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Grey Cloud August 2, 2015

Posted by wimynspeak in Bee Write!, General.
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This grey cloud that seems to follow me turns out to be laden with gifts. At first glance, they are not apparent, but when one is followed by a dark cloud as long as I have been, one tends to look for deeper messages, if only to avoid the tedium.

So today, when the new neighbors show up uninvited, and me with no tea or biscuits to offer them (lack being part of the grey tedium of “not enough”), I grasp at the gift that dangles before me and venture to announce that I never serve real food in my home, only the imaginary kind, which, I tell them, is the best kind. I paint a picture of magical tea parties that are so much better and more filling and satisfying than what they might call the real thing.

I bring out the best china, meaning the pieces that are not so badly chipped, and pretend to steep the tea and mime serving the cakes and dainty little sandwiches, all the while weaving a story of fairies and wood nymphs, and unicorns so that even though it is only a made-up story, they all laugh and play along. When they finally leave, they are biting and licking their lips, searching for the lingering sweet taste of a magical afternoon.

Later, as the night grows dark and the grey cloud melts into a deep velvet sky, I close my eyes and imagine the tea and biscuits settling in my stomach. The rumbles inside me dissipate until the only sound I hear is distant thunder. Even with my eyes closed, and despite the clouds, I can tell the moon is full and shining through the open window, illuminating the dishes on the table and crumbs of magical food fallen to the floor that I have yet to clear away.

I think of a dog I have always wanted since I was a child: medium size, black, with a wise and kind face that evokes both curiosity and stability. She is wearing a lovely jeweled collar and I call her to me by clicking my tongue and offering her a bite of sandwich. I motion to her that it is okay if she wants to lick up any crumbs she finds on the floor. We spend the next hour cleaning up my little room together and when I finally open my eyes, I can still picture the palace that fits within these four grey walls; still feel the dog’s slippery tongue on my hand.

I read, one time, about a village in Japan where they used to sacrifice a black dog to call in the black rain clouds. I have done the opposite. I have used my dark cloud to call in my black dog. No worries. I am well enough to know this is all happening in my imagination; hungry enough to know that, for now, it is sufficient.

The dog comes to me again as soon as I close my eyes. Once again the rumbling in my belly becomes the portent of an approaching storm and I can imagine the dog being caught in it, so I whistle to call her to me and she comes right away. I am lying now on a mat on the floor and the dog lies down next to me. Her furry warmth stops my shivering and I feel safe next to her.

But I do not sleep right away. I have always loved storms and wait with anticipation as the rumbles grow louder, which, of course, they do. I think about my neighbors and our tea party and wonder if they are still savoring the sweetness of our communion, as I am. Drowsily, I lay one hand on the dog’s head and for a moment consider what to name her, for in all the years of wishing and hoping for such a companion, I have not done so. And then I realize that this is not my task to do. The dog has a name and it is for her to reveal it to me when she is ready. I fall asleep, finally, content in this realization.

When I awake, though, the dog is gone, the sky still dark and rumbling, and I feel my hunger in a way I hadn’t before. I put an imaginary pot of oatmeal on the stove and while it simmers I stand at the window looking out on what my mother used to call a “toad-y” kind of day. The grey cloud still hovers over my little cottage, but the rest of the sky is an odd green hue that brings forth visions of nauseous sea voyages and the bumpy backs of the great bullfrogs by the pond.

I am reminded of a long-ago day just like today. I am getting ready for school and the smell of oatmeal with cinnamon fills my nostrils. My mother loved days like this — overly wet days that would call forth the tree frogs to set up a chorus and sing to me on the way to school, my belly full of warm oatmeal, my imagination fueled by the grey clouds, a loyal black dog at my heels.

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.

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!”

Collage for Writing: The Write Path August 2, 2014

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logoCollage for Writing: The Write Path

A special COLLAGE and writing Workshop for Women

Saturday, August 16, from 2:00-5:00PM

The woman came upon a path that led her into a dark forest, which was alive and teeming with activity. Here was a big black bear telling a story to a rambunctious group of young red foxes. There in the thicket was a gentle deer singing softly to her best friend, a long-eared rabbit; and up in the tallest tall tree an old owl was deep in conversation with a large redheaded woodpecker. Just ahead, the woman could see the end of the path, where the dark woods opened into a clearing and there in the moonlight sat The Storyteller, beckoning . . .

Whether you want to write or just want a way for more deeply understanding the messages in your collages, come join us as we explore the Write Path of imagination and discover our inner storytellers.

No collage or writing experience necessary. All materials provided.

Open Pricing *   Thank you for paying generously, according to your heart and means.

Advance registration is required. Please let me know if you can join us: honeycombmoon@gmail.com

If you are on Facebook, check out this Collage Workshop Event on the Honeycomb Moon page. (And you might “Like” the page while you are there, too 🙂 )  Thanks!

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

High Moon Tea July 16, 2014

Posted by wimynspeak in Absurd Shorts, Bee Write!, General.
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The duck waddled in a circle at the edge of the ocean at low tide, mumbling an incantation to the moon, who, for her part, threw down a silver mantle at the duck’s web feet and invited her up for tea. As soon as the duck’s feet touched it, the silvery mantle curled up, swallowed the duck, and disappeared. I watched and hoped this was a magical mechanism for reaching the moon, secretly wishing it had been I who had been invited by the moon for tea.

Wanting to see what the duck had placed in the circle and perhaps glean some of her secret, I crept out of my hiding place in the beach grass. I hurried to the water’s edge, but the tide suddenly turned, wiping out the duck’s circle, and leaving me wet to my knees.

When I stepped backwards out of the water, I found myself standing next to a large ghost crab, who had dug a hole in the sand big enough for both of us. She invited me in for tea. “Well, you’re not the moon,” I said, “but I will come for tea.”

The crab pinched me and said, “Don’t be cheeky or I will un-invite you.”

I apologized and followed the crab into the sand tunnel, surprised at how spacious it was inside. We reached a deep inner room where there was a comfy couch for me to sit on and a small fire where a kettle simmered.

“I only have chamomile tea,” the crab said, “but I do have honey of you’d like.”

I nodded and the crab filled my cup, stirred in the honey, and then urged me to drink up with some speed. She rushed to take the cup as soon as I’d swallowed the last sip and then hurried me back through the tunnel. I found myself back on the beach and saw that the duck had returned, too.

“How was your tea?” I shouted to the duck over the sound of the waves.

“It felt rushed,” said the duck. “I thought the moon would be more gracious, more companionable, but she seemed to be in a hurry and the tea was weak, lukewarm, and unsweetened. I left as soon as I got the chance.”

“How did you do that?” I asked, remembering that the moon was many thousands of miles away and there was no silvery mantle on the waters on which to slide back.

“Oh, it was easy,” said the duck. “I just waited for the moon to slip behind a cloud and then I flew away in the dark. I hid myself behind cloud after cloud as best I could and I arrived back here without incident.” The duck shook her head. “I don’t think she’s even noticed that I’m gone.”

MoonRise Oracle: In the Pink . . . Blossoming March 30, 2014

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logoIntuitive COLLAGE Workshop for Women

MoonRise Oracle: In the Pink . . . Blossoming

Saturday, April 12, 2014

The full pink moon hung brightly in the velvet midnight sky, bathing the earth below in its rosy glow. The women gathered this night to celebrate the blossoming of new life, for all felt renewed. They passed the cup of gratitude from hand to hand and each drank deeply of the sweet pink nectar within. Though each had her fill, the cup was never emptied and as the night wore on, the women began to experience its magick, seeing with new eyes, hearing with new understanding . . . Come join us as we use the intuitive collage process to honor the blossoming of self and drink deeply of the sweet cup of gratitude and wonderment.

Rosemary Court Yoga Studio, 810 Central Avenue, Sarasota, FL

Saturday, April 12, from 2:00-4:30PM

Open Pricing *    Please pay generously according to your means.

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

MoonRise Oracle: The Snow Queen’s Shadow February 1, 2014

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logoCOLLAGE Workshop for Women, Saturday, February 15, 2014

The Snow Queen passed through the veil between the worlds, and her loyal snow bees followed. Now the Snow Queen called on the snow bees to gather as one into a huge swarm, enveloping the land in a blizzard of heart. Some people ran for cover, not understanding the snow bees’ benevolent intent. But there were those who knew, and these few braved the icy passage through the Queen’s snowy shadow and found that, even at the height of the storm, they could see more clearly than ever before . . . Come join us as we walk in the Snow Queen’s shadow and use the intuitive collage process to give focus and clarity to our intentions.

Rosemary Court Yoga Studio, 810 Central Avenue

Saturday, February 15, from 2:00-4:30PM

Open Pricing *    Please pay generously according to your means.

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

This Is What Might Happen . . . January 2, 2014

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This is what might happen when you stir together

* a rainy day

* a front porch

* a tree

* and an aging movie star trying to keep a low profile

and write them into a story . . .

Belva had always believed in magic. The way she got her first part in a movie when she was only six years old was magical. The way she had worked in film throughout her teens was magical. The fact that she had had a normal childhood, despite her fame, and had never succumbed to the glitz, glamour, and glare of her industry, had not become drug or sex addicted or belligerent and out of control was particularly magical.

Belva had always chosen her parts carefully. Karma couldn’t tell the difference between real life and imagination, including movies and playacting, she believed, and so she chose to play only those characters that were consistent with her values. And then she would dive into the role, relishing the opportunity to be someone magnificent, someone she yearned to be herself, someone doing great things in the world. She had had many inspiring roles over the years and had even won a few awards, which she had accepted modestly before packing them away in her mother’s old trunk.

Her retirement had been a conscious decision, as all her decisions were. Her career was still going strong, she was still being offered choice roles, but one day, sitting on her porch, watching the chattering squirrels in the chestnut tree in the front yard as they collected their winter store and dodged raindrops, she realized there was no place else she’d rather be, no part she’d rather play than the contented watcher of squirrels on a rainy day. This was magic!

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