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Still Following the Bee: Your Sweetest Magick July 1, 2016

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Honeycomb MoonIntuitive Collage Workshop

Still Following the Bee: Your Sweetest Magick

July 16, 2016

Women and men invited to attend this one!

They gather in the grove under the light of a summer moon waxing toward fullness, then move quickly down a spiral path, toward the center, where darkness deepens and the moon’s light cannot penetrate. Some find the absence of light soothing; others find their anxieties rushing to the surface, though none turn away. Whether they arrive in a state of trust or fear, all recognize the sanctity of this dark womb-hive and honor the gifts of its sweetest magick.

Come join us as we use the intuitive collage process and simple creative writing prompts to enter into the dark womb-hive of creative sanctuary and discover there our own sweetest magick.

Rosemary Court Yoga Studio, 810 Central Avenue, Sarasota

Saturday, July 16, 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 Pool May 31, 2015

Posted by wimynspeak in Bee Write!, General.
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She heard the hawk’s piercing call and felt as if it was especially for her. She had sat so still for so long, waiting, waiting for a sign, a cry that would beckon her. She opened her eyes now and scanned the skies. There it was, coming out of the trees and heading her way. Silent now, it circled overhead, tracing a spiral path that moved lower and lower with each ever-tightening circle, until it was just above her and then, unbelievably, perched on her shoulder.

“Breathe!” the hawk whispered in her ear, and only then did she realize she was holding her breath. She took a great gulp of air and let it out slowly as the hawk instructed, relaxing her muscles as she did so. “That’s better,” the hawk said, settling comfortably onto her perch. “Keep breathing and listen.”

She did.

At first all she could hear was her own breath as it escaped in soft sighs. Then, as her stillness and listening deepened, she could also hear the fainter intake of air through her nose and its movement into her lungs. Hold. Then the sigh of release. When she had become fully attuned to her own breath, she realized she could also hear the hawk’s breath as well as its strong heartbeat next to her ear.

They sat like this for a long time, breathing, listening, deepening. As they sat, the sun arced across the sky, creating moving shadows, that appeared then disappeared, as if in a choreographed dance, but the woman and the hawk saw none of this. When the sun had fallen well below the horizon and the sky had taken off its flashy pinks and purples and donned its black velvet cloak, the hawk whispered once again in her ear, “It is time.”

The woman did not know what this meant, but as the hawk took off, she followed it. She had no idea where they were going, and could not see the path, but the hawk flew in front of her, leaving behind only a trace of sound for her to track in the deep, deep dark. Somehow, even in this darkest of dark places, the woman’s feet managed to miss the loose stones and rambling roots that might have tripped her up.

Someone else’s beliefs might have kept her from taking this journey at all, but the woman was ready to go all out for what she knew would be the richest of treasures, if only she persisted. Another ripple of sound caressed her ear and she turned toward the left, following it blindly, never once doubting the hawk’s purpose for calling her — though she had no idea what that purpose might be. All would be revealed.

At last she heard the hawk come to rest and she stopped a few paces away. Standing still, she could allow her eyes to adjust to the dark. At first she could see nothing but trees so close around her, then the path, the hawk, and the sun barely peeking over the horizon. Beyond the hawk stood a large flat rock upon which a narrow stream of water trickled, glistening in the rising sun and filling a pool at the great rock’s base.

The woman approached the pool and saw that it was clear, like glass. Not a ripple marred its smooth surface. She bent over the pool and saw her own familiar face, but watched in horror as the image appeared to be engulfed in flames, melting into the pool and leaving nothing of itself — of her — behind. The woman took a shocked breath and would have moved away from this frightening vision, but there was the hawk again, on her shoulder, whispering, “Stay!”

And so she did.

She forced herself to keep her eyes open as one gruesome, graphic image after another was illuminated in the pool. After each, the hawk reminded her to breathe, until finally she was able to witness the devastation without becoming tense, without forgetting to breathe; indeed, without judgment or emotion. She had always thought that the opposite of emotional response was apathy, but realized now that apathy itself was an emotion. What she was experiencing  went beyond emotions, a wordless place of endless possibilities that, within the confines of a limited human vocabulary, could only be called Love.

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.”

 

 

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