August 25, 2019 - A Bushel of Dirt

The road was long today.  I knew a short break would help to make a difference, so I stopped and made a small fire to cook a couple of sausages I had brought with me.  It’s a fairly primitive affair that includes a very small fire—just enough to cook—and some meat on a whittled stick.  Pans and utensils would simply be too heavy to carry, and water already weighs too much.  Resting for a while and setting the burden down temporarily always helps, as long as I don’t rest too long.

Ashes to ashes.

So I gathered some wood, really just some twigs since it wasn’t going to be a big fire at all, and I got down to business.  I’ve done this more times than I can count, and so my mind gets to wandering . . . and I don’t always pay attention at such times.  Well, my hands were dirty from sweat, gathering the wood, and then starting the fire.  Not to mention greasy sausages.  I figured I’d just clean up with some water afterward, and then I burnt my thumb on a seared sausage from sheer carelessness.  That, and I was so hungry I couldn’t wait for things to cool down.

Out of reflex, I immediately placed my dirty thumb in my mouth, and as I said I was so darn hungry that the dirt tasted pretty good to me, probably due to the grease.  I could not have cared less about the dirt and ash.  They were like seasoning.  Well, I had to laugh my head off about that.  And just then a memory was jarred, as often happens at such times.  I remembered my father telling me when I was very young, “Ya gotta eat a bushel of dirt before ya die.”  He always said that.  “Ya gotta eat a bushel of dirt before ya die.”

He was a hard man, a very hard man, who died young when I was very young myself.  He lived through a few wars, both in the outside world and inside his mind, and he was usually pretty distant.  He didn’t talk much and he wasn’t around much, and my memories of him are not pristine and perfect.  But every now and then, I still think of him.

I finished up the sausages and put out the fire.  I used some water to rinse my hands and face off, and my wet bandana told a tale of someone who could have used a bit of soap just then.  No matter.  I had places to go and things to do.  I grabbed my pack, slung it over my shoulders, and tightened the straps.  I put on my hat and started walking.  “I’m working on that bushel, Dad,” I said, “I just hope I haven’t filled it up all the way yet.”

August 18, 2019 - A is for Attention

“Attention!  Attention!  May I have your attention?!”

I looked around to see who was talking, but no one was there.

“Attention!  Attention!”

And again, no one was there.

“A is for attention!" boomed the voice.

And there it was on the ground.  The tree roots had formed a very large and perfect “A,” well, as perfect as tree roots can form letters, anyway.

Tree alphabet.

“A is for attention, for choosing an item or a task or an idea and focusing on it,” said the tree.

“You have my attention,” I answered.

“Good, see that it continues.  Do not allow yourself to be easily distracted with those flashing screens and silly devices most human carry.”

“A is also for awareness,” he said, “for being in tune with your environment and not missing important details.”

“I am always aware.”

“Are you?” the tree asked.  “How is it, then, that I had to yell for your attention?”

He didn’t wait for my answer, which is okay because I didn’t have one anyway, probably because a bee would not stop buzzing in my ear.

“A is for ability, for honing and working hard at your skills and then confidently using them with authority and grace.”

“I have worked very hard at my skills,” I said, becoming a bit perturbed.

“Work harder at your listening skills.”  Buzz went the bee again in my ear.

“A is for altruism, for being kind to and concerned about others, regardless of what they can or cannot do for you,” he said.

“I do my best to be kind, but sometimes people see that as a weakness and try to take advantage of me,” I offered.

“Of course, they do.  That is part of human nature for some, but it means that you are astute.  A is for astuteness, for accurately assessing the intentions of others and using that to your benefit.”

Buzz said the bee.

“A is for admirable, for behaving in a manner that is upright and decent and thereby earning the respect and approval of others.”

“I do my best to follow my own moral code,” I said.
“See to it that you never waiver,” he said, “because once you do, you fall in the eyes of others and then in your own eyes as well.  Once lost, honor is hard to regain.”  Buzz.

“A is for ardent, the ability to be intensely fervent about a cause, about your beliefs,” he bellowed.  “For without passion we have nothing.  Without wholehearted dedication and loyalty, we drift in a sea of mediocrity and unfeeling selfishness.”

“I am strong in my convictions,” I said almost angrily.

“I believe you.  See to it that you do not surrender.  Never give in to exhaustion or fear or manipulation.”  Buzz said the bee, as I swatted him impatiently.

“A is for authenticity,” he said almost menacingly as one of his roots tapped me on the foot.  “See to it that you remain true to your ideals and yourself even in the face of mockery and pain and humiliation.  Should a thousand warriors come up against you, stand your ground and remain true to who you are, even if you take it to the grave that very day.”

Powerful words, I thought to myself.  But yes, I must remain authentic.  Anything else would be the unrelieved awfulness of mediocrity and self-serving vanity.

“Yes!” I yelled.  “I am and will remain authentic!”  I surprised myself a bit with my sudden outburst, but the tree seemed pleased.  Buzz, buzz, said the bee.

“You may go,” he said dismissively.

“That’s it?  We’re done now?!”

“I haven’t got all day.  It is time for the next act.”

“Well what about ‘B,’” I asked.

“What about it?  Ask him yourself.  I must bid you adieu.”

“Buzz,” said the bee.  It was then I realized it was going to be a very long hike, indeed.  I tightened the straps on my pack, and the bee buzzed along with me on my journey.

August 7, 2019 - The Silver Maple

The Silver Maple puts his wealth on display for all to see.  “Look at me!  Look at me!  Come and see my endless silver!” he yells to passersby.  Indeed, his silver gleams in the sun like the secret hoard of a great dragon.  And who is to say whether it is or is not?  Maybe it really is the secret hoard of a great dragon.  Perhaps the Silver Maple was not even silver at one time . . . yes, of course, that must be it . . . I am quite sure of it now . . .

Once upon a time there was a tiny and very ordinary little tree.  He lived among giants and felt very small, indeed.  There were the magnificent prickly pines, gruff and imposing, rude and arrogant as pines always are, you must know.  There were the powerful masculine oaks, towering and frightening in their majesty, protective in their bounty and strength, for which oaks are famous, but surely you know that as well. 

The silver underside of the silver maple leaves.

There were the whimsical weeping willows, dragging their long tresses upon the ground.  There were the industrious birches, whose bark was made into canoes and baskets and packs.  There were the lush elms, under whose gracious bows weary travelers would take their rest.  There were the impressive chestnut trees, filled with bounty for all the creatures of the forest.  And even the pretty sugar maple girls had their brilliant colors of scarlet and fiery orange in the Fall.

But the tiny and very ordinary tree had nothing.  He was not special and he was not beautiful.  Oh, he was green, and that is nice enough, but even the meadow can boast various shades of deep or dusky or brilliant green.  So even in that, he was not unique.  But how he longed to be a special tree!  And one day . . . he got his chance.

On a particular day that would most certainly go down in history, there was a terrible storm unlike any storm the trees of the forest had ever seen.  It started with rolling thunder far off, rumbling and threatening.  Then the soaking rain began, cold and torrential.  Of course, they had seen dangerous storms before.  However, this one was different because it brought fire with the rain, and when that happened they knew something wicked was coming.

And as quickly as form follows thought, that wickedness did come in the form of the old dragon Sølv, a dragon that most of the trees had believed was only a legend because it had been so long since anyone had seen him.  Sølv was as wicked as ever, and he had come for more treasure.  But the world had changed in his absence, and he could not find any gold or silver or jewels.  Those things were now the province of men and not the trees.  Enraged, he decided he would take whatever was precious to each tree, and then he would burn the forest to the ground.

So the battle raged, and one by one the trees surrendered to Sølv because they were no match for his strength and fiery breath.  The pines gave their precious resin, the willows their beautiful hair, the birches their flexible bark, the elms their deep silence, and the chestnuts their bountiful food.  Even the mighty oaks, who held out the longest, eventually bowed their heads in defeat and gave their strength.  And, of course, you know that greedy old Sølv took every single thing the trees had, but that was not enough.  He then began his raging fires.

There was turmoil and panic and death . . .  Inside the tiny and very ordinary little tree, who had been overlooked because he was so drab and useless, a great willing was felt.  From the depths of his being he cried out for help while running toward Sølv in a last-ditch effort to save the kingly oaks.  His scream was a deafening clap of thunder that even turned the head of Sølv.

Now, at that very moment in Bilskirnir, where dwells the God Thor, dinner was about to be served.  But a most terrible clap of thunder was heard throughout the halls.  This vexed Thor grievously because thunder was His territory and His alone.  Quick as flash, He grabbed His bone-crushing hammer, Mjöllnir, and jumped into His chariot.  He would find the creator of the thunder, and what would happen then . . . He tightened his fist around Mjöllnir.  His two goats, Tanngrisnir and Tanngnjóstr, flew through the dark night, pulling the chariot wildly behind them.

Within moments they came to the forest, where Sølv had just turned around and found the tiny and very ordinary little tree who had produced the tremendous thundering roar.  He laughed when he saw the little tree, and he opened his mouth wide to swallow it whole.  The tiny tree trembled and fell to his knees, while the other trees stared in confusion and wonder. 

And Sølv just might have eaten that little tree in one small bite, but he found Thor’s Mjöllnir in his mouth instead.  Now Thor was angry, very angry indeed, for you see, the old mighty oak trees are His favorite trees of all.  Seeing them with their proud heads bowed enraged the old God.  He swung Mjöllnir with all the strength of a God and smashed Sølv’s face with one quick blow.  With another blow of Mjöllnir, He smashed the dragon’s armored body and rendered the old worm into pieces.

Well, as you probably know, it is not easy to calm a God down once He is angry, but when the dragon’s body fell to pieces, out of it came all of the treasure he had been hoarding.  This was why no one had ever been able to find his treasure before.  He had kept it hidden inside himself all these hundreds of years.  Spilling onto the ground now were thousands of pieces of gold, silver, and precious jewels.  Even Thor stepped back in awe at the treasure.

Then He laughed with delight!  At last, Sølv’s treasure was His!  He took all of the gold and silver and jewels and put them into His chariot.  Then He looked around at all the trees and demanded to know who among them had created the terrible clap of thunder.  The trees all looked askance and bowed their heads as Thor waived Mjöllnir menacingly.

And then a tiny sound was heard, and through the crowd came the tiny and very ordinary little tree.  He was trembling and fell upon the ground and begged Thor for forgiveness.  When Thor saw the tiny tree, He had to laugh in spite of Himself, although He tried to remain fierce to save face.  He pulled the tree up on to his feet and asked him to hold Mjöllnir while He went to His chariot.  Well, you can imagine the surprise of all the other trees who stared in disbelief at this, while the tiny tree himself thought he might die just from the sheer weight of Mjöllnir.

When Thor came back from His chariot, He was carrying a huge amount of silver.  He took Mjöllnir back from the trembling little tree, and then He did what only a God can do.  He joined the tree with the great heap of silver, and the tree grew tall and beautiful and was coated with shimmering, exotic silver.  The other trees gazed in amazement, and even Thor was impressed with the little tree.  He winked at the tree and said, “No more thunder for you, little one.”  Then He laughed and jumped into His chariot, and Tanngrisnir and Tanngnjóstr flew off in a flash into the night.

Well, you can just picture the shock and disbelief of the other trees.  Each of them congratulated the little tree, and they were all more than a little embarrassed that they had never even noticed him before.  Of course, they would certainly notice him now with all of that beautiful, shimmering, exotic silver on his leaves.  Even the bristly old pine trees congratulated the Silver Maple, although in their hearts they were desperately jealous.  But that is how pine trees are, as you must surely know.

And now you also know the story of how the Silver Maple got his silver.

August 4, 2019 - The Golden King

THE GOLDEN KING

The Golden King

bows His head in fiery defiance

giving way to the Darkness, slowly

ever creeping

giving ground to the Veil

ever increasing

surrendering to the Underworld

that which was only borrowed

(some say stolen)

His reign descending

careening toward the Winter

yet again, and always

trapped in frozen tendrils

and sparkling ice

weeping golden tears

painted on the clouds

and hunted by the Shadow

July 21, 2019 - Trial

Fickle humans.  Always wanting what they haven’t got.  “If only it were cooler outside as I cannot bear this heat!”  Yet just a few months ago, how they screamed for the sun.  “This insufferable, cold rain gets right into your bones!”  Yet a few months before then, how they longed for a sign of spring instead of the frozen wasteland in which they dwelled.  “This icy land of death wearies my soul!”  Yet just a few months before that, they’d had enough of the grayness of the late fall.  “There’s no greenery left, and at least winter gives us a lovely white blanket!”

And on and on it goes.  “Give me what I want because I don’t really want it!”  None of it works out as they had hoped and planned.  None of it is what they had remembered it to be.  None of it is nearly as desirable after having attained it.  “But don’t you know that I don’t really want what I want?  How can you be so callous?!”  They confuse their desire for the future with the fantasy of their past.

It is the journey they pine for, not the destination, but very few of them know this.  It is the striving, the trial, the fighting that defines them, not the attainment of the goal.  The goal is all very fine and well, of course, but it is the courage, the cunning, and the strength to get it that builds up the human mind, body, and spirit.  It is the perpetual “becoming” man longs for.  This struggle is what makes life worth living.  Not to struggle is to die.

A frog sits in the cool pond—knee deep, knee deep, knee deep, he sings.  Perhaps he will hop.  Perhaps not.  It is enough to be in the cool pond.  Let the dead bury the dead, he thinks to himself, as he blends in and becomes the world around him, resting under a blade of grass.  He does not put the head of his living god onto the skeleton shoulders of the past.

But he is just a frog.

July 13, 2019 - The Rhythm

I have written often about rhythm and patterns and cycles in the woods and animals around me, because an understanding of these is an understanding of the fabric of life.  All things have a rhythm, and that rhythm occurs in patterns, and those patterns repeat in cycles.  Over and over it goes, unceasingly.  To truly understand this and then to harness that understanding catapults a person from a mundane adherence with ritual to a sublime partnership with the Master Builder.

It begins with the heartbeat.  I will not speculate here as to what mysterious force sparks that beat, but it is enough to say that it occurs unfailingly.  From the dawn of our existence in our current bodies, we have heard that rhythm.  Bah-Tum, bah-Tum, bah-Tum.  It was the first thing our conditioned consciousness acknowledged.  Bah-Tum, bah-Tum, bah-Tum.  And in tandem and recognition of otherness, we heard our mother’s heartbeat, ha-Shah, ha-Shah, ha-Shah, and we grew daily as we clung to the sound.

Until we ventured forth into patterns.  Each cell multiplied at a precise rate calculated long before we ever came into our current existence, layering and layering, all the while listening to the heartbeat, to the Bah-Tum, bah-Tum, bah-Tum, as it grew ever stronger.  And the Great Alchemist placed His kiss upon our forehead and hid the blueprint of our manifestation deep in our subconscious, ours to call upon when needed.

In the beginning there was not light, there was sound.  There were waves that came in specific patterns and washed over us much as they wash over the ocean still.  And even the Light was subject to the Wave, bowing in adoration before the hypnotic rhythm, ha-Shah, ha-Shah, ha-Shah, dancing in ecstasy as it traveled through the Universe.

Until we burst forth into a Cycle that repeated and repeated ad infinitum, adoring the Pattern who loved the Rhythm.  And we breathed air in a rhythm, in a pattern, in a cycle.  Methodically breathing in the Universe as it exhaled and then ourselves being breathed in by the Universe as we exhaled and it inhaled.  Back and forth, sharing the rhythm.  I am now you, you are now me, ha-Shah, ha-Shah, ha-Shah.

We witness it daily as we sail through our busy days, foolishly unaware of the raw power shimmering around us.  The rhythm of the day, the sun rising and setting; the pattern of the week, Monday through Sunday; the cycle of the seasons of the year.  And then the Great Wheel turns yet again and we begin anew.  Comes now spring, then summer, then fall, and finally winter.  Now birth, then growth, then fruit, and finally death.

He who has ears, let him hear.  Take the seed of your desire and plant it in the fertile field of your mind—like unto the mysterious force that sparked your heartbeat—and bathe it in the waves of thought.  Water it daily with the rhythmic pulse of your blood, Bah-Tum, bah-Tum, bah-Tum.  Then take secret pleasure in the pattern of growth and the building of strength according to the sacred blueprint.  Let it burst forth at last in the completed cycle of manifestation in your life.  I AM.  Then die, and do it all over again.

July 10, 2019 - The Weaver

I will tell you the story of a young woman who found herself in a dilemma.  Her life was not going as she wanted, and she was determined to change it at all costs.  She did not want her same old drab existence anymore, the predictable life in which she would probably marry her old friend, have children, buy a home, work hard, and die.  She wanted adventure!  She wanted intrigue and mystery!  And she knew she was not going to find that in her present life.

Now there was a man in town, a dangerous man some said with quite a reputation.  He was handsome and strong and adventurous, and he turned the head of every young girl he met.  But he was a scoundrel and everyone knew it—a liar, a cheat, a thief.  She did not care, though.  She decided to set her cap on getting him, and nothing was going to stop her.  She told herself that her love would change him, and she ignored the fact that he already had a wife.  Wives come and go, she often reminded herself.

So she began to obsess over him.  She had to have him.  Night and day she could think of nothing else, and yet no matter what she did or said, no matter how she positioned herself, she could not seem to get his attention or elicit anything more than a friendly nod from him.  She knew she would have to do more.  She would have to find a way to bend him to her will.

And as she thought along these lines, she found herself outside for a walk one day, meandering along an old and rarely used dirt road just outside of town.  There in a field she saw an old dilapidated building.  It looked like some sort of workhouse or barn, and since she had time on her hands in her dreamy state, she decided she would investigate.  No sooner did she think it, when she found herself at the door of the old barn.

It was useless to knock because she knew no one was there, so she pushed the door open and just walked in.  It was only an abandoned old barn as she had supposed.  There were a few old tires lying around, some old hay, musty old animal stalls, a few buckets, and some rusty old tools.  Certainly nothing special.  She was about to leave when she noticed a stairway at the back, and it seemed to her that a light was shining down from an upstairs room.  She went straight to it.  After all, she had already entered private property, what harm could there be in going upstairs?

So up she went, and there in the center of the room was a tremendous old loom with a large tapestry not yet finished caught up tightly in the warp threads with the weft threads still waiting to be woven in.  It was so beautiful, and the scene it portrayed was so striking, so tantalizing.  She just had to go closer to know more.  She did so and sat before it staring at the image on the tapestry, and there, to her surprise, was a scene with her in it.  It was a domestic scene of her holding a child’s hand in the backyard of a small house with a young man just coming out of the door, his face hidden by a hat. 

Oh, how she would have loved to see that face, but no matter how she turned herself and repositioned her eyes and squinted, it was no good.  She could not see the face.  It was veiled.  That was odd, since no one else’s face on the tapestry was hidden.  She recognized friends on different parts of the cloth, family members, old teachers.  It was actually quite odd, she thought, this woven picture of parts of her life interspersed among a larger scene, her part being quite small in comparison.

She was lost in thought and nearly jumped out of the seat when she a voice.  “Oh, the fabrics we weave,” it said.  But when she turned around, she saw nothing, and yet she knew she would see nothing even before she turned around.

“Yes, our lives are woven,” the loom said, “and you already know your fate, I think.”

“No,” she said, and without planning what she would say next, she blurted out, “I have come to weave myself.”

“But you are not The Weaver,” it said.

“Well, I am ‘a’ weaver, and I certainly know how to weave—quite well, in fact!”

“But you are not The Weaver.”

“Look, I do not know how this got here, but I am going to sit here and weave.  And I am going to make my own scene on my own tapestry!”

With that, she set about find the weft threads she would need to make her tapestry.  She was a very good weaver, and in a short time she had changed the scene she saw.  She removed the young man hidden behind the hat and instead wove in a scene of the handsome man from town, the one she was obsessed with, the scoundrel.  He was smiling and greeting her at the gate and offering her his arm.  There was a woman in the distance, his wife, but she was walking away with her head down.  It was the perfect scene—just the man she wanted.

She smiled when she finished her handiwork and sat back a bit to admire it.  Again, the loom spoke.

“You are not The Weaver,” it said, “But you have woven a pretty cloth.  I wonder if it will fit in with everything . . .” 

It was true that the warp threads just seemed to go on and on, and there was so much more on the rest of the cloth.  It was a very complicated tapestry put together by someone who was tremendously more skilled than she.  Nevertheless, she had been able to add to it a bit.

“You can tell whoever wove this tapestry—this ‘Weaver’ you speak of—that I can weave my own fate and I do not need any help!”  And with that, she got up and left.  She could swear she heard the loom softly laughing as she walked out of the building.  She muttered to herself all the way home about what a strange place the old barn was.  How odd she had never seen it before.

Things seemed to happen pretty quickly from that point onward.  It seemed the dashing and handsome man in town found a new interest in her, following her wherever she went.  Oh, he was charming, he was strong, he was handsome and brave.  He was everything she wanted, and she smiled to herself with secret satisfaction as she remembered the old loom.  It was all working out perfectly!

And quickly, very quickly, frightening fast in fact, he had divorced his wife and proposed marriage to her.  All of her friends warned her against him, but she would hear none of it.  The two were married before the ink had barely dried on his divorce papers.  Within a week, they left her lovely old town to go to a large city where he had grown up.  Adventure!  Finally!

Well, time went by quickly as it always does.  Her new husband was dashingly handsome and caught the eye of every woman in the city, just as he had in her old town, and you can be sure he was winking at them all.  He made a good salary but spent all of it on baubles, and she had to work very hard to support their home.  Day in and day out, she worked and worked.  Day in and day out, he played and played.  His affairs were spoken of all around the city.  The gifts he bought other women were lavish, to say the least.

Some people smirked at her when she went to do her shopping.  Most just smiled feebly and looked down.  Everyone knew.  She felt she would die of embarrassment and shame at what her life had become.  And she was so very tired from constant work and constant worry.

How did this happen? she often wondered.  She thought it was all going to be so perfect, but instead it turned out to be a complete nightmare.  One night, many years in the future while lying in bed alone, she remembered the old loom.  But that was just a fantasy, was it not?  A dream?  She remembered it clearly, though.  The details came rushing back as she thought and thought about it.  Before she fell asleep, she knew what she would do.

The next day she left her husband, never to return, and she went back to her old town.  She walked down the old dirt road, worried that perhaps the old building would not be there anymore, but there it stood in the field.  She ran straight toward it, flung open the door, and ran upstairs.

“So you are back!” the loom said.

“Why did you not tell me?” she demanded.

“Tell you what?  That you are not The Weaver?”

She swallowed hard.

Then she went and sat at the loom and looked at the picture on the tapestry.  There was her nightmarish life before her with her handsome husband in the middle and dozens of women peeking out at him from behind rocks or curtains or doors or tables, each with an adoring look on her face.  Again, she swallowed hard.  This was her dark life.  She had woven it with dark weft threads borne of dark intentions.  The young man in the doorway she had seen all those years ago, his face hidden behind a hat, was gone forever.

“Most people do not come back,” the loom said, but she did not respond because she had decided she would try to take the fabric apart and reweave it.

But as if reading her thoughts, the loom said, “It cannot be undone.  You can try if you wish, but you will not pull out even one thread.”  The woman sighed.  Somehow, she knew it was true.

“What can I do?” she asked.

“You cannot change what has passed,” it said, “But I have a request.”

“What do you want?”

“I want to know all about it.  I want to know everything you felt.  I want to hear the whole story,” it said.

“But you already know the story.”

“That is true,” it said, “But I see the picture only.  I want the feeling.”

“Alright then.  I will tell you, but if I do so, you must answer a question that I have,” she said.

“I am not in the business of answering questions.”

“Then I will not tell you anything.”

Eventually, realizing she meant it, the loom agreed and promised to answer her question honestly.  And so she told the loom everything.  She held nothing back, including her tears.  She told of her embarrassment and shame.  She spoke of the lonely days and nights, the endless lies, the constant work.  She even told the loom about the guilt she had for having woven the ex-wife out of the picture all those years ago.

And as she spoke, the loom purred and giggled and sighed and reveled in her sorrow.  Then her speech was over.

“Now it is your turn,” she said.

“What??”

“Now you must answer my question.”

“Oh, I had quite forgotten,” it said, “What is it?”

“What are you and what am I in this whole ordeal?” she asked.

There was silence in the room.  She asked the question again, and still the loom was silent.

“Quid pro quo, loom!  I told you, now you must tell me!”

The loom sighed.  “Very well,” it said, rather peeved at being cleverly cornered.

“I am a mechanism,” it began, “And that is all I am.  I am a machine that The Weaver uses to weave the tapestry of the universe.  I am like a screen that a movie is projected upon.  I reflect.  I can produce nothing of my own accord.  It is The Weaver who does the work.”

“And me?” she asked.  “What am I?  How do I fit in all of this?”

“You are a channel from which the Unconditioned Awareness flows.  You are conditioned consciousness.  You are an outlet as is every being.  But I do not expect you will understand this,” the loom said haughtily.  And with that, the questioning was over.

She sat silently and thought for a long time, and then she smiled.  It was a weak but happy smile because she did understand.  She knew exactly what was going on now.  She knew her part intimately in the elaborate play of her life, and she had played it perfectly.  She got up and left without saying another word.

“You will be back!” the loom yelled after her, but she knew that was not true.  The loom knew it, too.

She went home to her old house, which was still there.  Her mother had passed it on to her when she died, but it had stood vacant for years.  Now she would live in it.  She sat down and thought about her life, about life in general.  Somehow, she felt better after her confession to the loom and after the information she had pried out of it.

She would be okay now, she knew that for sure.  She smiled at how life works.  She would make plans again and work hard and formulate dreams.  Each dream, each desire would be a weft thread she would focus on and fantasize about and offer up to the Great Alchemist at night before she slept.

She did not allow herself to think about how her dreams would become reality, the method that would be employed to bring them about, because she was not The Weaver.  It was not for her to make tremendously complicated decisions about how all the threads would fit together on the tapestry of the universe.  Her job was just to provide as pretty and happy and kind a thread as she could with each true desire she had.  And to believe—to know that her weft threads were the manifestation of The Weaver through his channel, his vessel, and her dreams would all come true according to His already completed plan and not hers.  It was all so simple; a child could do it.  In fact, I am told that children often do.