jump to navigation

Awakening August 30, 2014

Posted by wimynspeak in General, The Hive.
Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
1 comment so far

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!”

Advertisements

Old Woman Song February 1, 2014

Posted by wimynspeak in Bee Write!, General.
Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
add a comment

As secrets strengthened, shadows lengthened, and a deep bewitching darkness settled on the land, the old woman raised her voice and began to sing. Hers was not melodic, was not consistent in key or pitch, but it was strong and it rang with truth — a truth that had been lost for generations.  The old woman herself did not know the song, but her body remembered, and so she sang.

As her voice was carried on the currents of the wind that wound and spiraled through the village, into the gardens, around the well, even seeping into the cracks and crevices in doors and windows and walls, people began to awaken. Herbs and flowers hummed, calling the bees to come out, into the night. Moths and butterflies flitted about on the notes of the song, and the dark moon smiled her wan light, ultimately relinquishing her power to the stars, splashed brilliantly on the canvas of the midnight sky.

The old woman sang on through the night, her voice becoming stronger as her body grew more tired. The people had joined in, singing the strange words and dancing to the strange tune with steps they had never learned, but seemed to know.

The children appeared to understand what was going on, though they didn’t have the words to describe it to their parents. On this night, no one slept, no one tired, except the old woman whose body was the conduit for the magick that infused them.

When morning came, the people came out of their trance, looking sheepishly at each other as if they had been caught being foolish. They laughed, their eyes averted, and began to make their way back to their homes.

Only the children stayed with the old woman, who had fallen into a deep sleep.

Dancing Under the Grandmother Tree March 2, 2013

Posted by wimynspeak in Bee Write!, The Hive, The Write Path.
Tags: , , , , , , , ,
add a comment

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.

 

 

%d bloggers like this: