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.

Restraint Collapse

 A New YorkTimes headline caught my attention: "End of day meltdowns are not just for kids: but there are ways to avoid them." I clicked immediately, recognizing myself after barely making it to 6pm on Friday before snapping at the dinner table and retreating to a dark room to binge-watch "Scandal."

The article discusses "after-school restraint collapse"—something any parent will instantly recognize from those afternoons when children arrived home emotionally spent from behaving throughout their school day. I remember many days when my kids needed snacks and an hour of quiet time before they could start homework or tell me about their day. If I rushed that process, I paid for it with sharp words and pent up frustration.

During those years of raising young children, I often faced my own nightly meltdowns. But it's been a while since I've experienced restraint collapse this intensely. Last week marked my first seven-day stretch at home in months, packed with work training, cleaning up after William's move, and supporting all three kids through major life transitions. Add three early morning workouts and oppressive heat, and the breakdown was inevitable.

My outburst—something along the lines of "You never listen to me! I'm not even important to this family!"—felt justified in the moment. I blamed the heat, menopause, early mornings, everything except my failure to recognize the warning signs. I should have listened to my body's cues and set boundaries much earlier. A nap, some quiet time, or simply saying no to one activity could have prevented the explosion.

The timing of the dinner table was particularly painful. These rare evenings when Rob and I are both home feel precious, with both of us managing constant demands on our time and energy. I don't want to fill this time with my personal restraint collapse. Perhaps I'll have mastered this balance of self-care and parenting by the time we have grandchildren. I certainly hope so—I don't want the grandkids putting me in timeout.

After years of helping others manage their emotions, I'm still learning to tend to my own with the same care and attention.

Never Say Never: A Lesson in Staying Open

Colorado nurtures a passionate subculture of hikers who "bag 14-ers"—translated for the uninitiated, this means they've summited peaks above 14,000 feet. Our state boasts 58 such giants, and dedicated climbers spend years collecting that coveted number. Prior to summer's arrival, I had conquered 12 of these mountains, most alongside my family, and I'd convinced myself my mountaineering days were behind me. A sticky hip joint and months without practice seemed to seal that verdict—I counted myself retired from high-altitude adventures.

Aden changed my mind with her proposal that we tackle La Plata —"the silver" -- named for the mining territory around its base. She assured me it was relatively easy (the word "relatively" doing heavy lifting) and sweetened the deal by suggesting we stay in a local hotel rather than endure the brutal 2:30 a.m. alarm and pre-dawn drive from home. "Hotel" and "sleep"—those magic words—dissolved my resistance like sugar in warm coffee.

We stirred at 4 a.m., reached the trailhead by 5, and began our ascent in darkness at 5:15. A half-moon hung like a comma against the star-punctured sky, but the rocky trail remained obscured beneath dense tree cover, making our headlamps essential. We climbed for an hour before the lamps became unnecessary, rewarded as sunrise painted the nearest peaks in watercolor washes of rose and gold. Moving with patience, we mounted the rocky switchbacks above tree line sooner than anticipated.

We encountered a father and teenage daughter resting on a ridge, their labored breathing visible in small puffs. Their jeans and tennis shoes betrayed their inexperience before the father confirmed it: "It's my first." Aden offered water and electrolytes, which they declined, but then I spotted the gun holstered outside his jeans. I ushered us forward, puzzled by what threat he imagined. Few souls populated these heights, and our only wildlife encounters involved pikas and soaring birds. I was grateful for his daughter's presence—if he was a single man with a gun, my internal threat level would have escalated.

Our next encounter proved more inspiring: an extraordinary woman from Texas who appeared to be in her forties. She was pursuing a week-long mountain pilgrimage and had conquered two 14-ers by Wednesday—La Plata marked her third. She scrambled through the boulder field, losing the trail's thread, so she waved us ahead. With Aden navigating, we left the Texan behind and I marveled at her achievement—nine 14-ers accomplished during just two weeks of vacation. Since I require five full days to recover from a single climb, I felt humbled.

The boulder fields tested our patience and the scree slopes demanded careful attention, but we emerged onto a wind-less summit beneath skies touched only by the faintest smoky haze. Fellow conquerors—including a trio of young musicians visiting from the Aspen Music Festival—snapped our photos. Most of us settled onto the rocky summit to savor snacks while our eyes wandered across the magnificent panorama stretching in every direction.

Astonished to find myself once again perched atop a mountain, I offered gratitude to both my daughter (inspiration) and my physical therapist (functioning hip and knee) that carried me here. I'm learning to never say never, to keep my dance card open for adventures I might too hastily dismiss. Sometimes the most unexpected journeys begin with someone else's invitation and our willingness to say yes despite our perceived limitations.