The spider’s web is web of protection around art-making, around play, and around intentional community. It is a reader-supported publication for $6 a month. Please consider becoming a paid subscriber so as to support my work. Feel free to share this writing with your friends.
I went through training last year to learn how to be a better teacher. I stacked my schedule with appointments, readings, dates, and jobs. I was out-and-about playing the game, doing the good work as some would say. People were coming to me and telling me things that were hard and heavy to hold. I sat with them, held their hands, and listened. I touched their bodies and felt the hurt lodged inside. I recognized the hurt because I carried it, too.
In the process of my own healing, I’ve gone to countless other practitioners, healers, and spaces to find answers. I’ve gone to countless other people to tell me why I’m broken. But somewhere in the space between receiving help and providing it, I was stopped in my tracks. I had no idea what to do with all of the information —verbal and energetic —I was taking on during a time in my life that was already increasing difficult. I had no idea what to tell people when they came to me for advice that only they had the answers to.
I reckoned with the fact that I didn’t want to prolong the student-teacher pipeline that had fucked me up so heavily in the past. I reckoned with the fact that I just wasn’t physically capable to show up in the ways that others are. I felt at odds with the ways I had seen facilitation take place because I’m neurodivergent, I’m sleepy, and I’ve been deep diving on a life course known as boundary-work.
I hit a wall and this time I took the time to lean my back against it and catch my breath.
I found myself again and again—shedding what no longer made sense. I was reminded by my snake that turns pale and grey before each significant shed. I was reminded by the ginger plants in my yard to ask for support because their growth carried them so tall and mighty they needed stakes to stand upright. I was reminded by the rosemary and thyme and tulsi to prune back the lengthy tendrils so that fresh buds can sprout in their place.
Through all of this reckoning, I found myself alongside my practice. I found myself alongside my neighbors that witness me toiling with the yard every day. I found myself alongside the words of Prentis and Annika and Anna and Robin and Jessica and Mar. I found myself while touching my cards with curiosity. I found myself while pulling bees out of my mullet and then cutting it all off. I found myself hanging up my own work in the house so that I, too, could take my own advice. I found myself by allowing myself to be with myself.
It’s allowed me to see that I don’t want to be the one great listener. I don’t want to be the one that everyone calls in hardship. I don’t want to be the one with the great advice. I don’t want to be the one wise beyond their years.
I don’t want to be the one.
I want to be the one of many who are resourced.
I want to be the one who sends you the contact for that amazing chiropractor. I want to be the one you call on the sunny day to lay in the grass. I want to be the one by your side celebrating the dream client or precious puppy. I want to be the one smiling alongside you. I want to be the one holding your hand out of deep joy as well as deep grief.
So here I am untethering myself from the role of teacher. I am untethering myself from the idea that my exchanges have to be lessons —constantly poked and prodded for the nugget of wisdom that teaches me that big thing. I am untethering myself from the notion that I must be trained and educated through the hierarchal system of spiritual education before I am self-actualized and equipped to do any heavy-lifting. I am untethering myself from the idea that my power lies outside of the boundaried walls of my home; my home that is my body and my practice and my process and my craft.
Because my practice of listening brings me solace. My practice of observation allows me to see what I otherwise would overlook. My practice with the land allows me to move with my anger. My practice of sewing brings me closer to my ancestors. My practice with relationship teaches me how to be a better communicator. My practice with practice allows me to show up and try again because I often fuck it up a few times before figuring it out.
So here I am, offering friendship. I want to be a friend, heavily flawed and unknowing of most everything.
I don’t want to be a teacher.
I want to be a friend.
Some housekeeping updates:
🦋 My “web of community” sweatshirts are currently 50% because I’ve had my sweet pup for 6 months! It’s also helping me make space for the studio I am currently moving into. I’ve got plenty of smalls (good for kids, too) and a few mediums! Scoop them here :)
🦋 And since I’m not facilitating, please consider becoming a paid subscriber to this newsletter for $6 a month
xoxo
Meredith
mmm :)