The Web Makes the Weaver

Afternoon sunlight filtered through the shifting tapestry of autumn leaves as I walked with Hana, one of my hiking companions, our conversation meandering between book recommendations and uplifting discoveries on recent hikes. She mentioned reading something called The Web Makes the Weaver—or perhaps a similar title—exploring traditional Chinese medicine and acupuncture's ancient wisdom. Though I couldn't locate the exact book online later, the phrase has lingered in my thoughts for days.

The concept delights me precisely because it inverts our expectations. We naturally assume the weaver creates the web, yet here lies a profound truth wrapped in delightful surprise: the web shapes its maker just as surely as the weaver shapes their intricate product.

Different spiders craft entirely different webs depending on their needs and surroundings—a reminder that environment profoundly influences creation. The exquisite circular masterpieces I discovered glistening with morning dew in the mountains represent just one architectural approach. Orb weavers construct these geometric marvels that supposedly capture sound waves, allowing the spider to actually hear approaching prey. Others fashion what appear to be chaotic boxy traps or delicate cocoons nestled within late-summer bushes and ground cover—each design perfectly suited to its creator's survival needs.

We humans emerge as products of our own intricate webs: the communities that embrace or challenge us, the stories and headlines we allow to penetrate our consciousness, our seemingly coincidental daily encounters, our families, even our beloved pets (as my black cat demonstrates by stalking across my keyboard at this very moment!). Our deepest desires and sharpest conflicts intensify through everything we touch, simultaneously influencing what we ourselves release into the world—the words we speak or commit to paper, the digital contributions we generate, the tender or hurried touch we bestow upon our loved ones, the smiles or scowls we offer fellow drivers navigating traffic's daily chaos.

As a writer, coach, and family member, my web consists of words of affirmation, constructive guidance, gentle encouragement, and thoughtful questioning. Words carry tremendous power, yet in our current climate they're often hurled about carelessly, as if they possessed no capacity for destruction. Irish poet Pádraig Ó Tuama wisely observes that "the power of words to wound is also a measure of the power of words to heal"—a truth that challenges me to help us all spin our webs of words and touch toward healing our fractured communities, the very webs that shaped us.

I strive earnestly to honor this ideal, though I do stumble in the privacy of my own heart or within my living room's sanctuary. Yet I believe each of us wields profound influence over those within our orbit. We possess the capacity to spin words of love, welcome, and peace—should we choose to accept that responsibility. In these times when our collective web feels particularly fragile, perhaps we might remember that every thread we add either strengthens or weakens the whole, and that we are both the weavers and the woven.

The Unlikely and Unimaginable

In my last post, I shared Rebecca Solnit's uplifting words: "The grounds for hope are simply that we don't know what will happen next, and that the unlikely and the unimaginable transpire quite regularly." I turned to this wisdom repeatedly last week, clinging to it like a lifeline amidst the relentless churn of tragic headlines—more shooting deaths, violent rhetoric both spawning tragedies and erupting in their wake. How do we hold onto hope and light when companies profit from an "engage to enrage" model that fractures us as a people, turning neighbor against neighbor for the sake of clicks and quarterly earnings?

I found my answer in retreat. Shutting off news feeds and email notifications, I fled to the mountains with friends and family, seeking sanctuary on a clear mountain lake and nearby trails. We surrendered ourselves to the symphony of water threading alongside the path, our steady footsteps on damp, leaf-littered earth, and the kaleidoscope of early fall foliage—leaves glistening pale yellow, peachy orange, and bold crimson against large boulders.

Over two days, we hiked twenty-six miles and climbed over 3,500 feet, sometimes filling the trail with stories and laughter, other times letting the profound quiet wrap around us like a benediction. And there, in that sacred space between effort and grace, we discovered Solnit's "unlikely and unimaginable" manifesting with startling frequency.

A rare, heavy fog descended to the meadows, bifurcating the massive peaks so they appeared to float like ancient ships above a silver sea. Countless spiderwebs, heavy with morning dew, materialized against dead branches—intricate mandalas outlined in crystalline perfection. A pair of plump gray ptarmigan materialized on a rocky slope, camouflaged and confident, regarding us with steady gaze.

The season's first snowstorm blessed us with fat flakes that kissed our gloves and dusted the high country beyond Winter Park with delicate tracings of white. Aspen groves revealed their autumn metamorphosis in waves—first glowing buttery yellow, then deepening to pale orange, finally blazing crimson on various altitudes and rock faces, each grove responding to its unique microclimate with painterly precision. Rain drummed against the cabin roof as we gathered around a worn wooden table, savoring warm soup and losing ourselves in card games punctuated by laughter.

The catalog of small miracles grew with each passing hour, and I began wielding it as counterweight to the crushing headlines from the world below. Each dewdrop, each bird call, each moment of shared laughter became evidence of a different truth—that beauty persists, that wonder endures, that connection transcends the manufactured divisions designed to keep us scrolling and seething.

Now, settled back into my familiar desk chair with the glow of the computer screen replacing mountain vistas, I clutch these memories like smooth worry stones worn gentle by countless hands. The unlikely and unimaginable didn't abandon us when we descended from those heights—it simply awaits our attention, ready to unfold in ways we cannot predict or orchestrate. Hope isn't about knowing what comes next, but about remaining radically open to the glowing miracles that surround us, even in—especially in—our darkest hours.

Seeking Balance, Arms Outstretched

"I'm convinced that the best time is always now, and the best memory is always tomorrow." - Kilian Jornet

The transition back to structured days feels like learning to walk again after months of weightlessness. After the privilege of a long break from coaching—those glorious weeks of travel and adventure when time stretched elastic and unhurried—I've returned to the familiar rhythm of pool decks and whistle blasts, regular withdrawals of energy mapped against the clock's relentless march.

I love working with our swimmers and coaches, teaching young athletes how to refine technique with increasing grace and power. But my body rebels against the 8:45 p.m. finish, a time that would otherwise find me nestled in pajamas, book spine cracked open against the lamplight. Now the morning sleep stress compounds with each emergency headline that assaults my coffee ritual, their collective weight settling like sediment in my chest.

I miss the untethered days of digital silence—no email pinging its demands, no computer tethering me to distant catastrophes. Being gently unhooked from certain realities offered unexpected gifts of peace. Yet there's comfort in rediscovering my place within daily routines, in the purposeful act of working and giving back. Still, balancing my personal rhythms against the madness churning elsewhere often feels like attempting to surf again—arms outflung for stability, maintaining a precarious crooked stance on my board as the swells threaten to topple me.

The quote that begins this reflection initially lodged in my mind's faltering gears, mental machinery grinding against their simple wisdom. Jornet is a world class adventurer, hiking mountains beyond mountains - could I apply his truism within my daily pedestrian routines? Gradually the gears loosened, lubricating those rusty wheels toward something approaching optimism. I can still believe the best time is now and my best memory is tomorrow, even if I'm not on a plane - or a mountain.  As Rebecca Solnit reminds us: "The grounds for hope are simply that we don't know what will happen next, and that the unlikely and the unimaginable transpire quite regularly."

I offer these words here because they feel both down-to-earth and aspirational—twin qualities that might offer some peace of mind as we all navigate our own unsteady waters, arms outstretched, searching for balance.