheet metal. As I worked, I could see spiders going up and down, doing their work as well. I had to laugh, as they move so much faster than I. I suppose in a sense I am better at heavy lifting. But their silk is proportionately far stronger than my steel.