approaching the center

[athenagrey]

The spiral turns inward, away from the noise and the superficial gaiety of the season. I am conscious of how far away all that has become. I am comfortable here although I know I can't stay here for ever. 

The stillness is deepest when I am spinning at my wheel. Rhythmic movement takes the edge off my thoughts and allows me to send them back toward the door, with a pat on the head and a piece of chocolate for the journey. Weaving sometimes draws me here, but often the reality of keeping track of the treadles on the loom keeps me too connected to the everyday to really slip away from thinking.  Forget knitting. Anything that makes me look and count is going to keep me firmly rooted in the mundane. So, I spin. There is nothing to remember, nothing to see and nothing to count. The treadles go up and down and the yarn forms in my fingers. I am not there.

So far, the only surprise is that the center isn't a dark and unknown place this time. I've been here before, and I'm wondering why I have already received an answer, perhaps THE answer for this midwinter.

You bring your own light with you.

Write that down and think about it. That's how I'm going to spend my time in the center.

Comments

[readthisandweep.livejournal.com]

This is a beautiful post - thank you for sharing your thoughts.

*She is young as a newly unfurled seedling, as old as pale bone scattered across parched sand. Wind sings through her naked body, and she is newborn with old knowledge. Replete, essential, she exists at the centre of herself.
In a long wooden hall, above which arches a high vaulted roof, stands a great loom. Across it stretches a magnificent square of woven cloth, its silken threads as vivid as precious gems. Their colours glint in a sweeping spiral; deep amethyst, emerald green, garnet red and sapphire blue, overlaid with the image of a fantastic spider, her body traced with spun gold and threads of turquoise and magenta. She sits elegantly at the centre of a web formed from delicate strands of silver.
Arachne...
As Alice walks towards the loom, the woven cloth begins to undulate, and the spider dances across the brilliant web. The threads lengthen, spilling across the floor, rippling towards her. She stands quite still, awaiting their embrace, welcoming it. As the first strands begin to wind round her body she feels their touch, fragile yet indestructible, and yields to them.
Gradually the weave unravels, and seems to flow into her, pulsing with life. Brilliant light streams from her fingertips, the soles of her feet, her forehead. The great spider begins to dissolve into a whirlpool of colour, becoming part of the spiralling web. As the last strands swirl across the floor, Alice too begins to dissolve.
In the depth of her dream, she sees herself floating upwards, all artifice drained; all guilt purged, a channel now, mingling and evaporating like sun-scorched mist.*