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| by Frank Howell |
"I see the wise woman.
She carries a blanket of
compassion. She wears a robe of wisdom. Around her throat flutters a veil of
shifting shapes. From her shoulders, a mantle of power flows. A story band
encircles her forehead. She stitches a quilt; she spins fibbers into yarn; she
knits; she sews; she weaves. She ties the threads of our lives together. She
forms a web of spiraling threads.
I see the wise woman. She is at
her loom: a loom warped with days and nights. White threads, black threads
receive her flying shuttle, a shuttle filled with threads of many colours of
the people of the earth. Some threads short; some threads long; each thread
different, each perfect. These threads are alive with sound and colour. These
threads are mutable; they change at a touch. These threads are crystal
antennae; they respond at a thought.
And intertwined with each thread
is a thread blood red: a thread of such sensitivity, it cannot be seen, yet a
thread of such vitality, it can never be hidden. As our blood flows over and
under the days and nights of our lives and binds each moment to the whole, so
the thread of the wise woman binds us in the tapestried, cosmic web.
I see the wise woman.
And she sees me." © Susun
Weed
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