“Why? Why did Wu move?”
“You think,” the Master continued, “That Wu moved simply because she felt alone?” He smiled again. “No. She moved to test herself. As you will. You may find the stars up above. You may even find the wings to fly to them. You may trace their patterns beneath your skull and then you may find that you contain them. That is true. For most, that is the end of the way for a long while. But you have been walking and sitting already for a long while. So, perhaps it is time that we tell you the final test.”
I wait. I have many names. And I have been called many things--accurately and derogatorily. But I have been, until now at least, in my own mind, not a traveler, a seeker, keeper or an ancient, what I have been is waiting. I am the Waiter. So I wait now, as always.
“Yes,” said the master, “Your patience extends beyond you. And so does your impatience, which is why I am still with you.”
I laugh here. It is so good, it is such relief, after all this time to have a Master. To have one to look to, one to trust, one to keep company--at least of a certain kind.
“I will leave you now,” The Master said. “But ask yourself this: How does the spider wink at us? Why does the spider leave her threads across the world?”
I do not know the answer to this. So I stand still for the world to move and I move so the world will stand still. I watch the spider weave her webs between the azalea and the pine. I listen to the sounds her pulsing webs make. I trace the stars in her weaving. I find the universe in her incessant and incandescent work. In the evenings, I wait for the spider to walk the web, but no spider comes. She has left these threads. I listen as the rain drops seductively roll off the lines between my porch and the oak in my lawn. It could be because the spiders die and it is not their care anymore. But as I look further, I see strands of web strewn out across grass, between blades and trunks, between pine cones and bird nests, between feathers and glints of light. Perhaps, I think it could be because the spider has relocated and what she leaves behind is not her worry. But I can hear the rain I see off her thread, and I can feel the colors the light reflects off it.
Perhaps, I wondered to myself, she spins threads between branches, between pots and leaves, between cicada casings and woodpecker nests so that when we look out from our porches, in between our sips of tea and wine, we can see the shimmer of a thousand rainbows streaming across our lawn. Spiders have no eyelids. Perhaps this is how the they wink at us.
Wu shook for the same reasons spiders wink at us. She did not shake because she was afraid. She did not shake because she was lonely. She shook because she loved. Which means that she loved neither out of fear nor loneliness.
“Shake like that,” a voice from no time and place said, “and you will no longer have to wait. You can fly through the stars. You can make universes appear. You, in that sense, are creation. Can you,” it asked, “create the universe for another? Can you be the harbor for another? Can you make a thread between a dead tree and a hidden mineral that will reflect the whole spectrum of light even if you do not walk on it? Can you hold the world together while someone else walks in it? Can you make the rivers flow while she stands still in them? Can you move the mountains while she meditates in peace on them? That is the test. She will be there when the
