Mary Batson from www.frontporchrambles.com sent me this yesterday. It really resonated with me, and I asked her permission to share it with you:
I was drinking coffee and reading a book on fractals and quantum physics and the holographic nature of our universe, and how that all weaves together with the ways we are co-creating this current version of our world and our lives – and as the rain flows and blows, wildly at times, thunder crashing and lightning striking all around, and I’m being reminded of the need to “hold it together” – always, those same words coming back and back (again).
In great rains such as this, the water floods and inundates, and great changes can occur. For those of us so called, these are the times when we can spin our webs and indeed, hold it together. And I was reminded of a dream two nights ago, in which it was clear that the space I was visiting, the land and the place, the world, the state of consciousness, was old and dying – nothing could grow there anymore – even the trees were gone, a desolate scene, the grass dead and brown, and in places ripping away, and in a strange way there were two membranes, the best I can describe it, that were being torn away from the brown, almost rotting earth. If you’ve ever put down plastic to cover a garden space and then ran into it in later years while planting, you know the picture: the rotting, shredding, plastic; but this was more like an organic membrane.
A cell wall, perhaps? Who knows. But it carried the idea, and was coming again this morning, with the rain and the huge storms, that as our world is in the midst of huge change right now, in all ways including physicality; that as these membranes are tearing away, it brings the element of instability. The membranes that used to hold things together aren’t there any more, or they’re weak or they’re full of holes.
And this is when we can step into our role of spinning the new webs, the new membranes, and -at least for this time and moment – cast a silken web, a silken weave, around the world, around our homes, around our hearts…wherever we feel called, as far and wide as our webs reach, in all time frames and dimensions, both known and unknown, holding it together, holding the Earth, cushioning it, cradling it.
And as I spun mine this morning, I see it reaching further and further, a silken net, holding, holding, edges racing wider and wider in spiraling circles, drawn and pulled by a giant army of spiders, the master weavers, the greatest spinners of all, like the circles of time racing out to the rescue, doing exactly what they were sent here to do.
Weaving the web, creating the shield, protecting the Earth on whatever level you choose to see it, holding it together, and as they weave, they sing and they dance, and the water races off the top of the web, sluicing into the ditched, into the drainage systems, into the rivers, flowing safely into the places meant for it, down deep, down deep, down deep into our Mother, into the hidden recesses where it can be safely stored until the time is right for rebirth. And as the spiders sing, their words reach my ears:
“I’m singing in the rain, just sing—ing in the rain….”
Yes, they are, and glorying in it.
May your web be mighty, may your song be bright. Spin it out. And so it is. And I am grateful. Namaste.
I join with you, Mary, in the weaving.
All original material posted to this site is (c) 2013. This article is (c) Mary Batson, frontporchrambles.com.
Photo credits: Wikipedia