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Playing … an exploration of surrender May 26, 2019

Posted by wimynspeak in Bee Write!, General.
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I was born magick in a world of logic and reason. Creativity was tolerated in children in the context of play, but the real world was the ultimate arbiter of life. When I was a little girl, I may have been allowed to draw moons and stars on my forehead with blue paint and golden glitter, but these kinds of antics were not tolerated in my grown-up self. “Play” was frivolous and must be put aside. I would have said then that I surrendered to authority, giving up on magick and settling into the mundane. But now I know, to have followed the magick would have been the surrender. All I did was give up on my true self. It was not surrender but betrayal. The worst kind of betrayal. And I have been working since then to make it right. To win back the trust of the one who should have been … always … the most important in the world to me. Myself. Once you lie to yourself, it is so much easier to lie to others. Once you betray yourself, betrayal becomes your imprisoner, your signature, the mask you wear, the face you show to the world. Others do not call it that – betrayal — for most wear the same kind of mask. We call it reality, the real world, just the way it is. And we are told we might as well accept it. Life is not fair. Surrender. Give up.

But true surrender is not a giving up, it is a giving in to a higher calling, a purpose. It is a type of courage that calls one to live from the heart, serving the voice within that tells us that there is infinitely more to life than what we can see. That magick still exists. That we ARE magick, and our magick serves a powerful energy that can only emanate from spirit. So, rather than weakness, rather than loss, to surrender is a means of service above and beyond any we thought capable of. Surrender calls us back to our essence, and there …

Playing … I am as a child again. My thin, straight red hair has been transformed, in my imagination, into long, black waves, thick and abundant. My skin has darkened somewhat and my bearing is regal. I feel exotic, different, and I relish my differentness. On my head sits a golden crown in the form of snakes, their heads rising above my forehead, where I used to draw the moon and stars, proclaiming to all my worth. I wear a long white gown, so that I feel as if I am enrobed in clouds, my power as wide as the sky. In my right hand I carry a long sword, but it is gripped casually, a relic from the past that I treasure for what it has taught me, but it is not the source of my power. It is not who I am. Some have called me princess, but I am no prince-ess, no lesser-than prince. No priest-ess. No god-dess. None of these. I am neither s\he nor fe-male. I am simply who and what I choose to be in the moment I surrender to my choice. Nameless until such time a name is possible. Until new words are created, new vocabularies formed, new tongues proclaimed throughout a land revived and reborn.

Playing … I am as a child again. My thin, straight red hair has been transformed and my head is topped with tight black curls. My skin has darkened and my body broader, huskier, more muscular than before. My voice has deepened and drips with authority. I carry no weapon, and yet I feel that the moon and stars would bow at my feet, were I, priest of all that is sacred and holy, to command it. A channel of energy rises through me, and I have a choice: to follow that which is seductive and promises the kind of power and authority that most men dream about. To be the saver of souls, the changer of lives, the maker of rules, the arbiter of life … mine and others. Or to surrender to the unknown. The unseen path that draws me with the power of the soul and the dread of responsibility. The path of service. The path of the change rather than the changer, giving way to the moment with acceptance and a willingness to act when it is time to act, to be when it is time to be. The path of vulnerability. The path of courage.

Playing … I am as a child again. My thin, straight red hair has been transformed and my head is topped with tight black curls. My skin has darkened even more and my body is long, lean muscular. Around my head, a white halo-band of beads and tassels. Strung beads hang from my neck, crisscross my breasts, and shells encircle my waist and my feet, marking me as a dancer. My weapon, if you want to call it that, is my joy. If I could, I would use it to bludgeon others into surrendering to this celebration, giving in to the exuberant persistence of life. But surrender can neither be forced nor coerced, and so I dance. It is no more than an invitation, but it is what we know to do, we mothers, grandmothers, sisters and daughters of the world and the spirit. This is the story we carry within us, the story we use to paint the sky with rainbows, to draw the moon and stars on our foreheads, to tattoo our bodies with the scars that mark us as courageous in the face of our failures and steadfast in our vulnerability. We dance a reminder of the blessing of surrender and the power of choice.

— Linda Maree

Still Following the Bee: Crown Your Queen! September 25, 2016

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Honeycomb MoonStill Following the Bee: Crown Your Queen!                      

Intuitive COLLAGE Workshop for Women

Rosemary Court Yoga Studio, 810 Central Ave, Sarasota

Saturday, October 8, from 2:00-5:00PM

You sleep and dream, and in your dream you see a broad door with a heavy brass handle. When you turn the handle, before you appears the vast landscape of your imagination, the gateway to “possible,” to all that is magick. You dance into this dreamscape and a pathway opens up, straight and true, and you follow it to a massive throne, intricately carved and highly polished, which beckons you to sit. When you do, a golden crown, the color of sweet honey, appears and you place the crown on your head, declaring yourself Queen, sovereign of all you can imagine …

Come join us as we use the intuitive collage process as well as simple creative writing prompts to discover the throne of our imagination and crown ourselves Queen of all that is possible.

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: Weaving Our Words June 25, 2015

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LogoThe Hive of HERstory: Weaving Our Words

Intuitive collage workshop for women

The smiling crescent moon called to the women, “Come! Come! Dance with me and weave your stories that I may laugh with you.” And so they did. They danced and sang and their voices created threads of light that flowed about them as their hands fashioned them into intricate knots and spectacular weavings. The tapestry that came together was made of moonbeams and joy and the magick of the women’s words, powerful and true . . .

Come join us as we use the intuitive collage process, along with simple writing prompts, to weave together our own magickal tapestry of joy and power and truth.

Rosemary Court Yoga Studio, 810 Central Avenue, Sarasota

Saturday, July 18, 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.

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.

MoonRise Oracle: Exploring the Cave of HERstory November 11, 2014

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LogoMoonRise Oracle: Exploring the Cave of HERstory

Intuitive Collage Workshop for Women

Saturday, November 15, 2014

Clouds moved across the wintering sky obscuring much of the waning moon’s remaining light, yet her feet found the frosty path with surety, followed it with precision. When she came to the mouth of the cave, she stopped only to mark herself with the precious scented oils, given to her by the crone, and then entered the dark passage without fear or hesitation. Inside, her eyes adjusted quickly as she made her way to the center of the great cavern. There she found an earthen pit, with a fire laid out, waiting for the spark she carried to light it. Closing her eyes, she imagined a bright spark leaping from her heart to her lips, and when she opened her eyes and blew on the kindling, the fire erupted in lively flames that caused previously unseen images painted on the walls of the cave to dance, telling her their stories . . .

Come join us as we use the intuitive collage process to enter the cave of HERstory and explore the stories that yearn to be told.

Open Pricing *   Please pay generously according to your means.

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

Date/Time:  Saturday, November 15, from 2:00-4:30PM

Location: Rosemary Court Yoga Studio, 810 Central Avenue, Sarasota

 

Awakening August 30, 2014

Posted by wimynspeak in General, The Hive.
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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!”

Old Woman Song February 1, 2014

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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.

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