It appeared at dinner time, and I almost missed it. Spinning, as a creative resolution, was far from my mind.
My one-year-old had pulled up on my leg, whining, as I bent to lift him, I caught sight of it, almost concealed on the speckled countertop.
A tiny dark brown thing.
There was a diaper change in my near future, and a pile of chopped carrots, pierogis, brown-shelled eggs awaited.
I didn’t really have time to usher a spider outside.
I thought about brushing it into the sink, washed down the drain, but I remembered my resolution, my new year of spinning.
I bent close. I whispered.
I’ll be back in 5 minutes, and I hope you’re gone.
I finished making dinner. I served it and ate it and cleared the dishes. I said goodnight to my kids and husband and got in the car and drove to the library to work.
I didn’t give the spider much thought until hours later, undressed and in bed.
I am tired.
I am, of my own accord, spinning. It is beautiful, exhausting.
Days I wonder: Is this the life I want?
I wonder and then there is this presence that I sense behind me as I write. There is no escaping that ghost, or the ghosts, who hover there. They come to watch. They come to help. They come to feel whole.
Like the spider, I am weaving. I am spinning. I create, and I draw these spirits to me, and they come through me and I through them.
There is an order to this, I am sure. There is an order to the Universe, and I will learn it.
I keep spinning.
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Featured image by Genta Mochizawa / Unsplash