The Wish and the Weaver

What happened when I tried to make a wish and met something holier instead.

Last night, after a day so peaceful it felt like heaven was pressing its cheek to the earth, I took a walk. I was trying to return to myself after a painful rupture—something sudden and jarring that broke open my serenity just after I’d found it. I had spent the day in alignment: caring for Levi, immersed in nature, screen-free, Spirit-filled. I made dinner, I sparkled inside. My nervous system had been, for once, a sanctuary.

And then, just as easily, it wasn’t.

So I went walking. And what happened on that walk became its own sacred story.
Here’s what I want to remember.

—

I walked my grief like a silent prayer through the neighborhood dusk,
my skin still salted from the sacred pool where I had played mother and child
under a sky that forgot how to wound.

The air was thick. The world humming.
And I asked for peace—not from above, but from within.

Then I saw her.
Not the star—
the spider.

But let me begin again.

I saw the star first. A single shimmer in a still-blue sky, the only one brave enough to show up early.
I smiled like a child remembering:
Star light, star bright…
And just as I began to summon my wish—
I stopped.

One step more and I would have walked directly into her kingdom.
A vast web stretched across my path, vibrating with moonless mystery,
and in its center: she.
White. Meaty. Alive.
A holy terror.

—

🕷️ The Weaver Herself

I looked up, ready to make a wish—and nearly walked into her. She caught me mid-spell, dangling like a molten lantern in the dusk. I circled wide and listened. She had something older than wishes to say.

—

I gasped—not from disgust, but awe.
She had caught my attention the way fate does—sharp, certain, refusing to be ignored.
My body knew to step aside.
My spirit knew to listen.

I circled wide and watched her move, delicate and resolute,
her body balancing a thousand stories in silk.
She was not here to haunt me.
She was here to halt me.
To say:

🕸️ “Wishes are not spoken through your mouth tonight.
You have already cast them with your life.
Let the web hold what you hunger for.”

I recorded her like an oracle, mesmerized by the terrible grace of her presence.
She wasn’t pretty. She was powerful.
She didn’t grant wishes. She wove them.

And I think now
that maybe that star wasn’t there to hear my wish—
but to light the path to the weaver.

When I returned home, I sat in my fairy ring,
damp and human again,
and whispered only this:

“God already knows.”

—

❤️‍🔥 May your own path be lit by small stars, and your deepest prayers be heard by creatures stranger and wiser than you expected.

*Addendum-

I walked back to see her in the rising sun and she had vanished without a trace.