I embark on my next delivery after an extended labour, birthing once more the now grown child who birthed me. A process towards the unfolding of this myth I call my life which is in fact a life that has me.

I am weaving again: Penelope the weaver transmuted to a weaver bird in the throes of nest building; the kind that hangs by a thread … I am following the thread that both time and life defy linearity, and all exists simultaneously in one single moment; one drop; one seed; one fallen leaf in the book of consciousness.

The first knot of the weaver’s lattice creation meets the last, which is also the first, that ties them all together in an amalgamation of existence … with that one lose thread of imperfection that can be a golden thread of a noose.

Strapping on my boots with my wings and pulling up roots like an Ent on the move, one piece of ground is no more or less important; only segregated by the ignorance of the construct of fear.

(written on the plane just before takeoff on 14/12/23)