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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!”

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Buttery Trough August 3, 2014

Posted by wimynspeak in General, The Write Path.
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When her thoughts were driven like melted butter to the trough that was perpendicular to her ideas, the malpractice , non-practice, forgotten practice of no practice was vanquished. Here, it was impossible not to move forward. Here, her imagination opened wide to allow every errant image to have its place in the buttery trough. When stirred with a bit of inspiration and a pinch of dogged determination, she realized there was nothing she could not do, nothing she had to do. There was only her choice – what she chose to do.

And at this moment, she chose to take a sip from the green mug at her elbow: lemon-ginger tea, allowed to steep until the lemon puckered her mouth and the ginger stung her tongue. That was one moment.

The next moment she chose to pick up her pen, the blue one this time, though she found it less comfortable in her hand. Still, the ideas flowed, so her hand cooperated and thoughts became words that spaced themselves neatly in rows across the page. More moments completed.

Sliding around in the buttery trough, she found she could check off moment after moment after moment, like endless items on an infinite to-do list, but there was no effort, no exertion, only the slippery exhilaration of choosing. There really was nothing to do . . . and anything and everything to do. Out here, past the shoulds and musts, there was freedom.

 

Calling the Teacher April 30, 2014

Posted by wimynspeak in Bee Write!, General.
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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 . . .

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