At the Water’s Edge: White September 2, 2016Posted by wimynspeak in Bee Write!, General.
Tags: beach, clouds, consequences, generosity, greed, moon, silence, snake, tree, tree of life, waves, white, women
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White-capped waves roll under white clouds that scudder across a blue-white washed-out sky. The day, hazy at first, has lightened into quiet — save for the soft shushing of the water and the background hum of buzzing insects, all is silent. Even the wind makes no sound, sighing high in the bleached sky where only the clouds feel its gentle nudge. The sun blazes behind the clouds, dispersing its heat on a lazy earth, but holding fast to its golden glow, keeping it greedily for itself, the clouds backlit while soaking up the honeyed rays, unable to share, though, unlike the sun, willing. Generous, they are impotent in the face of their own nature, their inability to create light. The white-topped waves fail to notice anything amiss and continue to roll toward the pale sand beach.
And this is where the white waves find her, on the pale sand beach, cloaked in white, a mirror of the scuddering clouds. She sits now at the water’s edge and the white waves spiral around her, pushing into her skirt and then receding in a rhythmic pulse tapped out by the hidden moon, leaving in their wake a large white snake, which hisses, but does not strike, does not leave. In her hand the woman holds an earthen bowl filled with warm turquoise water shimmering with crystals within. She tips the bowl slightly to show the white snake, who merely nods.
The water in the bowl bubbles and boils and the crystals in the warm turquoise water rearrange themselves and rise from the bowl, a shimmering tree that speaks of life in its light, and causes the white snake to dance, as if only now it has heard the melody tapped out by the hidden moon. The waves on the shore darken and the greedy sun retreats, as the glowing tree grows and encompasses all the light there is to see. The clouds give up their brightness easily, willingly, just as happy to be grey or black as white. To them, only the wind has consequence.
The Hive of HERstory: Chalice of Fire October 3, 2015Posted by wimynspeak in General, Workshops.
Tags: ancient, chalice, child, collage, collage workshop, Creative Writing, creativity, fire, great grandmother tree, imagination, Inspiration, intuition, magick, memory, passion, past, sacred grove, tree, women, workshops, writing
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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.
On the Move October 1, 2015Posted by wimynspeak in Absurd Shorts, General.
Tags: appearance, goal, human, humanity, key, life time, measure, move, patience, reality, space, stability, stationery, time, tree, treeness, trust
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The tree waited until no one was looking and then he made his move. He wasn’t in a hurry, so the fact that his big move was a matter of measure so small as to be unrecognizable to all but the most scientifically and specially schooled was irrelevant. He knew that humans measured time and distance as if they were fixed and immutable, but the tree had a much different relationship to reality.
And he was ever so patient.
In truth, though, patience was not the real key, although it helped. The real key was trust . . . trusting that even if he, himself, did not achieve the goal in his lifetime, the goal would yet be met by one of his descendants, an off-shoot of himself. In fact, the tree didn’t even know the ultimate goal at all, just knew that his job was to stay centered, grounded, and to trust that there was a bigger picture that would one day be revealed to him . . . or not.
In any case, he continued to take tiny, infinitesimal steps, ever on the move while yet appearing stationery, doing nothing to upset the fragile humans who counted on his stability, his treeness.
This Is What Might Happen . . . January 2, 2014Posted by wimynspeak in Bee Write!, General.
Tags: front porch, karma, magic, movie star, rainy day, roles, squirrels, story, tree
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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!