Buttery Trough August 3, 2014Posted by wimynspeak in General, The Write Path.
Tags: butter, choice, choose, determination, flow, freedom, imagination, Inspiration, moment, must, new possibilities, pen, should, tea, Thoughts, to-do, words, writing
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When her thoughts were driven like melted butter to the trough that was perpendicular to her ideas, the malpractice , non-practice, forgotten practice of no practice was vanquished. Here, it was impossible not to move forward. Here, her imagination opened wide to allow every errant image to have its place in the buttery trough. When stirred with a bit of inspiration and a pinch of dogged determination, she realized there was nothing she could not do, nothing she had to do. There was only her choice – what she chose to do.
And at this moment, she chose to take a sip from the green mug at her elbow: lemon-ginger tea, allowed to steep until the lemon puckered her mouth and the ginger stung her tongue. That was one moment.
The next moment she chose to pick up her pen, the blue one this time, though she found it less comfortable in her hand. Still, the ideas flowed, so her hand cooperated and thoughts became words that spaced themselves neatly in rows across the page. More moments completed.
Sliding around in the buttery trough, she found she could check off moment after moment after moment, like endless items on an infinite to-do list, but there was no effort, no exertion, only the slippery exhilaration of choosing. There really was nothing to do . . . and anything and everything to do. Out here, past the shoulds and musts, there was freedom.
Womb-en: To Be En-wombed July 1, 2014Posted by wimynspeak in General, The Write Path.
Tags: birth, dream, dreaming, Life, poem, poetry, possibility, stories, sweet life, womb, womb-en, women, writing
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In the center is womb-en:
arising from the salty waters
of her own womb,
the ocean of life
within all womb-en.
written while yet asleep,
fall away and become
en-wombed in the depths,
brought to maturity
and finally released,
powerfully birthed in a flow of
blood and water,
milk and honey,
a sweeter life than, dreaming,
WombenSong August 30, 2013Posted by wimynspeak in General, The Write Path.
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Water flows over slick white rocks,
On the sandy bank,
tough tufts of green grass
hang on tenaciously,
their deep roots
burrowing through sand
into the rich soil beneath.
Small pebbles tumble
in the flowing water
and the wind whispers my name;
a song only I can hear.
We are lovers,
me and the wind,
me and the water,
me and the sand,
Yes, there is friction.
It is what smooths our
It is what we rely on.
The currents that carry me
can be strong,
are sometimes cold.
The wind at one moment
caressing and the next
buffeting and tossing me about
like an unwanted plaything.
The wind the petulant child,
the tender lover,
the breath of the earth.
The water the womb of life.
I am the flow.
I am the flow.
I am the flow.
I hear my name being sung
and the sound fills my heart
with the love of love . . .
for what else can I call it?
There are no words,
there is only the experience
that has no words.
Because I can, I call it bliss.
The Dancer & the Warrior June 30, 2013Posted by wimynspeak in General, The Hive, The Write Path.
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The dancer and the warrior met for the first time on the path by the lake, both drawn by the iridescent bubbles that shimmered in the sunlight and floated, whimsical, on the soft breeze. The dancer had followed the bubbles because she was intrigued by their fragile beauty. The warrior came to discover the secret of their strength: They seemed too ephemeral to last, and yet, they did.
Prancing on the path, the dancer had seen the warrior first. He was standing still, intent on a shimmering bubble that had alighted, shivering but unbroken, on a leaf attached to the narrow limb of a small tree, just at eye level.
The warrior had stiffened when he felt the dancer’s eyes upon him, and he turned slowly, not knowing if he would find friend or foe at his back. He cursed the curiosity that had allowed him to be so careless, and his hand found the hilt of his sword, almost of its own will, though he did not draw it.
The dancer, unaccustomed to warrior ways, merely laughed and tip-toed up to the tree, ignoring the stunned warrior, who was used to being in charge, and blew gently on the bubble, a breath so light it nearly knocked the warrior off his feet, and allowed the bubble to take flight and continue on its journey.
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In the dark, in the night, under a smiling sliver of moon and the spreading limbs of the old Grandmother Tree, she sits in stillness as the music continues to vibrate within. Individual molecules dance, coming together and moving away, forming new shapes and structures until they settle on a honeycomb form that encompasses the essence of all their parts. Separately, they are powerful, but together they create a force that is unstoppable: strong, cohesive, centered, and focused. She feels their energy like a sharp sword moving through her, into the rock on which she sits, and on into the roots of the great tree, where it climbs the trunk and excites each limb, each leaf, to release its song into the star-studded sky. She is an open vessel, attuned to all-that-is, separate yet one.
In the darkness, a door opens and she brightens in the deep blue light of The Feminine. A polar bear ambles past the door and offers his assistance, though she hasn’t asked for it. “I am strong,” he says, implying she is not. “I can protect you.” She is grateful for the polar bear’s offer, grateful for his presence; though, bathed in the blue light, she can see clearly that brute strength is not enough. It can only go so far before greater forces have their way and what was once seen as strength is diminished and eventually disappears.
But there is something in what the bear has to offer, an energy that moves through the root of the tree and is changed and deposited into the honeycomb, like nectar that is transformed inside the hive by the sister bees into sweet, thick honey. What is brought forth from this hive is true leadership. Strong, yes, but strength that does not force, that leads by example. That incites “obedience” through beingness. True leadership that requires no laws, rules, or regulations to enforce, but elicits compliance through a shared vision of communal responsibility and mutual benefit. Leadership that grows from the seed of oneness and the knowing that when we tap into the eternal oneness, we are all bigger than the sum of our individual gifts, talents, and abilities.
In a flash, she sees that the Sword of Wisdom, which is embedded within the deepest essence of her being, does its work cleanly, slicing finely and neatly, cutting away illusions, and allowing her to see that she is so much bigger than she believes herself to be.
Dancing Under the Grandmother Tree March 2, 2013Posted by wimynspeak in Bee Write!, The Hive, The Write Path.
Tags: creativity, culture, Inspiration, intuition, intuitive powers, Life, peace, Thoughts, writing
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Why dance? A story . . .
Under the spreading limbs of the Grandmother Tree we set the bowl of fire. We light the fire with the flame in our own bellies and begin the dance. As we dance, Grandmother draws on our energy and becomes once again as she was when she was young and supple, before she gave birth to so many, before she was battered by storms and cut by sharp knives and sharper words. We dance, we hum, and Grandmother opens her throat and her heart, blessing us.
We dance all night, and as our bodies tire our minds fall into deep quiet, and it is then that our hearts open and we hear Grandmother’s voice fully, because now we are one, speaking heart-to-heart, without words, transmitting our story: the one we must never forget; the one we carry in our bones, our blood; the one that is not yet finished, that will both end with us and continue on as long as there are women with breath and blood and dance.
What do you really want? I hear. And my heart answers:
I want to dance under the Grandmother Tree with my sisters, and open the space for a world of peace and plenty, where the word “war” is not in our vocabulary, and violence is not seen as a solution to anything, but is recognized as a random act that is a cry of pain and a plea for healing.
The Wand of Desire January 3, 2013Posted by wimynspeak in The Write Path.
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One day a stranger came to the village, an old woman with bright skirts and melodic bangles on her wrists and ankles. Her scarves were dyed in colors the villagers had never seen before, and she carried a small pack on her back. She arrived early in the morning, as the moon set and the horizon brightened, and stopped by the river to wash the dust from her feet and splash cool water on her face. She was just slipping her sandals on her feet, leaning on the Grandmother Tree for balance, when the elder women of the village began to arrive.
“Welcome,” they said, a simple greeting in which the stranger, who did not speak their language, recognized an inherent warmth these women shared. She smiled in return and used gestures and facial expressions to let the women know she was looking for a young child, a baby girl only a few months old. The women nodded and indicated that she should wait with them under the spreading limbs of the Grandmother Tree. The child she was looking for would be along with her mother at any moment.
The strange woman in the bright skirts and melodic bangles sat down with the elders and, though she neither looked like them nor spoke like them, immediately felt a part of their intimate circle. Somehow, she understood the significance of the great tree under which they sat, and recognized in the murmuring of the river the infinite flow of life. She felt as if she was being held in the bosom of the Great Mother, and she relaxed in Her all-encompassing embrace.
Before long, just as the elders had promised, the young mother arrived, carrying her child in a sling across her belly. When the mother saw the strange woman waiting with the elders, she smiled. It was as if she were meeting an old friend, though she was pretty sure she had never actually met this woman prior to this moment. They smiled at each other in recognition and when the baby stirred her mother took her out of the sling and the child reached for the strange old, brightly-skirted woman.
As the woman took the child into her arms, she pulled a long colorful wand, unlike anything the young mother has ever seen, from her pack. She gave it to the child, who immediately put it in her mouth, as children are wont to do. The elder women of the village gasped.
“What is it?” asked the young mother.
One of the village women, her eyes wide, whispered in her ear, “It is a Wand of Desire. I haven’t seen one in many years. I thought they had all but disappeared from this world.”
The young woman, startled, tried to take the wand from her daughter. “Oh, no!” she said, apologetically. “She’s chewing on it!”
The strange woman in the bright skirts just smiled, patted the young mother’s hand, and pushed it gently away, shaking her head.
The wise elder closest to her whispered in the mother’s ear, “She wants her to have it. To do with as she will. That’s why the woman came here. It is an auspicious gift. This little one will cut her teeth on the Wand of Desire. She will always know exactly what she wants in life.”
And so it was.
The Wand of Desire became the little one’s preferred plaything, and when the young mother sometimes worried that this was not an appropriate use for such a rare and precious object, she’d remember the strange woman’s kind eyes and tender look that, without words, mirrored her own wise words back to her: “It will be all right,” and she’d smile.
The Write Path: A Journey of Words Begins January 15, 2013 December 19, 2012Posted by wimynspeak in The Write Path, Workshops.
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The Write Path
The path meanders along a river, and then turns sharply, into the deep forest. Without hesitation, you enter the dark woods, a realm of magick and mystery. You follow the path faithfully, and just ahead in a clearing sits the Storyteller, waiting . . .
Stories live in the cells of our bodies, we carry them in our DNA, in our very being. Natalie Goldberg calls writing a “full body” activity. Following The Write Path, we engage our inner Storyteller through guided visualizations, movement, props, writing exercises, and other activities that encourage creative wordplay, getting the stories out of our bodies and onto the page. Appropriate for beginners as well as experienced writers.
Whether you are a professional writer, dream about being a writer, want to write books, stories, songs, or poems; whether you are an obsessed journaler or have never written more than a page of text in your life; whether you believe you are a storyteller (or not), believe you’re creative (or not), or believe you have an active imagination (or not), the truth is, you are, you can, you do. The secret is to find The Write Path . . . and then follow it.
The Write Path is a 6-session series: Tuesdays, Jan, 15, 22, 29 and Feb 12, 19, 26, from 6-8PM.
Where: Thrive, 2206 Jo An Drive, Suite 4, Sarasota, 34231
Open Pricing: What is that? Paying generously and joyfully according to your means. (See “Open Pricing” under Categories at right.)
Registration is required.
Devil’s Rain October 3, 2012Posted by wimynspeak in The Write Path.
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Lightning flashed and took on the colors of the setting sun: oranges, reds and vivid yellows. None of the villagers could remember seeing lightning like this before, none but the old man. He had been around longer than anyone else in the village, probably longer than anyone else on the entire peninsula. No one ever called him anything but ‘the old man’ and he never corrected them. Possibly he, himself, could no longer remember his real name.
But he did remember the last time the sky had rained fire. He had been a young boy then, and had stood out in the open field behind his house as lightning the color of flames flashed around him. The scent of sulfur burnt his nostrils when he inhaled and his mother sobbed uncontrollably in the doorway, calling for him, begging him to come inside, out of the devil’s rain.
But he had been enchanted and had not listened to her, had stood rooted in that one spot, catching warm raindrops on his tongue and feeling a sense of power that he could not name. Only when one bolt struck so close to him that it singed the fine hairs on his outstretched arm did he finally run inside, dripping with rain water, perspiration, and the certainty of having outwitted danger.
Now, the old man began to tell the young ones about that last time, when he was just their age . . .
Promise September 2, 2012Posted by wimynspeak in The Write Path.
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“I don’t want to take all you have,” she says, humming as she approaches the next hive where a cluster of young, wary bees is guarding the entrance. She smiles and dances and hums in the language of their ancestors, and these adolescent bees are startled to hear their words conveyed in the movements and voice of this human. But they understand immediately and make no move to harm her. She is not a threat. She doesn’t look like them, but she is their sister.
The woman takes only a bit of honey from each hive and thanks the bees. Some of them sit on her shoulder or brush her cheek with their soft bodies. The ones she is particularly close to, the ones who carry the old memories, buzz in her ear and she knows she is loved. Once in a while a more exuberant bee will get tangled in her long, white hair and more than once she has had to cut off thick strands to release the bee rather than harm her.
She remembers when she was a bee, in a long-ago lifetime. She had stopped talking about that time when she was still a child, when her parents and the other adults in the village had started to look at her peculiarly and the other children had begun to taunt her. They had whispered behind her back for years, of course, though she heard them very clearly, making disparaging comments about her eerie golden eyes and remarking on her pure white hair, nearly iridescent, which had been this color from birth. She had no desire, back then, to add fuel to their suspicions and cruel jests by telling them of her memories: that as Queen, she had promised her sisters she would never leave them, that she would always care for them.
Now it was time to make good on that promise. She has let them down for too long, she thinks; she will not let them down again.
. . .
She wonders if the bees know that she is with child. Surely they can see how lustrous her hair has become – bright as moonbeams on a full moon night, smell the blossoming fullness within her just as they follow the scent of wildflowers in the meadow to find sweet nectar. Certainly, her rounding belly will give away the secret soon, but for now it is hidden beneath her billowy black skirt.
If they could see her at night, though, when they must remain huddled in their hives, they would know. She is awakened by the slightest of noises, even by the gentle caress of moon light on her face. It is the child, her power, her ability to make her see, hear, and feel beyond what is natural and normal. The woman knows this. She is special, her little one, conceived of a promise and nurtured by its fulfillment.
The child has spoken to her in their secret language, the one known only to them and the bees. That’s why she is certain the bees must know. Surely they can hear her and the child talking silently, heartbeat to humming heartbeat, as they collect the honey, as they and the bees lie awake in the moonlight listening to the stars singing . . .