On the first day of autumn
when outside my window the day was hazy, semi-opaque,
my mother would get me up early, protesting, drowsy,
made me dress
long before school-time. Outside in the garden, she led me,
where dew had fallen heavy, not quite frozen, and the sun
too bleary-eyed to shine save with a watery smile.

And all the spiders in all the corners had made new webs in the night
countless spiders, unreckonable numbers of types of web,
great and small, clarity and chaos,
and not a one could frighten me.

She walked me round the garden slowly, holding my hand,
we took turns to point and gasp, for
in every joining point of every web
a drop of water, wobbling,
flung colour and shimmer and magic as we moved,
or as they shook in a tiny breeze.

Not one jewel could tremble, or fall, without the rest all twinkling, or falling too.
Each reflected in the other,
every rainbow in every dewdrop sparkled in those around it.

If the sun broke through, or if it ceased to shine,
the lights went out, one by one.
Extinction caught by those nearby, passed on
until there were no jewels to find, and all were lessened or dispirited.

In India, in ancient times, they dreamed that web as one encompassing universes;
at every node, a jewel for every being, for every kind of being –
– massive and minute, still or moving, known and unknown, gods and hungry ghosts –
and when the dew fell that created them
each one shone, enriched by the light of the next;
dazzling the skies and the waters and every heart.

And when the web is damaged, when one jewel grows dull and shines no more,
one entering darkness puts out the light of another.

But in Indra’s net, jewels may have agency.
Choices, whether to shine and illuminate. Or not.
Whether to gladly reflect the light of others and
fill the world with rainbows. Or not.

You must do both for it to work.

(image: UNIGUIDE)