This morning, I watched a spider repairing her web.She did not begin with a plan.She began where the thread had broken.Each new strand found another, until the whole quietly remembered itself.Nothing was invented.Only returned.I wondered if writing is much the same.Not arranging thoughts into something convincing, but remaining still enough that what is already waiting can find its own form.Perhaps that is why some words never feel true, however elegant they become.They have forgotten what first called them into being.Others arrive almost unnoticed.Like rain finding a river.Like light settling on the lake without trying to improve it.Their only task is fidelity.To remain close to what revealed itself.Not closer to the writer.Not closer to the reader.Simply closer to what is.Sometimes I think that is all practice has ever asked of me.To stop trying to say something.And learn, instead, not to betray the silence from which it came.