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Queen of Doves June 23, 2017

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Once upon a time, when Earth was still but a tender infant, a call went out to the great queen, asking for her blessing for the emerging new life on the blossoming little planet. The queen, delighted, put on a cloak of white feathers over her ruby-heart gown, unfurled her strong wings, and flew across the universe, ready to shower the infant Earth with her most potent star-shine and breath of love.

But the queen, being immune to the particularities of time, arrived an eon or two too late, for duality had already settled onto the tiny blue orb. The great queen was saddened to see this and cried bitter tears, for she believed her gift would not be accepted in the face of such reality. Luckily, magick was still alive and well, and the queen’s tears became a flock of doves that flew about her head, beseeching her to grant her blessing in spite of the seeming futility.

Appeased, the queen agreed to hand over her blessing to the doves, who, in turn, vowed to share with any who were ready to listen. The queen’s words of blessing were as numerous as the stars: kindness, compassion, unity, wholeness, and so on. When the doves had collected all her words, the queen again donned her cloak of white feathers and flew back to her distant realm … and the work of love on Earth began …


Goddess Journey:Kwan Yin February 12, 2017

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logoGoddess Journey: Kwan Yin

COLLAGE Workshop for Women

Rosemary Court Yoga Studio, 810 Central Avenue, Sarasota

Saturday, February 18, from 2:00-5:00PM

Pink petals rain down on a vibrant landscape, where all those assembled turn their faces skyward and allow themselves to be washed in the beauty and magick of the moment. Neighbor smiles upon neighbor, and it is understood without words that this day, at least, all will be nourished, all blessed. Voices, raised in a song of gratitude, merge with a gentle wind whispering its benediction and the sweet name of compassion: Kwan Yin … Kwan Yin … Kwan Yin …

Come join us in the hive as we use the intuitive collage process, along with simple creative writing prompts, to call our own inner Kwan Yin of compassion to blossom, nurturing us, our world, and our creative process.

Open Pricing *   Please pay generously and joy-fully, according to your means.

Advance registration is required. Let me know if you can attend. Hope to see you there!

Cytherea September 10, 2014

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The Destroyer slipped from the darkness of the cave into the wan light of a weak-hearted morning. All around her she could feel the apathetic lethargy that encouraged those who inhabited this valley to disengage, to withdraw, to forget their connection, their shared experience of this journey. If she closed her eyes, she could feel, though not see, the source of this muddied, gray energy, and she moved resolutely in that direction. Though she walked freely, in the open, neither hiding nor altering her appearance, no one approached her, no one noted or questioned her presence among them. To do any such thing would have required engagement of a sort and these people were past any ability to do that. Maybe the children, she had thought early on in her progress through the village, but they too seemed to be mere shadows, as insubstantial as vapor, their vibrancy and innocence stolen and replaced with a naive humility that didn’t allow for anything save mere existence. That — the will to survive — was reinforced, though not supported by any appreciable means, and so the people suffered.

Her job? Destroy the suffering!

The Destroyer used no name and hid herself well, when necessary, behind her cloak of anonymity. Here in this abysmal place, there was no need to hide, but this unknowablity had always been her most potent weapon, the sword she used to slice through illusion. It had served her well . . . until now. Now the gray veil of apathy that hung over the village threatened to drag her down, pull her into the abyss of the unacknowledged along with all the others. She felt herself slipping, slipping . . . and then she met the child: One little girl, unlike the others, her bright face a lone shining beacon in the sludge. Eyes open. Watching. Watching her.

She had felt the girl’s gaze before she could see her. Because of the powerful energy, she had expected to meet, perhaps, a seer from one of the other realms. But no, there was only this one, tiny human, following her approach with her eyes. When the little one spoke, she changed everything.

“I am called Lona,” the child said, her voice resonant with fairy dust and the bittersweet earth from which she was born. “I know you. I know why you are here.”

The woman was taken aback. No one had ever seen her before.  She looked into the child’s eyes and knew she could not hide. “You may call me Cytherea,” she said to the child, knowing that it was as close as she could come to a name — Cythera, the place where she was born. “How is it that you are not blind to me, like the others?”

“I have been watching and waiting,” said the girl, taking Cytherea’s hand. “My apprenticeship began before my birth, in another place and time. The details have been wiped from my memory, to help me fit in here. But the lessons have stayed with me. I am here to help you.”

Cytherea’s eyes flashed. “I work alone,” she thundered. “I need no help!”

The child only smiled. “You do,” she said.

Lona stood before Cytherea, unmoving, her green eyes glistening like clear emeralds. In their depths, Cytherea could see the vast wisdom of long-forgotten ages, times, seers, fused  into the rock-solid gem that was this wisp of a child. “Indeed,” she said finally, “you may be right.”

Cytherea was not one to back away from any battle which must be fought, but she knew better than to engage in futility. To argue with Lona would have been not only useless, she realized, but possibly fatal. The girl was that powerful.

Once Cytherea had acquiesced, the child’s eyes lost their hard gleam, but remained open, aware, alert. “This way,” she said, leading Cytherea away from the village and toward a tall mountain in the distance. The mountain’s peak was obscured by gray clouds, but Cytherea knew from the shape and the texture of its surface that it was volcanic and wondered how long it had been dormant.

“Oh, it is not dormant,” Lona said, just as if Cytherea had spoken aloud. “It is still very active and spews hot grey ash on the village from time to time.” She pointed to the tiny holes that peppered the fabric of her dress and Cytherea realized that the people had fallen into a despair born of nature and then exploited by forces whose only desire was to manipulate and control. The mountain, the ash provided the means for fear and apathy to take a stranglehold. She also realized that Lona’s answer was no coincidence and stared at her small companion with new admiration.

“Yes,” Lona said, even before Cytherea could fully form the thought. “I know what you are thinking, even before you do. As you have stayed hidden behind your anonymity, I have worked behind others’ thoughts and ideas, and have kept this gift to myself.” She smiled and her eyes shone with a feeling that Cytherea could only call compassion, though it was not a word that felt comfortable on her tongue. “I have to protect the others,” the girl said, before Cytherea could comment. “All of them. I love them.”

“Yes,” said Cytherea, shocked at the depth of the girl’s feelings. “I can see that. But isn’t that a problem for you? A stumbling block? To care so much?”

Lona looked at the woman so deeply that Cytherea felt the emerald-green point of recognition pierce her heart. “Oh!” she said, clutching her chest.

Lona seemed satisfied and softened her gaze. “Love is my power,” she said. “In the end, it is all we need to survive.”



Awakening August 30, 2014

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She is offered the cup, takes it in both hands, and drinks deeply. Ancient stars explode in her head and her vision clears to a crystal clarity that allows her to see what has been unseen, hidden right in front of her, within her, all along. The moon shines full and a cascade of starlight illuminates the scene before her: Her childself who still believes in fairies and magick, eye-to-eye with the child whose stories have become clothed in practical concerns and the mandatory adherence to dry, out-dated customs long past their usefulness. She — this young, purposeful, practical self — stands strong but bewildered, wanting so badly to be her “other,” to don her fairy wings and fly . . .

Fast forward . . . 40, 50, 60 years, it matters not. It is no accident that she has been led to this place again, this point in time/no time, every moment, every life experience strung together on a necklace of pearlescent wonder. She wants to reach out, trust herself. Trust her own true nature to lead her on a path of healing and a bliss that transforms not only herself, but the world — the planet, her sisters and brothers, all beings. To know the self that sprinkles fairy dust onto the chaos and stands back to watch the result: A world in which we all reach out for each other — to help and be helped — without recrimination or judgement, but rather with joy for the opportunity to love deeply, freely, completely.

Her magickal self, the fairy child, laughs at her hesitation and reaches for her hand. “You’re making this too hard,” she says. “It’s simple really: Remember you are magick! Just come with me, spread your wings, and dance, dance, dance!”

Compassion Fruit August 3, 2014

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She poured each of them a cup of tea, then sat back and smiled. The other woman bent over the cup and allowed the fragrant steam to pink her cheeks and fill her nostrils. Then she smiled, too, but just a little. “Mmmmmm,” she said softly, “My favorite.”

“Of course,” the first woman said. “I haven’t forgotten.”

Tears welled up in the second woman’s eyes and her faint smile disappeared like the steam wafting from her cup. “Sometimes I do,” she said. “And then even when I can’t remember, still I have a sense that I’ve forgotten and I feel so ashamed.”

“There is no shame in illness . . . or aging,” said the first woman. “Each apple ripens and rots in its own way.”

“Rots is an ugly word.”

“It is a true word.”



Then the second woman, the sad one with tears in her eyes, said, “Some apples become bruised and spoil before the others in the same basket, picked at the same time from the same tree. Why is that, do you think?”

The first woman shrugged. “Perhaps it is luck. Perhaps a combination of circumstances: Sunlight. Food. Water. Handling.”

“Yes, some of us have been handled roughly.” The woman’s tears fell – plop! plop! – into her tea.

“We are like apples, but we are not apples,” said the first woman, patting the other’s hand gently. “Drink your tea and later you will tell me your story, the part I don’t know. I will listen. And I will remember.”

You Can’t Eat Creativity April 5, 2011

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Why should we use our creative power . . . ?  Because there is nothing that makes people so generous, joyful, lively, bold, and compassionate . . .        — Brenda Ueland

Honeycomb MoonIn the world I dream of living in, compassion, generosity, and justice are the background against which life exists. In that world, there is no hunger, no violence, no poverty, and all live in peace. An impossible, idealistic Utopia? If I thought so I would give up now. But despite evidence to the contrary,  I believe in the innate goodness that is our species. The access to that goodness, however,  is not through moral teaching and rigid rules of behavior; it is through our creative spirit and intuitive abilities.

You can’t eat creativity and you can’t pay the mortgage with intuition, but still our very survival depends on them. And while some might say that it can be used to control and manipulate, true creativity can only be supportive of life. To create is “to cause to exist” (American Heritage Dictionary). It is not necessarily about innovation, or being clever or intellectually astute. Neither is it about winning, one-upmanship, or superiority. To create is to give life to the imagination, to the passion and purpose that lives within us. When combined with our intuitive sense, which allows us to feel what others feel, to see with their eyes, to hear with their ears, and understand with their heart in a way that is beyond what we think of as interpersonal communication, we make choices that are life-affirming without being dogmatic, that enhance life and well-being for all, and allow for solutions that do not give advantage to one person or group at others’ expense.

Creativity takes many forms: voice, dance, painting, sculpture, cooking, sewing, knitting; the possibilities are vast. My chosen vehicles are collage and the written word. I have instituted a daily creative practice that consists of writing “absurd” short pieces that stretch my own boundaries, as well as making on-going intuitive collages that “speak” to me from the depths of my spirit – this is the intuitive voice in pictorial/symbolic visual form.

Often, I will post the results of these creative/intuitive processes here. I will also post my thoughts about creativity and intuition, interesting tidbits of information that I come across, my workshop and group schedules, as well as other opportunities for stretching and exercising your creative/intuitive muscles. These will be general postings that will also be listed by category so they will be easy to access.

I hope you will check back often and also share your own creative/intuitive adventures here. After all, we’re all in this together.



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