Standing here, at the threshold— midpoint, cusp, inhale, exhale— light and dark folded into each other, the pull of what was, the whisper of what could be. New threads—gold, silver— woven in with the tenderness of unseen hands, old ones loosening, unraveling, not torn, not discarded, but unmade, unneeded, released into the hush of what no longer is. The gentle hands of the Divine Mother, weaving, singing, holding me in becoming— but not yet silk, not yet smooth. Still raw, st
