by Emma Freeman

Her presence drew me in that night

as she was busy at work in the darkness outside my door

I watched as she carefully moved

across her delicately woven landscape

drawing ancient patterns with her thin thread

making new connections and giving shape to the air

Suddenly, she paused

suspended in charged stillness

Patiently waiting

ready to move when the necessary moment arose

when her dinner arrived or when forces at play

asked her to repair what had been broken

A humble, nomadic weaver

she is ready to create anywhere

with the skills and wisdom passed down

through the long line of weavers she has descended from

Her art feeds and nourishes

keeping her alive

just like mine does for me

In that silent, expansive moment

I felt an old memory return from somewhere

deep inside of my body

that I didn’t know I had forgotten

A whisper that felt like a breath blowing dust off of my being

that reminded me that we are, in fact,

intimately connected

the two of us

both sensitive artists of this world

quietly sustaining ourselves through soft creations

weaving beautifully powerful delicate webs

with all that we’ve been given