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End of the Road November 6, 2016

Posted by wimynspeak in Bee Write!, General.
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End of the Road

by Linda Maree

 

End of the Road I

You have come to the end of the road. Behind you: the path and steps you’ve taken, in front of you: nothing. This is not a crossroads filled with choices, with numerous paths to follow. If you move from here, it will mean stepping into the unknown. Perhaps you will step off a cliff and into the abyss. Perhaps you will fall forever. Perhaps you will grow wings and fly. Perhaps a path will be created by your footsteps, leaving behind your prints for others to follow, so that the end of the road turns out to be not a finite point, but movable and malleable, a knotted rope of beaded ‘ends’ strung together to make something of nothing.

 

End of the Road II

You have come to the end of the road. You expected something more, but what you see all around you is so ordinary: tables, chairs, food, people. Piped-in music blasting from speakers in the ceiling, right over your head to judge by the strength of the vibrations you feel jolting you to attention. Ordinary. The end of the road is ordinary. A sunny day in a bright and noisy café. Nothing to indicate the end of anything, except your sense of it.

 

End of the Road III

You have come to the end of the road and here, just as you’d heard it would be, you discover a new beginning … along with a bucket full of hope, handfuls of strength, and a firm, feathery belief that takes flight, disappearing into a clear blue sky, carrying you, wingless, with it.

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The Lake Where the Black Swans Swim December 7, 2014

Posted by wimynspeak in Bee Write!, General, The Hive.
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The names of the ancestors have been lost in the ethers of time, but the blood scent of these women still calls us to cross thresholds and gather in circles, holding hands, raising our voices in boisterous song, dancing to the music of the stars. Women who make lists, follow rules, and set daily goals to be ticked off as completed sometimes find our gatherings to be too loose, too ethereal  . . . at first. But when we finally cross the lake where the black swans swim, taking the Bridge of Light to the isle hidden by the fog of what is called by those who have no sense of its meaning: Truth, always, always, those who leave their shoes and their heavy limiting goals on the shore (where the black swans feast on the discards) step on to the island barefoot and, hand-in-hand, find themselves ready to dance in joy with the rest of us. Once the decision is made, I have never known the transformation to fail and have learned in this way that the only truth worth hanging on to is the belief in magic.

Dream: Fear Is Toying With Me November 18, 2014

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The dream started off innocuously enough. I was making up a bed in a child’s room. There were toys in the room, mostly piled up in the corners and along the walls – not messy, just a lot of them. At some point I heard music, the kind that an electronic toy might make, and I looked around to see which toy it was and why it was making noise. At first I couldn’t tell, but then decided it was a toy in the far corner of the room, opposite where I was standing next to the bed. Many of the toys in that corner began making noises, and some of them even started talking, and though I couldn’t make out what they were saying, somehow it sounded sinister. They were scaring me, so I picked up something off of the floor and threw it at them and told them to be quiet. One of the toys caught what I threw and just laughed – an evil laugh that frightened me even more. That’s when I knew I had to get out of that room.

But the bed was between me and the door, and to get around it I would have to walk past the very scary toys. I was thinking maybe I could climb across the bed (it was small) but I sensed the toys would never let that happen. I was so frightened, all I wanted to do was escape. And then realized I was in a dream and willed myself to wake-up. Some part of me, though, would not let me waken because there was something important for me to learn here, a lesson. I tossed and turned and fretted about the sinister toys, neither fully awake nor fully asleep, until I finally had that aha! moment: I couldn’t escape my fears, I had to face them. So I walked right over to the scariest bunch of toys and said “You have no power over me, you are only toys!” Immediately they quieted and became inanimate, benign toys once again, and I fell back into a deep, restful sleep.

The lesson: Fear has no power over me when I confront it head-on. In my dream, I had to walk right up to the thing that frightened me, not run away from it. Escaping would have left the fear alive and powerful and I would have never been truly free of it, never again able to enter that room, or perhaps any other, without wondering what fearful thing might show up. I had to face the fear to banish it and release its power over me.

Calling the Teacher April 30, 2014

Posted by wimynspeak in Bee Write!, General.
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When the wolf bones are arranged just so, we are told, on just the right night, at precisely the right time, it is said that the teacher will appear. No one living today has seen the teacher, and I am hoping to be one of the first. Legend says she is both kind and awful, beautiful and hideous, the giver of life and its merciless taker. The ritual for calling her has been passed down — the setting of the circle and the correct arrangement of the bones — but until now, no one could recall the other necessary details: the right night, the right time, the right words for her calling. In a world such as this, I think for one dissentient moment, that values wealth and individual gain at the expense of others, perhaps there is no right night, right time. Perhaps the words have been dissolved and we have been abandoned.

The ancient fathers knew better, we are told, knew to leave this holy communion to the women, the sisters and daughters of Gaia. But the men somehow forgot their own sacred role, and the women’s belief in magick began to fade. And so the world was altered and the secret was left behind to lie dormant in the shadowy vault of irrelevance, where it has remained a misty, ephemeral memory with no more substance than a dream.  Until now . . .

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