The Single Thread

The single filament appears before my eyes like it has conjured itsef from thin air. The silky thread stretches from the corner of my laptop, at a 35-degree diagonal, upward and to the right. My eye can only follow the thread a short distance. Then it seems to dissolve into nothing.



I climb on my chair and follow the silvery cobweb higher, but I cannot trace it to the ceiling. The line is taught; there is no slack. I must trust that the connection to the ceiling is intact, tho I cannot see it. There is no sign of the spinner. She is invisible, too.



I try not to move my laptop all day. I want the thread to remain intact. I want it to remind me of the many paradoxes in my life.



That I am strong and delicate at the same time.



That I cannot always see where I'm going or where I've come from, but there is a direction.



That magical, whimsical things can attach themselves to the mundane in my life.



That I may have to adjust my perspective to see them, and even then, I may not see the complete picture.



That the spinner shows herself in all of nature. That I-We have been given both the gift and responsibility to enjoy her and to protect her.