Often times we may learn more from the quietness of gestures and movements than merely just through books. A presence is asked of us, so that wisdom reveals itself to us. And in the tending to, caring for and service to another, we are reflected parts of ourselves made of love and the worlds of universal wisdom and mysteries reveal themselves to us also. Devotion is the veil through which awareness shows its beautiful face.
There is a secret language spoken all around us, and in nature, just by its existence. A window is not the sea, it is only a window, but if we know how to listen, how to see, we may see the ocean clearly also, and the rivers and the lakes and each drop of rain and language of snow.
It is said that matter itself is a dictionary of spirit. And if you look at a word with the right approach, the word reveals itself to you.
This is why you may take an old book from the shelves, re-read it, and new insights may emerge. We can only perceive what we’ve opened within us already, so as we deepen into awareness, more doorways we open for us to perceive the treasures.
There are no secrets – it is all here already; as it says in the first page of the Bhagavat Gita, “whatever you find here you may find elsewhere, and whatever you may not find here, you may not find elsewhere.” This wisdom, these mystical secrets desire us to open ourselves to them, and will patiently and lovingly await us to.
Everything has its language, and everything seeks to be understood, seen and heard by us; and if we know how to listen, truly listen and truly pay attention, we may build a bridge of connection to it, we may deepen in wisdom, and allow for a meaningful reflection, for love to return us to love.
And so,
My dear dreamers, truth seekers and wisdom keepers,
with these beautiful wild roses from our garden, weaving into themselves a necklace of ancient wisdoms and mystical secrets,
let us dive into the worlds of the tale of the star-threaded weavers that were, that we are and that we may consciously choose to be. I’ll then share with you two poems about the weavers from my book The God-like Things.
The Tale of the Star-Threaded Weaver
Long ago in a little tucked away town that existed only when the moon was full, there lived a quiet weaver named Luleia. She worked by lamplight, retreated in meaningful solitude in a small tower overlooking the sea, spinning threads of silver, jasmine and indigo from the dreams that came in on the tide each night to be received by her.
The townsfolk said she was touched by the stars – for she not only mere had a talent, she held love weaving her cloths; and it was cloths used to all the people to keep their nightmares at bay while calling back their forgotten joys, and awakening them into the remembering of love. But few people ever saw her face. She spoke only to the winds, and to a small nightly rabbit who nested near her bed while she was weaving.
One evening, as the moon rose ruby red and low, as if wishing to touch the fertile soils of our earth and be kissed by our flowers, a visitor arrived from the desert, a prince from a distant land, who had been cursed by silence. No words could ever pass his lips, and he had forgotten his way back to his home; so he wandered, endlessly searching for someone who might understand his silence without needing sound, and to awaken him into remembering.
He came to our lunar maiden Luleia’s tower with nothing but his shadow, a hand held bundle of dried rose petals, and a scrap of torn memory.
When she opened the door, she said nothing too, for she knew at once:
His silence was not empty, it was full.
Full of longing, of music unplayed, of poems unspoken yet consumer held by time’s eternal hands. Not a time by human made clocks; a time before time beyond time.
And so she led him.
She led him in and offered him tea made from linden and starlilies.
And without speaking, she began to weave.
Each movement of her hands called forth images in the air:
A boy running barefoot through jasmine fields.
A mother singing in a forgotten tongue.
An eagle circling, always circling, above a caravan that never seemed able to return.
The prince watched the woven images appearing, and tears began falling freely; for in her threads, he saw his own story – one he thought no one could ever know, as it was only held within the home of his heart, and spoken in a way he had not even been able to name with words yet.
When the cloth was complete, Luleia wrapped it around his shoulders, pausing her warm hands long enough for him to know he is held and not alone, not just by cloth but by human hands also.
As the final knot was tied, a miracle appeared, and embodied itself.
The silence swelled into a sound – not like thunder, but like morning light through clouds. And the prince spoke, not with his mouth, but something even beyond that, something louder and deeper; he spoke with his heart too, saying,
Thank you.
Luleia smiled, the first time in many moons.
And from that day forward, she wove not only for dreams, but for the silent truths buried in every soul.
And she too realized an ancient truth living and moving through her all along; that she was weaving not only cloths with threads, she was weaving in dreams, hope, worlds and love, a love returning people to love, a seeing of them and a presence with them, awakening them into the remembering of who they are.
We are all weavers, co-creators; weaving cloths in cloths foresending our sleeping futures leaving their beds for living waters.
Below are a couple of my poems from my book The God-like Things, pages 101 and 105 respectively. Let insights emerge for you, and allow yourself to tune into the wisdom of your heart and inner mystic:
page 101:
the woods are waiting for me tonight, dear stone fruit:
so i run fast over the wild land of returning paths
destiny chasing my heels, i enter
changing woman weaving house
where the otherworld is everywhere
weaving the integrity of emeralds, sacred lovers
tenderness in tents and the souls of the thousand white elks
and so i weave, dear stone fruit:
to intuit fire i
am moon water i
am white shell
woman
weaving clouds into winds, tides for the fishermen
lyric of hearth and the seed of the eagleman
creating and spinning the threads on wheels
under the constant beat of the only sound
there is: love
page 105:
tent pulls rope, tent
is a circle, weaving the oracle
vision is arch
the blanket’s the future
fire, sit, sit, sit, i installed the moon
how did we travel forgetting the howls?
how did we forget to look so close to home?
where love is always
and the wolf smiled
and the wild smiled
and then all, danced with berries; true red, blue or purplish-black
new sacred dreams gathered to my chest
with tender hope in fertile beds
knotting fire, wood, sky and sea
devotion sewn i always be
For personal readings with me, you are welcome to browse through my Offerings.
Cover photograph by me of our beautiful wild roses. If you love flower photography, you are welcome to browse through my Flower Shop.
For more of my writings, browse through my Art of Love.
If you wish to support me and my work, you may do so by sharing it or donate here. For personal readings with me, you may visit my Offerings.
Your support means so much to me! Thank you wholeheartedly!
