Welcome to the fireside where we share our stories. This is my story of how I arrived here, writing and putting them on this platform. There is something for each of you - for those who love the written word enjoy reading and for those who love to listen just hit play up above.
The long night of listening—the night that lasted for months—was over. It was time to hear the wisdom from the world above. She heard it: the whisper, carried through the smoke hole, rolling over the rocks that had sheltered her. The small, quavering voice invited her out of the cave, to rise through the smoke hole and into the forest. It was time to see the light again.
She saw the mosses first—lush and green, a color so rich it saturated her eyes. The trees, old and bent, left a path to follow, whispering their greetings as she passed. She trusted the path. She knew that whisper was calling her to hear the wisdom, to learn where she was to travel next.
Through the dappled light, she saw it—the web suspended between two trees. She could hear the shuttle weaving in and out of the warp, a hum that filled the air.
And then there was the Weaver—the one she had met before. The one who showed her that the world is woven by stories and song, that all of us are part of the whole.
The Weaver beckoned her with a strong, weathered hand, sculpted by sun, wind, and weaving. “Come and see the web; it holds more than when you last saw it.” The silver warp strings shimmered, holding colors that danced in and out, blending together—breathtaking, captivating, leaving her speechless. “Come, it’s time for you to know the weaving.”
With that, the Weaver offered her hand, pulling her forward and allowing the woman to step into the Weaver’s body. Looking through eyes that had witnessed the breathing of the world—maybe even the first breaths—she saw the web, now so different than it had appeared just a moment before.
The silver warp strings still held the form of the weaving, but the colors that had danced were now crisp and layered, like sediment. Patterns and forms were distinct, and she knew them all. These stories and songs were woven into her being and captured in the web. The weaving gave shape and form to a part of the world. It held it all—the beauty and destruction, the joy and sorrow, life and death, and new life born from death. It captured the cycles of the seasons and the moon, stories of belonging, exile, and return—finding the wild that always was and will be.
Her hand began to move, weaving with a surety and ease she had never known before. She began to understand. This was not a task to follow a pattern; it was about being a vessel. The stories flowed to her, through her, and onto the web. There was no effort in this body because the Weaver had learned to open herself as a conduit for the sacred.
Having learned all she needed, the Weaver returned to her own body, allowing the woman to do the same. As they stood, facing each other—one with ancient eyes, the other just learning to see—the Weaver reached into the pocket of her cloak for the gift the woman was ready to receive. The shuttle was made of wood, and at its center was a bobbin wound with thread.
“Now you know how. So, it’s time for you to weave, dear one. You have been called. It’s time to weave the crone into your being and then into the world.”
With those final words, the Weaver handed the shuttle to the woman, turned back to her weaving, and continued her work. The woman, holding the shuttle with both hands, raised it to her heart, whispering her gratitude to the wind, who would carry it to all those who had called her. She walked away, knowing what was next and trusting the path ahead.
This is my story, a gift from the Great Mystery, given to me last fall during an imaginal journey. It’s the story that began to pull me into writing— a path of reflection that I’m gradually embracing as my resistance melts away. Calls like this have always felt like an invitation I can’t refuse as it draws me to the wild edge where everything feels new, exciting, and just a little dangerous.
Every journey has its companions, and I invite you to join me. Be warned: it will be wild and expansive, just enough to feel a bit risky. Oh, and there will be dancing, because don’t wild edges need to be danced on?
