jump to navigation

The Hive of HERstory: Still Following the Bee November 29, 2015

Posted by wimynspeak in General, Workshops.
Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
add a comment

LogoThe Hive of HERstory: Still Following the Bee

Intuitive collage workshop for women

She was grateful for the passing of years, the accumulation of memories, some happy, some sad; all points on the map of her life. She remembered now her anointing, painful at the time: the buzz, the sting, then . . . oh, the joy when she had been chosen to follow the sweet path of wisdom. They had been her mentors, then, her sisters, joined in a common cause. She saw them rarely these days, but their communal vision still inspired her to follow their ancient wisdom, to keep her vision true . . .

Come join us as we use the intuitive collage process and simple writing prompts to reclaim our sistership with the bees and fire up our vision for ourselves, our loved ones, and our world.

Rosemary Court Yoga Studio, 810 Central Avenue, Sarasota

Saturday, December 12, from 2:00-5:00PM

Open Pricing *   Please pay as generously and joyfully as possible, according to your means.

Advance registration is required.  Let me know if you can attend.

Advertisements

The Hive of HERstory: Chalice of Fire October 3, 2015

Posted by wimynspeak in General, Workshops.
Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
add a comment

LogoThe Hive of HERstory: Chalice of Fire

Intuitive collage workshop for women

Saturday, October 17

She has been gone a long time. But one day she finds her way back, back to the sacred grove and the Great Grandmother Tree. She had spent a lot of time here as a young girl, creating magick and allowing her imagination to run free. She remembers the last time she was here, remembers leaving the cup. She closes her eyes and sees it clearly, a beautiful silver chalice, sitting on an ancient tree stump, and when she opens them, there it is, right where she left it. She reaches for it and it bursts into flames, engulfing her in the fire of creativity, reigniting the magick . . .

Come join us as we use the intuitive collage process and simple writing prompts to make our way back to the sacred grove of imagination where our own Chalice of Fire still burns.

Rosemary Court Yoga Studio, 810 Central Avenue, Sarasota

Saturday, October 17, from 2:00-5:00PM

Open Pricing *   Please pay as generously and joyfully as possible, according to your means.

Advance registration is required.  Let me know if you can attend.

The Hive of HERstory: Women BEEing Wimyn January 3, 2015

Posted by wimynspeak in General, Workshops.
Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
2 comments

logoThe Hive of HERstory: Women BEEing Wimyn

Intuitive collage workshop for women, Saturday, January 17, 2015

She is hidden in the depths of the shadow in the dark forgotten hive, where the long-stilled voices of generations of sisters awaken and call to her. “Dig deeper,” they say, “and remember!” She does, her vulnerability baring her heart to the sweet bee medicine of sistership: Women BEEing Wimyn in the cosmic cycle of HERstory. Silent until now, she stands at the edge of the dark, finds her voice, and speaks . . .

Come join us in the hive as we use the intuitive collage process, along with simple creative writing prompts, to connect to our own powerful ancestral wimyn-voices.

Open Pricing * Please pay generously according to your means.

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

Date/Time: Saturday, January 17, 2015, from 2:00-5:00PM

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

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!”

Compassion Fruit August 3, 2014

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

She poured each of them a cup of tea, then sat back and smiled. The other woman bent over the cup and allowed the fragrant steam to pink her cheeks and fill her nostrils. Then she smiled, too, but just a little. “Mmmmmm,” she said softly, “My favorite.”

“Of course,” the first woman said. “I haven’t forgotten.”

Tears welled up in the second woman’s eyes and her faint smile disappeared like the steam wafting from her cup. “Sometimes I do,” she said. “And then even when I can’t remember, still I have a sense that I’ve forgotten and I feel so ashamed.”

“There is no shame in illness . . . or aging,” said the first woman. “Each apple ripens and rots in its own way.”

“Rots is an ugly word.”

“It is a true word.”

“Yes.”

Silence.

Then the second woman, the sad one with tears in her eyes, said, “Some apples become bruised and spoil before the others in the same basket, picked at the same time from the same tree. Why is that, do you think?”

The first woman shrugged. “Perhaps it is luck. Perhaps a combination of circumstances: Sunlight. Food. Water. Handling.”

“Yes, some of us have been handled roughly.” The woman’s tears fell – plop! plop! – into her tea.

“We are like apples, but we are not apples,” said the first woman, patting the other’s hand gently. “Drink your tea and later you will tell me your story, the part I don’t know. I will listen. And I will remember.”

Calling the Teacher April 30, 2014

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

When the wolf bones are arranged just so, we are told, on just the right night, at precisely the right time, it is said that the teacher will appear. No one living today has seen the teacher, and I am hoping to be one of the first. Legend says she is both kind and awful, beautiful and hideous, the giver of life and its merciless taker. The ritual for calling her has been passed down — the setting of the circle and the correct arrangement of the bones — but until now, no one could recall the other necessary details: the right night, the right time, the right words for her calling. In a world such as this, I think for one dissentient moment, that values wealth and individual gain at the expense of others, perhaps there is no right night, right time. Perhaps the words have been dissolved and we have been abandoned.

The ancient fathers knew better, we are told, knew to leave this holy communion to the women, the sisters and daughters of Gaia. But the men somehow forgot their own sacred role, and the women’s belief in magick began to fade. And so the world was altered and the secret was left behind to lie dormant in the shadowy vault of irrelevance, where it has remained a misty, ephemeral memory with no more substance than a dream.  Until now . . .

%d bloggers like this: