Once upon a time, there was a night when I asked the Earth to take me. I prayed and bled tears, begged for a hole to open beneath me and swallow me whole. The inner unravelling was too much to bear. I lay in a field of wild grass, the only light in a vast and aching dark was the swollen full moon, pregnant. The burning pain in my chest felt like the end of me and, what I didn’t see then, is that it was the end of me. I had nothing left but wails and salt and surrender. So, I asked for the ground to open – to draw me into its dark belly for one last holy decomposition.
But instead… it gave me an intensely clear vision. The sky above me cracked open – black, vast – and in it I saw my own hands: Torn, bloodied, shaking. Stars scattered all about the black canvas void. Bloodied hands worn from a life of trying – and failing. A voice, ancient and holy, whispered only three words: Weave with stars. Again and again: Weave with stars…
That was the beginning of a journey I never sought, never imagined, never understood – but one that rooted itself deeply in me. A journey into my own soul, into surrender, into motherhood, into mystery. I did not understand it then, but the words became a thread that stitched themselves into my being. They returned each time I faced the rawness of being human – each time life stretched me beyond what I thought I could hold. And in those moments, all I would hear was: Weave with stars…
Over the years I’ve come to know that weaving with stars is no small thing. It is to weave with the unseen. To live not from plans or formulas, but from presence, awareness, grace and love. It is to become the hands that do not know exactly what they are doing, only that they are… and that somehow, that is enough. It is more than enough, it is holy.
A few months ago, I saw those hands again in a vision… but this time, they were not bloodied or broken. They were simply working and weaving, working and weaving – steady, quiet, weaving woollen thread at a loom. Oh, they were working! And it was beautiful! As if each movement was a hymn of praise and love itself. So devoted to the weaving that they had forgotten that they were even doing anything. Suf… Suf… Suf… The accompanying sound. Suf… Suf… Suf… Weaving, weaving, weaving.
The vision wove its way into my tapestry of life. Calling me to understand new depths of living, loving and parenting. I am just a walking story, like any other. Etched and scarred. Patterns and prints woven into this soul being that I call ‘self’. The unravelling came to rip apart pieces of this self that were no longer serving my deep, authentic soul being. But what came after that absolute inner death… were the same two hands. Their essence changed and refreshed, their wounds healed somewhat – and they were dancing in front of a loom…
My visions became holy visitations – a voice no less than a hush from the unseen, a breath from beyond the veil. To name it would be sacrilege. It bids to remain ineffable. It didn’t arrive with thunder or fanfare but rather pressed itself into my being like an ancestral watermark, a sigil left behind by the unseen hands of time. I yearned – ached – for explanations, for the deeper architecture beneath all… and yet, only the smallest droplets of divine revelation ever reached me. Each one, a holy offering. I drank them thirstily like a parched beggar might sip from the cracked rim of a sacred chalice.
I opened my eyes inward; I opened unto myself through them. And quietly, over time, subtle yet searing revelations rose from my depths like long-forgotten stars coming home to light. They arrived unannounced and sat beside me like old friends, like soul-companions returning.
In their glow, she appeared too – my grandmother, by the stove, always by the stove, stirring, cooking, baking, singing her inner-compass hymns. Her weariness silent and hidden, her heart a willing altar. Her hands – those holy instruments – carried generations. She would rise at the drop of a hat to feed the congregation, while her own soul, her voice, her dreams, were often swallowed by the enormity of duty. Silenced in ways I cannot explain to another and yet… I saw her. I heard her. I listened with wide eyes and a vulnerable open heart. I became the miner of her stories, gently coaxing the jewels from her memory-caverns, treasures buried beneath years of self-sacrificial duty. I loved those moments when the veil of obligation lifted and she was simply herself – radiant, raw, luminous with soul-truth. Her own mythology, spoken aloud.
And over there – my grandfather. Stooped, yet always reaching toward some upright dignity, clutching at the fading echoes of a masculine patriarchy that made him, silently broke him, and shaped him into this becoming. He had to believe his way was the way, that safety could be found within the known scaffolding of dictated belief. He holds such a posture of grace beneath his now translucent sheath of skin – fragile, luminous. His spine reflects the architecture of burdens, his pain a map of a lifetime spent carrying the unseen. I often watched him and wondered at the mirror between his body and his soul. And when he crossed over recently, I saw him again – his great hands stretched out in trust, drawn forward by a hidden pull, a current of divine magnetism. Love had come full circle. His ninety-year love affair with his Beloved had reached its crescendo and, at last, he surrendered – into the arms of the One he had walked with in gardens, in song, in bowed reverence. Together we would often cry, ask for forgiveness and forgive freely. The two of them – my holy grandparent duo – never closed the door of love toward me when I strayed from their beliefs. Instead, they held open the gate of unconditional love so I might wander where I felt called, even when it diverged from their own sacred grove. Somehow, they saw the infinite threads I worked with in my heart. Through them, I heard the hushed echoes of ancestral prayers – sent from lips I never knew, in tongues my mind cannot recall. Yet my body remembered. My blood remembered. A rhythm older than language stirred inside me, like a breath more ancient than time itself.
As foreign and peculiar as my perspectives may have seemed to them, there were moments when they received them – softly – and glanced back to the tapestries of their own lives. In their quiet way, they honoured my deep longing to create something new, something free, something radiant with joyous light. Unknowingly, they urged me to listen again to the long-forgotten art of the heart… the naked soul reaching forward, always seeking renewal and the sweetness of rediscovery. Their eyes would begin to glow, their bodies subtly illuminate, as they held my children close – breathing into them the forgotten dreams of our ancestors. They whispered silent prayers into the folds of time, prayers for the generations to come, hoping they might, just maybe, weave something new and release what has long been lost.
And my children know. Yes – they know it too. Not yet in words, but in shimmering, half-remembered ways that hover just beyond my reach, rippling through the cosmic waters. It is too mystical to fully grasp, yet their marrow and bones speak it to the morning sun and the moon at night. Quietly, they write soul-notes of their own, composing the strands of their tapestry, their own orchestral becoming.
And so, I stay here, with it all. In front of the golden loom of life. In stillness. In awe. Listening. Feeling. And in return I am held and guided by the rhythmic murmur beneath all things. Suf… Suf… Suf…
Eight sparkling eyes look to me daily, as though I know it all. And yet I know exactly how little I know. But I’ve come to understand that, as a human, I am the living, breathing touchpoint between the ancient past and the unborn future. The vessel through which soul, lineage and destiny converge in the now. I am the weaver – one thread drawn from the ancestral memory of all that came before, the other from the invisible realms of promise. I simply weave, with the hands of the present, holding both threads ever so lightly, reverently. In every conscious breath I take, with every intuitive act of love, I can weave something ancient and something new into the fabric of now. Humble fingers guided by the invisible – not perfectly skilled, but ever so immensely willing – holding the threads of both the memory and the dreams. In this way, I am not just raising children, I am not just a friend, not just a lover or partner, I am stewarding the evolution of life itself – one sacred moment at a time.
Weaving… Suf… Suf… Suf…
All throughout this journey – through the unravelling and the returning, through unfathomable visions and veiled working hands – suf suf suf became the subtle pulse beneath my existence. A silent mantra, plucking the tender chords of my heart over and over again. With every breath, every ache, every offering of presence, it strums me from within. To me it is not a word, but onomatopoeia in full bloom. A vibration subtly permeating all things. It is something I feel in my bones, the spiral of becoming. The quiet whisper of life weaving itself through human form, not a mantra to speak, but a current I hear in the sacred and holy stillness of the heart’s fulcrum. When breath slows, when thought dissolves, when only the thread of presence remains. It is the sound of weaving. The Divine moving through matter. The soul stitching time. In that sacred rhythm, I am no longer the doer. I am no longer trying to hold the pattern. I simply become the act of weaving itself. Becoming the breath that binds the threads. It is time undoing itself… and beginning again.
When I feel it, I am not meditating. I am not ‘doing’ anything. I am weaving with the Great Weaver. Here, I simply participate in the sacred act of holding the fabric of time together – through breath, through presence, through the yes in my bones.
Suf suf suf… the whisper of surrender between what was and what will be – the sacred yes between mother and child, between ancestor and unborn, between lover and loved, between soul and Source.
Suf. Suf. Suf.
