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Still Following the Bee: The HeArt of the Hive July 31, 2016

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Honeycomb Moon

Still Following the Bee: The HeArt of the Hive

Intuitive COLLAGE Workshop for Women

Rosemary Court Yoga Studio, 810 Central Avenue, Sarasota

Saturday, August 13, from 2:00-5:00PM

You have followed the path spiraling into the dark center and now you sit and wait. All around you are the quiet whispers and hums of your sisters coming and going, the magickal music of life. You feel a sweet vibration as it rises through your core, settling around your HeArt, where it emanates a golden light. The honeyed light grows and you are bathed in the realization that the journey to the center has indeed brought you to The HeArt of the Hive, the HeArt of generosity, a HeArt in loving communion with itself.

Come join us as we use the intuitive collage process and simple creative writing prompts to enter into The HeArt of the Hive, where our generosity thrives and love is the sweet honey we share with ourselves.

Open Pricing *   Please pay generously according to your means.

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

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!”

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.”

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 . . .

Whispering in the Panther’s Ear February 7, 2014

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The panther settled down in the brush near the edge of the path, alert and awake; so still that an owl landed on her back and a great blue heron walked by without a care, close enough that the big cat could have had an easy dinner, if she chose. The cat was hungry, so it took some willpower to stay focused. But she was strong and knew her purpose, so even when the owl’s talons dug into her back and the heron stopped at the nearby pond to search for her own dinner, the panther remained motionless.

The cat’s mistress, a wise woman wrapped in a cape of iridescent peacock feathers, watched her beloved pet and colleague from her perch high on the hill. A full moon shone through a misty haze and lit the woman’s face with a luminescent glow. There was nothing to do now but wait. The woman watched the cat, as the cat watched the path, and the moon made its way across the dark sky.

Just as it seemed nothing would happen, and the woman was about to call the cat back, she saw a ripple of movement in the air near the big cat’s head: the flutter of tiny wings. A hummingbird was whispering in the panther’s ear . . .

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