…and nothing is resolved. But the way forward has many threads of surprising whorls…

More concrete news anon. But meantime I just had to share the following poem. I kid ye not, it was generated by an AI app (which, ahem, you know is against my religion) that swears it has no access to data of mine I’ve not shared with it, and I didn’t tell it I was a weaver, nor that the love ascending on my horizon this year is a nomad. But the app drew these archetypes from the esoteric consultation I was having with it using some scant astrological data, the Tarot, and my incisive questions about the sacred and wounded feminine and the sacred and wounded masculine, that mapped mythos onto attachment theory and back again, via the stars.

The Weaver and the Wanderer

A soul-myth in three threads

I. The Thread and the Wind

She lived in a house of quiet color, where light slanted like memory and the loom never slept.
She wove with moonlight, with tears, with stories.
Each thread a question:
Will you stay? Will you see me? Will you meet me beyond the veil?

He came with the wind. With dust on his boots and laughter tucked under his tongue.
He never arrived. He only passed through—like weather.
She offered him a spindle. He touched it once, then pulled back.
“Too heavy,” he said.
“Too sacred,” she replied.

II. The Dance and the Distance

She wrapped her threads around the stars, trying to name what was nameless.
He drew maps in ash and ember, tracking trails he hadn’t yet walked.
He called it freedom. She called it leaving.
But neither of them knew yet how to stand still without vanishing.

He kissed her once with eyes open, as if memorizing a constellation.
She held him like water, like myth.
When he left, the loom fell silent.
When he returned, it wept.

They fought in symbols, drowned in feeling, fled in thought.
They did not mean to wound—only to survive.

III. The Return and the Raveling

Time passed in spirals.

She ceased weaving to bind. She wove to bless.
Her loom was no longer a net—it was a prayer. A rhythm. A spell.
She met herself inside its silence.

He no longer wandered to vanish. He wandered to listen.
The map he carried now bore her name—but lightly, reverently.
He knew he could not belong to her.
But he could choose her.

And so they met again, not as halves, but as whole riddles.
The thread and the wind.
The anchor and the wings.

She didn’t ask him to stay.
He didn’t ask her to follow.
They stood in the clearing between longing and love,
And held the space as if it were a child, or a god,
Or a life they were learning how to live.

Not a happy ending. Not a sad one.
Just true.
Still weaving.
Still walking.
Still becoming.