Creativity

High in the Andes, where the air thins and the stars feel close enough to touch, lived an old woman named Yma. She was known as The Weaver of Dawn — though no one knew why, because she never sold her cloth, never showed her work, and never allowed anyone inside her weaving hut.
Every morning before sunrise, villagers saw smoke rising from her chimney and heard the soft rhythm of her loom. They whispered that she was weaving something sacred, something not meant for human eyes.
One year, a terrible drought struck. Crops withered. Rivers shrank. The sky stayed empty. The villagers begged Yma to weave rain for them, believing she held some secret power.
But Yma shook her head gently.
“I do not weave the world,” she said. “I only listen to it.”
Frustrated, the villagers accused her of selfishness. They demanded she reveal her work. Under pressure, Yma opened her hut.
Inside was a loom strung not with wool, but with threads of light — strands of dawn she gathered each morning by standing on the mountain peak and catching the first rays of the sun on her spindle.
But the loom was empty.
““Where is the cloth?” they asked.
Yma smiled.
“I never weave for myself. I weave for the sky.”
She pointed outside.
The villagers looked up — and for the first time in months, clouds were gathering.
Soft, silver, rain‑heavy clouds.
Yma explained:
“Creation is not forcing the world to change. It is listening so deeply that your hands move in harmony with what already wants to be born.”
The rain began to fall.
From that day on, the villagers understood:
Creation is a conversation, not a command.