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Blood Blossom September 5, 2015

Posted by wimynspeak in Bee Write!, General.
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The blossom opens, yellow petals unfurling to reveal a deep blood-red center filled with tiny seed-like pods. I see this and yet, as I watch, one of the pods opens and out I step, smiling, whole, adult, mature, but tiny. A bee lands on the flower and “tiny me” climbs onto her back, laughing as if at a private joke only the two of them understand, taking two big fistfuls of the bee’s striped fur in her tiny me hands. The bee then rises into the air with a steady hum and flies away with tiny me so fast I cannot follow its path.

I stand at the edge of the garden, bereft at the loss of this happy little self, this little me that had just burst forth with such joy. The flower from which I emerged is closing up now and I reach for it, angrily plucking it from its earthy perch and holding it out as if to implore the bees to come to me, so that I might capture one and force it to tell me where I (tiny me) have been taken.

I jump when I think I have been stung, but realize it is the flower that has pricked me with a sharp thorn I hadn’t noticed, and I watch as scarlet red blood drops from my finger, and with an audible plop lands on the ground at my feet. Hurt, I immediately drop the flower, which grows new roots as I watch and feeds itself on the bloody earth of my own making.

∞ Chrysalis July 1, 2015

Posted by wimynspeak in Collaboration, General.
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Link to the video: ∞ Chrysalis


I sleep and dream the passing of time,

stars and worlds arising in an unremarkable march of eons,

destiny’s static hum.

And then . . . and then . . .

The awakening,

and consciousness is punctuated at last

by one thought like no other,

moving slowly along the continuum of infinity,

its seeds carried on celestial winds

to the cataclysm where chaos reigns.


Life paints with a palette of impossibility

and emerges from the imaginal soup

into the garden of the Universe,

the still-point of passion.

The container, fashioned from the contained,

spins back on itself in fertile mutation.

Caught in a star shower,

it regenerates in the empty center,

filling it with before and after:

the solidity of form.


I am both the watcher and the watched,

caught in the watching

as the march of eons converges with the dream

and I dissolve once again into the still-point,

the cycles of eternity.

The Hive of HERstory: In the Garden of Thyme March 7, 2015

Posted by wimynspeak in General, Workshops.
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LogoThe Hive of HERstory: In the Garden of Thyme

Intuitive collage workshop for women

She follows the spiral path, glittering stepping-stones of light that lead her, ultimately, to the center of the garden. Here she finds herbs of every kind, all leaning toward her eagerly as she passes by, wanting to be of service. But she never takes what she doesn’t need and so, filled with gratitude, she walks on by until she reaches the patch of thyme, green and lush and richly scented. Here she takes a seat on a flat grey stone and waits for the message that will come to her, she knows, when the time is just right . . .

Come join us in the hive as we use the intuitive collage process, along with simple creative writing prompts, to explore our own inner garden, where all of our needs are met in perfect thyme.

Rosemary Court Yoga Studio, 810 Central Avenue, Sarasota

Saturday, March 21, from 2:00-5:00PM

Open Pricing *   Please pay generously according to your means.

Advance registration is required.  Let me know if you are joining us.

The Butterfly Experiment April 27, 2014

Posted by wimynspeak in Bee Write!, General.
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They kept the cocoons separate from the eggs, rotating them on the mattress that served as their makeshift incubator. The mattress could be dragged about without disturbing its occupants so that each cocoon and each egg received exactly the right amount of sunshine and fresh air. At this stage water was not necessary, but later they would need to filter the brackish water that was hauled up from the river that still trickled along the valley floor. It was one of the last fluid rivers; most were now no more than dry stream beds. Unlike the old dry arroyos, which used to fill with water from time to time when the rains were just right, these dry river beds were nothing more than dusty memories of a different world. The Butterfly Experiment was a last effort to save something of beauty: colorful, delicate building blocks to regain a bit of Gaia’s garden.

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