I have been told I am like a dog that chases after all the bouncing balls. I chase 100 dreams at once, but I go nowhere. I stay the same. Same apartment. Same job. Same miserable safety. I still run to the balls, pulled in this direction, then that, but I forget why. I can’t retrieve any balls, not even one.
Tonight I saw Daddy Long Legs on my bathroom wall. I don’t know why they call her “Daddy” Long Legs because when she spoke, I knew she was Mother.
“You are me,” She said. “You are the weaver. You spin sadness into silk and madness into magic. Have patience. The web you weave is almost done.”
The spider eye can see what the human eye cannot.
Humans keep their eye on the ball. But, it’s not about the ball.
It is about the silk left behind while chasing balls. My tread turned to thread. Now, I crawl to the center of my web where I wait. In stillness, like the spider, I sit in my silk hammock with its threads to the stars and wait for the gifts of the great Mother Weaver.
So what if I chase after balls? The silk web of Mamma Long Legs is irregular. Her crooked lines work. Their crookedness says something.
My procrastination, my placement of masters on pedestals, my antsy-pants urgency about taking self-improvement courses, my martyr who wants to sacrifice herself so someone else’s dream can come true, my hunger for love and my fear of it, my desire to please you, all speak.
When they speak they pound like 100 basketballs bouncing on empty courts. Chaos to the human ear sounds like creation to the spider.
Mamma Long Legs tells me it sounds like the Big Bang, the Big Birth, the heartbeat of life.
The drum beats go like this:
My truth is so powerful that sometimes I can’t even look directly at it. I’ve got to go towards the balls. Distraction is necessary until I’m ready to behold the sight. Otherwise, I’d die from my own truth’s beauty.
Every chase spins another silver thread in the web. Every chase connects one thing to another and another, expanding to the edges of the cosmic womb and then pulling back in on itself to collect the black holes. If people aren’t ready to drink my full truth, they can sip slowly from the watered down version that I made just for them while I was immersed in my distractions.
There shall be nothing wasted because that’s what weavers do. They weave it all together.
Tonight I saw Daddy Long Legs on my bathroom wall. I don’t know why they call her “Daddy” Long Legs because when she spoke, I knew she was Mother.
“You are me,” She said. “You are the weaver. You spin sadness into silk and madness into magic. Have patience. The web you weave is almost done.”
The spider eye can see what the human eye cannot.
Humans keep their eye on the ball. But, it’s not about the ball.
It is about the silk left behind while chasing balls. My tread turned to thread. Now, I crawl to the center of my web where I wait. In stillness, like the spider, I sit in my silk hammock with its threads to the stars and wait for the gifts of the great Mother Weaver.
So what if I chase after balls? The silk web of Mamma Long Legs is irregular. Her crooked lines work. Their crookedness says something.
My procrastination, my placement of masters on pedestals, my antsy-pants urgency about taking self-improvement courses, my martyr who wants to sacrifice herself so someone else’s dream can come true, my hunger for love and my fear of it, my desire to please you, all speak.
When they speak they pound like 100 basketballs bouncing on empty courts. Chaos to the human ear sounds like creation to the spider.
Mamma Long Legs tells me it sounds like the Big Bang, the Big Birth, the heartbeat of life.
The drum beats go like this:
My truth is so powerful that sometimes I can’t even look directly at it. I’ve got to go towards the balls. Distraction is necessary until I’m ready to behold the sight. Otherwise, I’d die from my own truth’s beauty.
Every chase spins another silver thread in the web. Every chase connects one thing to another and another, expanding to the edges of the cosmic womb and then pulling back in on itself to collect the black holes. If people aren’t ready to drink my full truth, they can sip slowly from the watered down version that I made just for them while I was immersed in my distractions.
There shall be nothing wasted because that’s what weavers do. They weave it all together.
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