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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 Hive of HERstory: Women BEEing Wimyn January 3, 2015

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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

MoonRise Oracle: Exploring the Cave of HERstory November 11, 2014

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LogoMoonRise Oracle: Exploring the Cave of HERstory

Intuitive Collage Workshop for Women

Saturday, November 15, 2014

Clouds moved across the wintering sky obscuring much of the waning moon’s remaining light, yet her feet found the frosty path with surety, followed it with precision. When she came to the mouth of the cave, she stopped only to mark herself with the precious scented oils, given to her by the crone, and then entered the dark passage without fear or hesitation. Inside, her eyes adjusted quickly as she made her way to the center of the great cavern. There she found an earthen pit, with a fire laid out, waiting for the spark she carried to light it. Closing her eyes, she imagined a bright spark leaping from her heart to her lips, and when she opened her eyes and blew on the kindling, the fire erupted in lively flames that caused previously unseen images painted on the walls of the cave to dance, telling her their stories . . .

Come join us as we use the intuitive collage process to enter the cave of HERstory and explore the stories that yearn to be told.

Open Pricing *   Please pay generously according to your means.

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

Date/Time:  Saturday, November 15, from 2:00-4:30PM

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


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!”

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.”

Womb-en: To Be En-wombed July 1, 2014

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In the center is womb-en:


arising from the salty waters

of her own womb,

the ocean of life

within all womb-en.


The stories,

written while yet asleep,

fall away and become

en-wombed in the depths,



brought to maturity

and finally released,

powerfully birthed in a flow of

blood and water,

milk and honey,

a sweeter life than, dreaming,

dreamed possible.

Old Woman Song February 1, 2014

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As secrets strengthened, shadows lengthened, and a deep bewitching darkness settled on the land, the old woman raised her voice and began to sing. Hers was not melodic, was not consistent in key or pitch, but it was strong and it rang with truth — a truth that had been lost for generations.  The old woman herself did not know the song, but her body remembered, and so she sang.

As her voice was carried on the currents of the wind that wound and spiraled through the village, into the gardens, around the well, even seeping into the cracks and crevices in doors and windows and walls, people began to awaken. Herbs and flowers hummed, calling the bees to come out, into the night. Moths and butterflies flitted about on the notes of the song, and the dark moon smiled her wan light, ultimately relinquishing her power to the stars, splashed brilliantly on the canvas of the midnight sky.

The old woman sang on through the night, her voice becoming stronger as her body grew more tired. The people had joined in, singing the strange words and dancing to the strange tune with steps they had never learned, but seemed to know.

The children appeared to understand what was going on, though they didn’t have the words to describe it to their parents. On this night, no one slept, no one tired, except the old woman whose body was the conduit for the magick that infused them.

When morning came, the people came out of their trance, looking sheepishly at each other as if they had been caught being foolish. They laughed, their eyes averted, and began to make their way back to their homes.

Only the children stayed with the old woman, who had fallen into a deep sleep.

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