I am going home, at long last, to the Misted Hills.
You know that I often talk about the way that weaving doesn’t begin with the first throw of the shuttle. It begins with the first glimmer of an idea.
So does this homecoming. Where did it begin? There was the night in Soho when I wandered into a little Tibetan shop and bought a lock shaped like a fish. This, I promised myself, was the lock for my potting shed door. Of course I had no potting shed, but I suddenly had the promise of one.
I may stay there for one or two years, living somewhat reclusively in this hilltop retreat. The past few weeks have been the steepest part of the journey, and I know I am almost there. I have to hold on to what energy remains, to get myself there. So much of my personal energy has gone into it, melting obstacles in my path and generally forcing communication despite Mercury retrograde.
I have been away from the loom for a couple of weeks. The journey is unfolding in strange and unexpected ways. The carefully planned expedition has turned into an adventure that has fallen from the sky, tumbling me out of my dreams and into a new reality.
Prophetically, I wrote in mid-january that I did not want to arrive half-naked and shivering at my destination. I wanted to weave my way home. Yet, here I am packing boxes and making whirlwind visits to to secure my future in the place where I belong. I am wide awake and no longer dreaming. I can weave when I get there. My black rags may have to clothe me for a while longer, but I am on the journey home.
In Buddhism, those who are on the path of the bodhisattva, those who strive to live in the moment and ease the suffering of the world, are said to be awake.
I leave you with a small glimpse of my misted hills. In winter, so many of the colors are just memories, but I stood at the window for a long time, drinking in the view until the sun set behind me.