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Still Following the Bee: It’s All About the Honey February 6, 2016

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LogoIntuitive COLLAGE Workshop for Women

Inside the great buzzing hive of you is hidden a magickal treasure, golden and sweet and made to be savored: the honeyed elixir of creative passion. Delectable and tempting, unchecked creativity overflows the hive, seeping out into a world that craves what you have to offer, what you generously and joy-fully share. To manifest this sweet abundance, you have called on every talent and skill you possess, and some you didn’t even know you had. When asked for your secret, you flutter your wings and tell all who will listen: It’s all about the honey!

Come join us in the hive as we use the intuitive collage process, along with simple creative writing prompts, to find the golden treasure within that sweetens our world and leaves us overflowing, abuzzzzz with creativity!

Rosemary Court Yoga Studio, 810 Central Avenue, Sarasota

Saturday, February 20, from 2:00-5:00PM

Open Pricing *   Please pay generously according to your means.

Advance registration is required. Please let me know if you can join us!

The Hive of HERstory: Still Following the Bee November 29, 2015

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LogoThe Hive of HERstory: Still Following the Bee

Intuitive collage workshop for women

She was grateful for the passing of years, the accumulation of memories, some happy, some sad; all points on the map of her life. She remembered now her anointing, painful at the time: the buzz, the sting, then . . . oh, the joy when she had been chosen to follow the sweet path of wisdom. They had been her mentors, then, her sisters, joined in a common cause. She saw them rarely these days, but their communal vision still inspired her to follow their ancient wisdom, to keep her vision true . . .

Come join us as we use the intuitive collage process and simple writing prompts to reclaim our sistership with the bees and fire up our vision for ourselves, our loved ones, and our world.

Rosemary Court Yoga Studio, 810 Central Avenue, Sarasota

Saturday, December 12, from 2:00-5:00PM

Open Pricing *   Please pay as generously and joyfully as possible, according to your means.

Advance registration is required.  Let me know if you can attend.

Indecision November 29, 2015

Posted by wimynspeak in Absurd Shorts, General, Uncategorized.
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A snake with two heads, one on either end of its long, slender body, slithered into the garden and stopped abruptly. “Which way should we go?” each head asked the other.

“Should we curl up under the cabbage over there?” said one.

“Or maybe settle in by the fence over there?” said the other.

Of course they could not agree, and set off in opposite directions, stretching the long, slender body to the point of nearly breaking in two.

“This way!”

“No, this way!”

Each tugged and pulled but neither would budge and so the snake, undecided and stubborn, went no where.

Seeing the dilemma as it unfolded, a sharp-eyed, opportunistic hawk swooped and made a hasty meal of the indecisive two-headed snake. But the snake was so contrary, it gave the hawk indigestion and he decided he preferred quiet, inquisitive mice, removing two-headed snakes from his diet and encouraging all of his closest friends to do the same.

The Hive of HERstory: Chalice of Fire October 3, 2015

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LogoThe Hive of HERstory: Chalice of Fire

Intuitive collage workshop for women

Saturday, October 17

She has been gone a long time. But one day she finds her way back, back to the sacred grove and the Great Grandmother Tree. She had spent a lot of time here as a young girl, creating magick and allowing her imagination to run free. She remembers the last time she was here, remembers leaving the cup. She closes her eyes and sees it clearly, a beautiful silver chalice, sitting on an ancient tree stump, and when she opens them, there it is, right where she left it. She reaches for it and it bursts into flames, engulfing her in the fire of creativity, reigniting the magick . . .

Come join us as we use the intuitive collage process and simple writing prompts to make our way back to the sacred grove of imagination where our own Chalice of Fire still burns.

Rosemary Court Yoga Studio, 810 Central Avenue, Sarasota

Saturday, October 17, from 2:00-5:00PM

Open Pricing *   Please pay as generously and joyfully as possible, according to your means.

Advance registration is required.  Let me know if you can attend.

On the Move October 1, 2015

Posted by wimynspeak in Absurd Shorts, General.
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The tree waited until no one was looking and then he made his move. He wasn’t in a hurry, so the fact that his big move was a matter of measure so small as to be unrecognizable to all but the most scientifically and specially schooled was irrelevant. He knew that humans measured time and distance as if they were fixed and immutable, but the tree had a much different relationship to reality.

And he was ever so patient.

In truth, though, patience was not the real key, although it helped. The real key was trust . . . trusting that even if he, himself, did not achieve the goal in his lifetime, the goal would yet be met by one of his descendants, an off-shoot of himself. In fact, the tree didn’t even know the ultimate goal at all, just knew that his job was to stay centered, grounded, and to trust that there was a bigger picture that would one day be revealed to him . . . or not.

In any case, he continued to take tiny, infinitesimal steps, ever on the move while yet appearing stationery, doing nothing to upset the fragile humans who counted on his stability, his treeness.

Blood Blossom September 5, 2015

Posted by wimynspeak in Bee Write!, General.
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The blossom opens, yellow petals unfurling to reveal a deep blood-red center filled with tiny seed-like pods. I see this and yet, as I watch, one of the pods opens and out I step, smiling, whole, adult, mature, but tiny. A bee lands on the flower and “tiny me” climbs onto her back, laughing as if at a private joke only the two of them understand, taking two big fistfuls of the bee’s striped fur in her tiny me hands. The bee then rises into the air with a steady hum and flies away with tiny me so fast I cannot follow its path.

I stand at the edge of the garden, bereft at the loss of this happy little self, this little me that had just burst forth with such joy. The flower from which I emerged is closing up now and I reach for it, angrily plucking it from its earthy perch and holding it out as if to implore the bees to come to me, so that I might capture one and force it to tell me where I (tiny me) have been taken.

I jump when I think I have been stung, but realize it is the flower that has pricked me with a sharp thorn I hadn’t noticed, and I watch as scarlet red blood drops from my finger, and with an audible plop lands on the ground at my feet. Hurt, I immediately drop the flower, which grows new roots as I watch and feeds itself on the bloody earth of my own making.

The Hive of HERstory: Coventina’s Well September 5, 2015

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LogoThe Hive of HERstory: Coventina’s Well

Intuitive collage workshop for women

The wide smile of a waxing crescent moon lit the path for the women, leading them to the hidden grove and the magickal pool they called Coventina’s Well. No one knew for sure how long the Well had been there, but the stories were ancient, telling of a time of lush gardens and abundant resources. The Well could only be found when the light of the moon cast just the right shadows on the path. But once found, one could make any wish, put forth any desire, and it was bound by the laws of Coventina’s magick to manifest . . .

Come join us as we use the intuitive collage process, along with simple writing prompts, to follow the path to Coventina’s Well and discover our own hidden magick within.

Rosemary Court Yoga Studio, 810 Central Avenue, Sarasota

Saturday, September 19, from 2:00-5:00PM

Open Pricing *   Please pay as generously and joyfully as possible, according to your means.

Advance registration is required.  Let me know if you can attend.

Grey Cloud August 2, 2015

Posted by wimynspeak in Bee Write!, General.
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This grey cloud that seems to follow me turns out to be laden with gifts. At first glance, they are not apparent, but when one is followed by a dark cloud as long as I have been, one tends to look for deeper messages, if only to avoid the tedium.

So today, when the new neighbors show up uninvited, and me with no tea or biscuits to offer them (lack being part of the grey tedium of “not enough”), I grasp at the gift that dangles before me and venture to announce that I never serve real food in my home, only the imaginary kind, which, I tell them, is the best kind. I paint a picture of magical tea parties that are so much better and more filling and satisfying than what they might call the real thing.

I bring out the best china, meaning the pieces that are not so badly chipped, and pretend to steep the tea and mime serving the cakes and dainty little sandwiches, all the while weaving a story of fairies and wood nymphs, and unicorns so that even though it is only a made-up story, they all laugh and play along. When they finally leave, they are biting and licking their lips, searching for the lingering sweet taste of a magical afternoon.

Later, as the night grows dark and the grey cloud melts into a deep velvet sky, I close my eyes and imagine the tea and biscuits settling in my stomach. The rumbles inside me dissipate until the only sound I hear is distant thunder. Even with my eyes closed, and despite the clouds, I can tell the moon is full and shining through the open window, illuminating the dishes on the table and crumbs of magical food fallen to the floor that I have yet to clear away.

I think of a dog I have always wanted since I was a child: medium size, black, with a wise and kind face that evokes both curiosity and stability. She is wearing a lovely jeweled collar and I call her to me by clicking my tongue and offering her a bite of sandwich. I motion to her that it is okay if she wants to lick up any crumbs she finds on the floor. We spend the next hour cleaning up my little room together and when I finally open my eyes, I can still picture the palace that fits within these four grey walls; still feel the dog’s slippery tongue on my hand.

I read, one time, about a village in Japan where they used to sacrifice a black dog to call in the black rain clouds. I have done the opposite. I have used my dark cloud to call in my black dog. No worries. I am well enough to know this is all happening in my imagination; hungry enough to know that, for now, it is sufficient.

The dog comes to me again as soon as I close my eyes. Once again the rumbling in my belly becomes the portent of an approaching storm and I can imagine the dog being caught in it, so I whistle to call her to me and she comes right away. I am lying now on a mat on the floor and the dog lies down next to me. Her furry warmth stops my shivering and I feel safe next to her.

But I do not sleep right away. I have always loved storms and wait with anticipation as the rumbles grow louder, which, of course, they do. I think about my neighbors and our tea party and wonder if they are still savoring the sweetness of our communion, as I am. Drowsily, I lay one hand on the dog’s head and for a moment consider what to name her, for in all the years of wishing and hoping for such a companion, I have not done so. And then I realize that this is not my task to do. The dog has a name and it is for her to reveal it to me when she is ready. I fall asleep, finally, content in this realization.

When I awake, though, the dog is gone, the sky still dark and rumbling, and I feel my hunger in a way I hadn’t before. I put an imaginary pot of oatmeal on the stove and while it simmers I stand at the window looking out on what my mother used to call a “toad-y” kind of day. The grey cloud still hovers over my little cottage, but the rest of the sky is an odd green hue that brings forth visions of nauseous sea voyages and the bumpy backs of the great bullfrogs by the pond.

I am reminded of a long-ago day just like today. I am getting ready for school and the smell of oatmeal with cinnamon fills my nostrils. My mother loved days like this — overly wet days that would call forth the tree frogs to set up a chorus and sing to me on the way to school, my belly full of warm oatmeal, my imagination fueled by the grey clouds, a loyal black dog at my heels.

The Hive of HERstory: Perpetual Blessings August 2, 2015

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LogoThe Hive of HERstory: Perpetual Blessings

Intuitive collage workshop for women

They came with generous hearts and full arms, baskets laden with abundance and a desire to share. They came, too, with generous hearts and empty arms, hands open, ready to receive. They came together that new moon night, when the heavens were dark with clouds and the only light that pierced the inky blackness was the shower of heartshine that enveloped them all in the magick of Perpetual Blessings given and received . . .

Come join us as we use the intuitive collage process, along with simple writing prompts, to create a shower of Perpetual Blessings . . . for us, for our beloveds, for our world.

Rosemary Court Yoga Studio, 810 Central Avenue, Sarasota

Saturday, August 15, from 2:00-5:00PM

Open Pricing *   Please pay generously and joyfully according to your means.

Advance registration is required.  Let me know if you can attend.

∞ Chrysalis July 1, 2015

Posted by wimynspeak in Collaboration, General.
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Link to the video: ∞ Chrysalis

 

I sleep and dream the passing of time,

stars and worlds arising in an unremarkable march of eons,

destiny’s static hum.

And then . . . and then . . .

The awakening,

and consciousness is punctuated at last

by one thought like no other,

moving slowly along the continuum of infinity,

its seeds carried on celestial winds

to the cataclysm where chaos reigns.

 

Life paints with a palette of impossibility

and emerges from the imaginal soup

into the garden of the Universe,

the still-point of passion.

The container, fashioned from the contained,

spins back on itself in fertile mutation.

Caught in a star shower,

it regenerates in the empty center,

filling it with before and after:

the solidity of form.

 

I am both the watcher and the watched,

caught in the watching

as the march of eons converges with the dream

and I dissolve once again into the still-point,

the cycles of eternity.

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