Spider Medicine: The Storytellers

Black Widow bit me in a dream early last week. I had completely forgotten about it until she appeared again in ceremony for a client. She stood 10' tall in my living room, her back grazing the top of the ceiling in time with the exhale of her breath. She hunched her massive frame downward to meet me face-to-face; my image reflected a thousand times in her own.

"This is sacred space here," I state firmly. "Only those of the highest and the best are welcome." She didn't move. She didn't flinch an inch. Instead, she held her ground and commanded that I get on her frequency. Her level. I understood very quickly that I had a guest in my home.

"Okay, Grandmother Spider. I see you and I acknowledge your presence. What is it that you want me to know?"

Satisfied, she shrank to the size we recognize and began to climb up a single thread of gold.

"All stories of the ancient ones are stored in the threads of the Spider,” she said. "Like strands of your DNA, we hold the records of these tellings and help spin the strands of thoughts into a complex but cohesive structure.

All the great tellings are retellings the story-makers adapted. The story-makers must learn to come forth in new ways to reach the people of their times."

The widow spider reached to top of golden silk, a thread tied to the finger of an Abuela in the sky. Grandmother Spider climbed into Abuelas palm. Abuela swallowed her whole. As she opened her mouth and rolled out her tongue, hundreds of millions of baby widows poured from her belly. Each spun their own golden thread and dangled from her fingers, lowering themselves onto the people of the earth.

I watched as each of these spiders bit a person. That person became intoxicated by an idea, a telling of truth or story never known to them. Some acted upon this inspiration immediately and began to furiously record the idea down. Some fantasized about its perfection, while others hoarded the idea in fear of losing it to another. To those who chose to keep the idea in fantasy or in fear, the widow spider showed its belly, a red hourglass: their time was up and the idea began to wane. No longer were the words present. No longer was the idea whole. The spider's gift, the toxin of the memory from the great elders had worn off on the mind of the living. And off Spider went to find someone new to share its gift with.

To those that honored the teaching with retelling, they received more attention and more inspiration until the singular strands of thought had been spun into a web that became capable of nourishing life on its own.

the seeds to our life's garden

Imagine a plant in front of you. It's just a little seeding, its stalk barely strong enough to support itself without bend. You unwrap its roots from its burlap binding and gently shake the loose soil away. The roots dangle; stretching, searching, breathing.

This little seedling has unlimited potential. It can grow to be as big as it wants, living for hundreds of years and come to house an entire ecosystem within its lifetime. This one seedling can easily affect, and change the lives of millions.

You want this seedling to grow. You want it to be whatever it wants to be. So you give it water and food, you give it sunlight and the space to spread its roots. You wouldn't ever think to look at this seedling and say, 'I know you're supposed to grow into an Oak, but I just don't think you're capable.' You wouldn't dream of telling it that it's too small, puny, or too insignificant to ever be what it was born to be. That its leaves will never reach beyond the canopy, and its roots would never split the earth... would you?

We carry seedlings like this in our hearts every day. They are our dreams and aspirations and help us reach the heights we were born to achieve. Fear only paralyzes the potential. I have planted so many new opportunities in poison, yet wondered why they never grew.

To water the seedling is to dream with it, not against it.
To feed it, offer kind words. Give it something good to grow on.
Sunshine beckons for opportunities—take action!
And most importantly, pick your soil carefully. Cultivate the ground with skills, experience, and education.

Remember, everything good takes time to grow. Seeing positive changes within your life and yourself are no different. May we all be so fortunate as to grow into our dreams.

'the seeds to our life's garden' / Jamie Homeister

Jamie HomeisterComment
I choose

The trouble with both.
This is a topic I'm seeing right now over, and over, and over again. Let me tell you, when someone's heart isn't being respected in their home, there isn't a thing in this world that they will experience that feels right, or feels true, or where they feel good enough. Call me progressive, but I believe when we say "I do", it really means, "I choose."

I choose to be a part of your challenges.
I choose to make an effort to see things for you from your perspective.
I choose to be a part of your journey, however that takes form.
I choose to believe the goodness you've shown me will continue.
I choose to give you the opportunity to right your wrongs.
I choose to help you when you fall; to be available and accessible when you need me (and even in all those times when you don't.)
I choose responsible about how I speak to you, and of you.
I choose to be a participant in your life and do my best to respect your growth, even if I don't understand it.
I choose to see this as a partnership, an honorable agreement between two who decide to try to learn all the hard stuff together.
And, I choose to retain the right to retract this agreement should you ever decide to stop choosing us, and stop choosing me.

saying 'I do' /  by Jamie Homeister

you are my mirror

I had forgotten how strong you are.
I see a girl before me,
broken and entangled;
injected by a will she didn't ask for,
intruded by a power that wasn't meant to be hers.

I had forgotten about the courage it took to rise from this place.
To wake up the next morning.
To learn to breathe again.
How had I forgotten that?

Time has made me question if it was even real
but I remember when I see you,
split in two by a choice that wasn't yours;
a living object,
a stolen prize.

I didn't see you as a huntress,
a woman looking to reclaim the rights back to the true light of her soul.
A light that had been harvested from her very core,
held captive in their memory.

I didn't see you as a tower of strength,
waking up day after day in a bed you can't get out of to make,
wondering what in this world even belonged to you anymore.

I didn't see any of this:
a shape-shifting warrior.
A goddess in trial.
All I could see was my twelve-year-old self.
And my thirteen-year-old self.
And my fourteen-year-old self.
And my fifteen-year-old self.
And my twenty-year-old self.

All I could see was you as my mirror,
and feel an earthquake rumbling
from fault lines still hidden
still skewed
even after all these years.

You are the most powerful woman in the world.
With your back straight
and jaw strong,
you still let the tears fall from your face
and collect in a heart cut wide open to me.

How did I not see you there?
How long have I not seen me?

'you are my mirror' / Jamie Homeister

Jamie HomeisterComment