On S/he who loves and knows us...
There was a call for a feminine concept of God. Here she is, as requested, as conceived one morning, while in prayer for a friend who was bravely facing surgery that had her life hanging in the balance. My friend was had such courage and confidence, and I felt so scared for her. Her chances of survival were minimal, but she did survive. A group of friends and acquaintances took turns through the day and night in the weeks before and after her surgery, storming heaven with our prayers. Afterward her doctors were startled by her vitality and healing.
The poem, is not like much of the heady intellectual stuff we've posted here previously. Still, perhaps it's time we try going about this from a different way of knowing, to try to feel some of the meaning beneath these arguments. To that end, I offer you this.
Bothie an Draoineach- The Weaver's Hut~
The whitewashed doorframe timbers,
A cold smooth threshold underfoot
And beyond, that great Oak.
Fragrance of box hedge
mixes with lavender, mint and thyme
crushed between flagstone slates of purple, rose and blue.
But I've arrived at the Weaver's hut
Long before my expected time.
Within I hear the moaning tune
Of Herself at the work,
Weaving in shadow and light.
Loving it all,
Blessing it as it is and soon shall be,
Conceiving more than I
With my five senses and
These three dimensions
Might ever perceive.
Does the thread follow her dreaming,
Or are her hands led by each image's longing to be made?
Maybe they twist themselves to tell the story,
Glimmering, beckoning on their bobbins,
Longing to be unwound, involved in a pattern
Which to my novice eye is all a tangle?
Dare I enter here? --To behold how
All I am is but a bit of thread wrapped round some sticks
To be blown in the wind and washed in what waters I cannot say?
I've stumbled on her dyer's garden and her doorway,
Surely I cannot come in.
Still I sit and imagine
crossing that threshold.
What welcome may there be
as I enter this first home?
The promise is for more than bones...
I'd be greeted with a meal
And allowed to stay.
An apprentice to the work.
I might carry sticks for the fire,vneeded in the making of dyes.
I’d learn the cultivation of those herbs-Madder, Marigold and Wode-
glean the intricacies of spinning such stuff,
unwinding the silk cocoons...
But surely my hands roughened from the work
Would stick like nettles to each thread.
While She who's toiled in the making of each day,
Who delights in an eternity of work as play,
Seems but to caress the silk cap,
And each strand falls aligned by its inner nature.
Aye, I could hew the wood
Or dig the garden patch,
Lay the table,
Make straight each place of rest,
But past the portal I dare not go, not yet.
It’s enough for now to know the house is here.
In a dream a Wise Woman told me long ago,
I may one day enter in, only take it slow.
So I rest on the doorstep of the Weaver's hut
Wary of the lessons I have yet to learn,
But praise Her
Who sings the aching song.