Spinning

Here is a poem by Walt Whitman that I often think of when I am spinning.

A Noiseless, Patient Spider


A noiseless, patient spider,
I mark'd, where, on a little promontory, it stood, isolated;
Mark'd how, to explore the vacant, vast surrounding,
It launch'd forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself;

And you, O my Soul, where you stand,
Surrounded, surrounded, in measureless oceans of space,
Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing,--seeking the spheres, to connect them;
Till the bridge you will need, be form'd--till the ductile anchor hold;
Till the gossamer thread you fling, catch somewhere, O my Soul.





The photo is of a lovely black and yellow argiope, commonly known as a "writing spider." They are among my favorite spiders, but I'm also fond of jumping spiders and wolf spiders. The little black and white drawing is of a spider "ballooning." It is letting out strands of silk filament to catch the wind so that it may be carried away on the breeze to a new location. Scientists believe that this is how spiders managed to spread themselves all over the world--even across large bodies of water--just by letting themselves be blown about on the wind, sailing along on their little silk threads.

When I am spinning, the fiber becomes a part of me. As I spin, filament after filament twists together to form a thread that goes from hand to wheel, twisting and winding in a harmony I cannot describe, but feel and sense as the fiber slips out from my hand, twirling and winding onto the bobbin. I am reeling out my thoughts, my energy, my love, my spirit, my soul into a thread that will connect me to something else. Someone else. Someplace else. "Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing,--seeking the spheres, to connect them;" as the poet says. The thread from me, from my hands, out, out to where I cannot go. Taking part of me with it; taking me out with it. I draft and draw out the fiber; I draft and draw out my soul. Unlike the spider, I cannot balloon myself away on my fragile thread to other places, other worlds, but the fiber I spin can take a part of me with it wherever it goes. It carries a part of me as long as it lasts for I have put my very self, a part of me, into my thread. The noiseless, patient spider sending itself out on a fine thread. The noiseless, patient spinner sending herself out on a fine thread, her soul out on a little twisted filament.

"Till the bridge you will need, be form'd--till the ductile anchor hold;
Till the gossamer thread you fling, catch somewhere, O my Soul"."



(read this poem and more at poets.org)