In the night as mushrooms grow I drew a silk ribbon of story, a fine slip of skeletal pattern to wrap a etherial being.
I drew patterns of what was before, of the history of the mushroom's material, long decayed life forms, I drew leaning on this book
This morning I caught the light through echoes of lacy layers
And in the listening air opened my notebook incase some words might come while i stitch. This page opened forgotten, pressed flowers positioned by chance, stuck as they dried in a form to mean something to me today, patterns of serendipity
As I listen I sense that listening is all I can do, there is no striving to hear in this liminal land of what might play into being, we cannot grasp at the patterns of serendipity and yet must not discount our perception in bringing such inspiration to be
and then from the silence's simmering shiver shimmer that stretches...a few words emerge
'In the mushroom's dress, dance the tree top leaves,
In the jellyfish's water pulse shadow morning glory are born'
I write these words before I start to wind the dress, before the pauses in which my hands follow my eyes to scraps of lace stockings and gloves, and yet when I have wound the mushrooms stem dress and look, I see the leaves dancing behind the mushrooms and the daisy silhouettes above are as myriad suns in the miniature world of fey.
What are these pathway patterns of serendipity i have tranced in skipping steps today? It seems they might be in their call of meaningful mystery a story of our belonging, of the act of merely glimpsing which nourishes our connectivity.