#9 Preparation: The Sword October 5, 2020
Posted by wimynspeak in Sourceress: The Book of Fear.Tags: belief, Choices, Collaboration, consequences, Control, destiny, Fate, Illusion, Preparation, safety, Sword, Threads, time, trust, truth, Warrior, wisdom
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In this segment of the story, perhaps, we may begin to see how each of our choices weave together with the choices of others to create the path we follow, which we call life. There is not one of us, even the most dedicated and secluded hermit, who creates the path totally on our own. Life is a tapestry, a weaving of many threads, and each of those threads is a choice that has been made, by someone, somewhere, at some time.
And so our little family: father, mother, daughter, continue to make their own choices. The girl and her mother have begun to see that all choices, even the seemingly smallest ones, have consequences that effect not only ourselves and others nearby, but also continue to ripple out through time and space. The man, unfortunately, has not come to this knowing, and so he continues to make choices that he believes will have only limited affect. Mostly, he believes that choices are all about control.
And so, of course he chooses to follow his wife to the river, to talk some sense into her or, if necessary, to force her to see reason. To make the choices he wishes her to make. But the other men in the caravan, who know nothing of the situation, stop him. Being in a small group, in a small space, there are rules that must be followed. And for now, the women must have their solitude, so that they may bathe in peace without worry of interruption. The man argues, but the other men remain steadfast, and seeing that he is outnumbered and at a distinct disadvantage he retreats to stew in his fury. This is as good a place as any to pick up our threads and begin once again to weave our story …
When the girl reached the grove, she found a number of the old women on the path leading to the great Grandmother Tree. “You must come with us,” one of them said, shepherding her in another direction, away from the tree.
“Where are you taking me? Where is the warrior?” the girl asked, confused, having expected her mentor to meet her. Then she had a horrible thought. “Does she not want me here after all? Did I misunderstand?”
“Hush, child. Don’t be silly,” the nearest woman whispered in her ear. “If she did not want you here, you could not have done what you did to travel so quickly and so true.”
The girl let out a sigh of relief. Of course! To cover such a great distance in less than a full crossing of the sun instead of many such crossings strung together over the course of time could only have been possible with the warrior’s help. The girl smiled, reassured. “Just tell me what I must do,” she said.
When they came to a little hut, one which the girl was sure she had never seen before, though she had lived in the area all her life and had explored every bit of its landscape, the women pushed her inside and closed the door quickly, half of them remaining outside as sentries and the others staying with her to attend to the details of her preparation.
“You must not watch,” the women told her as they undressed her and set her pack to the side, taking from it only the Wand of Desire, which they gave to her before wrapping her in a soft, yellow material, until she felt she was enveloped in the creamy yolk of an egg. She laid down with the wand in her hand, pulled her knees up to her chest and closed her eyes as the women placed a heavy white blanket over her and instructed her to lie still until they called for her.
The girl lay quiet and pictured in her mind the great Grandmother Tree by the river. In her vision, the tree’s usually green leaves shimmered bright red against a deep azure blue sky. Around the tree were stacks of ancient-looking books and scrolls and bowls of thick, sweet honey. Two women sat with their backs to the tree, chanting and calling on the Great Mother-of-all, the spirit of life, for blessings. Others sang and danced, preparing the space.
The girl fell deeper into her vision. Perhaps she was dreaming, perhaps merely responding to the activity around her. Was she really seeing the women who were singing and dancing around the great tree in preparation for her initiation, or was it a trick of the mind? Her imagination? She even thought she might be … bewitched. She was not truly afraid, but wished that her mother was with her, reassuring her as only she could, that all was well.
No sooner did she wish it than, in her vision, her mother showed up. She was dressed in a beautiful, flowing, white dress, as filmy as fog, though she, herself, appeared solid enough, and she was smiling. When she got to the tree, she dipped her finger in the honey and anointed herself, brow, throat, and heart, then tapped three times on the nearest stack of books. When her mother joined the singing, dancing women, the girl heard her voice and saw her dance in a way she had never seen her move before.
“Mama!” the girl called out, as she might have as a young child, wanting her attention. One of the women nearby said, “Shhhhhh! You must be quiet!”
The vision disappeared and the girl fell into a deep, dreamless sleep as preparations continued about her and the Wand of Desire glowed brightly in her hand.
While his daughter slept and dreamed, the man, feeling cooped up and restless in their tent, where he had been waiting, his daughter’s absence like an open wound, made his way again to the path to wait. Soon he saw his wife approaching with the other women and for a moment forgot his anger and marveled at her beauty. How her hair, wet and glistening and golden in the morning light, seemed to frame her face with a delicacy that belied its thick texture, the dense silken mass that he knew it to be. As the day grew hotter, he knew, she would pull the scarf over her head to shade her eyes, and her hair would be all but hidden. For now, it was glorious, and he smiled.
But then he remembered, and his smile became a grimace of pain and anger woven in a net of desperation that trapped his emotions and did not allow escape. He moaned from the pain and shook his head, bewildered that his wife could not see the obvious danger; that she would actually aid their daughter on the dangerous path set out by the crazy old woman with the sword.
When his wife saw him, she was still some distance away, but could tell from his rigid posture and clenched fists that he was angrier than she had ever known him to be. She had never experienced him as violent, but neither had she known him to be the manipulative and controlling man he had become as of late. She wasn’t sure what he was capable of doing at this point. It was almost as if he were possessed by a demon. She didn’t know this demon had a name: Fear.
Not sure she was ready to face him, what she would say, how he would respond, the woman decided to give herself some time for contemplation and, without acknowledging her husband’s presence or giving any indication she had seen him, made an abrupt turn and began walking the other way, back to the river. Some of the women were still there, bathing, and he would not be permitted to follow her there … for a time. Time to think. Time for her daughter to gain more distance. She had no idea that the girl had had help from the old warrior and had covered the distance in, literally, no time; was indeed already safe within the circle of wise women at the ritual space that had been created for her initiation.
When he saw his wife abruptly turn away from him, though she had given no indication that she was intentionally avoiding him, could have perhaps forgotten something at the river, the man was nevertheless sure it was deliberate and he felt his fury rise up like a fiery beast. How dare she! he thought, his ego deeply wounded in a way he would never have thought possible in the past.
Sometimes he barely knew himself anymore; wasn’t even sure he liked this being who now dressed in his clothing and spoke with his voice. But then he would picture his precious, innocent daughter bloodied by that horrible sword and held captive under the spell of the crazy old woman who had started it all, and he would brush aside these thoughts. Insignificant! he would say to himself. You don’t have to like it, don’t even have to like you! You just need to keep her safe … keep her safe … keep her safe. He fully believed that once the threat was past and the old woman with the sword banished or disposed of … whatever it took … their life together would return to what it was before. He would return to the man he was before. And then, all would be well.
He didn’t realize that the choices he was making were changing everything, the very foundation of who he was, who his wife and daughter were, their relationship to each other. He didn’t know that the shift was very likely irreversible, that even if things got better, they would never be what they were. There was no going back. An unalterable line had been crossed.
The woman moved back down the path quickly, though she gave no outward appearance of haste. She didn’t want to draw undue attention, hoped that if anyone (her husband in particular) saw her they would assume she had left something at the river, though she was known as a fastidious woman, acutely aware, and very unlikely to leave anything behind inadvertently.
When she got to the river’s edge, she sat down on a flat rock and allowed an audible sigh to escape, the first indication to the few women still there that something was amiss. None had seen the woman’s daughter this morning and had to this point thought nothing of it; now they wondered. They did not wish to pry, however, but let the woman ¬know with gentle nods and raised eyebrows that they would support her in her struggle ¬¬— whatever it was — in any way necessary; she had only to ask.
The woman smiled at them, nodded in acknowledgment, and then averted her gaze, looking out over the wide river. She watched the water flowing around rocks and other obstacles, seemingly off course, yet always moving toward its ultimate destination. Just like us, she thought. And she saw how much easier this was than trying to divert the flow and send it off in another direction altogether. Even if diverting the flow was possible —and sometimes it was — it took a great deal of work and often led to unintended consequences. Seeing this, she felt the peace and ease of the river and knew she had made the right choice, letting her daughter find and follow her own destiny.
But how could she help her husband to see this? More frightening: Was he capable of seeing or had he moved beyond that possibility?
Though the weaving of life continues, our story makes here a brief pause, as if we might allow our characters the opportunity to change course, make new choices. Of course, the story has already been woven to completion, but from our unenlightened perspective, we yet see the possibilities, the many ways these threads might be woven and the patterns of beauty and chaos which might be made.
Copyright 2020 Linda Maree/Linda M. Gabriel
#5 Magick Before Mayhem: The Sword January 23, 2020
Posted by wimynspeak in Sourceress: The Book of Fear.Tags: belief, Blind, Collaboration, Family, magick, Mayhem, peace, seeds, story, Sword, truth, Warrior, wisdom, women
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We have arrived yet again at another beginning, in this place of once-upon-a-timeless-time. In this part of our story, in this near-by, far-away place, the girl’s mother, normally astute, does not notice the change in her husband’s demeanor, or you can be sure she would have had something to say about it. Instead, she makes arrangements for the old woman to train the girl in secret, not in defiance or because she is maliciously hiding anything from her husband, but because, in her blindness, she believes he will eventually come around to the truth, as she sees it, on his own. And when he does, she wants to surprise him. And so, rather than the start of training (which we will come to presently), it is this beginning on which our story pivots: Though they do not know it, this is the first time in all their years together that the couple is working at odds with each other, rather than finding a common ground in their actions, as has always been their habit. But they do not see this and we shall not dwell upon it, except to note that this is so and the story bears telling as it unfolds, for here we find not only wisdom and grace, but also much of our own experience, as well as the magickal seeds that hold the essence of all our stories, including this one. And so we begin, not with the sword, not just yet, but with the seeds …
When the old woman first met the young girl at the agreed-upon time and place, she did not bring the sword but rather a handful of seeds, which she had chosen carefully from her own herb garden and carried with her as she had searched for the girl. Now, she gave the seeds to her with instructions that seemed to make no sense, but which the girl promised to follow anyway.
“When the seeds are ready,” the old woman continued, though the girl’s expression revealed some doubt, “you must plant them by a window, outside the room where you sleep. If you follow my instructions, they will grow quickly. At night, leave the shutters open so you can breathe in their scent. This will help to enhance your strength and the power you will need to wield the sword.” She said nothing of the herbs’ habit of nighttime music and dance but would wait to see if the girl discovered these attributes on her own. (In case, as happens, this part of the story thread is dropped along the way, it gives nothing away to assure the reader: She will. And it will have a profound effect on the path of her life journey, though the details are not as important as one might suspect, which is why they may get lost in the telling.) Back to our story:
At the mention of the sword, the young girl’s face grew first troubled, then fierce. Though he hadn’t mentioned it again, she knew her father remained opposed to her sword training and she worried about this, as she had always been an obedient child. “My father does not want me to touch the sword,” she told the old woman.
“I know,” the wise one said, laying her hand gently on the girl’s shoulder. “He is afraid of the warrior in you. He does not understand our ways, but believes only what this world tells him is so.” She wanted to reassure the girl, despite her own concerns. “But belief is not truth, as you will see. Be patient, child. He will come around.”
“That’s what Mama says, too,” the girl replied. “But I am worried. And I don’t like deceiving him.”
The blind one only nodded and sent the girl on her way.
Despite her discomfort, the girl kept their secret, and that night, after everyone was asleep, under the light of the full moon, she planted the seeds, meticulously following the blind warrior’s instructions: holding the seeds in her mouth until they were plump with her own saliva, and only then placing them into the ground, blessing each seed with her gratitude as she did so. The old woman had explained that she must see each seed as a willing collaborator on her journey, an extension of herself. The girl had no way of knowing that this, too, would be the way of the sword: a collaboration.
It serves no purpose to get too far ahead of our story, and so we shall stop here, bathed in moonlight and in the midst of planting magick; before the inevitable mayhem, which we cannot, unfortunately, in either story or life, avoid. It would do well for us, too, to take heed and remembrance of the wise old woman’s words regarding belief and truth, for these are often used interchangeably, misconstrued, and interwoven, as if one fashions the other. Yet, if one looks closely, examining past and future while standing firmly in the present, one will see that one of these is merely sleight-of-hand, a clever trick, and the other pure magick. Time will tell which holds sway in the nearby-faraway …
Copyright 2020 Linda Maree/Linda M Gabriel
#4 Meeting the Warrior: The Sword September 17, 2019
Posted by wimynspeak in Sourceress: The Book of Fear.Tags: Blind, blood, destiny, Elders, fear, girl, Menarche, peace, Perception, storm, Sword, trust, Violence, Warrior, wisdom, women
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It must be said that the girl knew little to nothing of swords and violence and keeping the peace (peace just was) when she saw the old woman, but this does not diminish the significance of their meeting. And, most assuredly, chance played no part in the event, for fate is written in advance and cannot be avoided once the scenario is struck and life and story have shook on it to seal the deal. That being said, choice still plays a role in how we meet our fate. So the stage is set, the characters are in place, the meeting will happen, and choices will be made. From these choices come all the consequences that follow.
It seems prudent here, as a reminder, to once again point out that the old woman is blind. So, from this point in our story, it is not only choice but blindness — our characters’ and our own — that determines how they and we are impacted in our understanding of events, situations, and outcomes — both intermediate and final. Take heed and remember …
The girl, for her part, recognized the old woman right away, though she couldn’t have explained how or why. When she saw her in the village market, she left her mother’s side and marched right up to the blind warrior. “You have something for me, wise grandmother,” she said.
As soon as she heard the child’s voice, the old woman’s heart leaped, and the sword at her waist began to shrink in the folds of her skirt, scabbard and all, until it was the perfect size for the little girl. The blind woman smiled and laid her hand on top of the girl’s head in grateful benediction. “Indeed, I do,” she said. “And it seems you are even more ready than I had anticipated. Your first blood cannot be far off. In the meantime, you will begin training.”
“Training for what?” asked the girl.
“Why, to take up the Sword of Wisdom, of course,” she told her. “A great sword requires great skill to be used purposefully. It will be many seasons before you are truly accomplished, but I feel you will learn quickly and will have at least some proficiency very soon.”
If the girl was surprised by this pronouncement, she gave no indication (though as we have already established, she knew nothing of swords and warriors and such, only, somehow, that the woman had a precious gift for her and that she must accept it). And so she nodded and bowed to the old woman, who could not see her, yet knew she was being honored.
“I trust the sword has chosen well,” the old one said to the girl. “Now, go back to your mother and wait for my summons.”
When the girl’s mother saw her speaking to the old woman with the sword, she knew intuitively that this was another of her daughter’s guides. She had no reason for concern regarding this (Who was she to question destiny?) and did not anticipate any problems, though if she had been paying attention to the dark clouds gathering overhead (or, we might say, had not been blind to them), she might have realized a storm — coming from an unexpected direction — was about to overtake them.
When her daughter returned to her and told her what the old woman had said, she put her arm around the girl’s shoulder and smiled. “It is time, daughter,” she said. They quickly made their final purchases and turned down the lane to their little home, now engulfed in deep shadow. Neither was sure what would happen next, but each was content to wait and see how events might unfold.
The girl’s father, however, was not so complacent when he heard about the old woman with the sword, and saw her arrival as a threat to their peaceful, contented lives. It had been nearly nine full sun cycles since the faerie woman had shown up at their door, and even though she still flitted about their home constantly in her dragonfly form, she was mostly inconspicuous and he had grown used to her protective presence. The appearance of a strange old woman with a sword, however, looking for his little girl, he found disturbing.
Just as his wife had missed the growing storm outside, she was equally as blind to the darkness that clouded her beloved’s walnut brown eyes, as solemn and deep as night-black fog. She simply patted his shoulder gently, as she always had at times like these and said, “It will be all right.”
The man wanted to believe her, truly he did, but something ugly and twisted had begun to grow within him and this time he wasn’t so sure he could trust without question. Though he had no experience with swords himself, and was generally a kind and gentle man, fear is a fierce alchemist, and he had grown up hearing the stories of the terrible deeds that men wielding swords had committed in the past, and surely did still, even today. He assumed that it was the sword that signified danger and could not know the training and honor codes of those in the ranks of the peaceful warrior, into which the old woman had been initiated. Could not know the crucial part his young daughter would one day play in mortal events. Indeed, had he known, he would have worried no less, for like all caring fathers, he wanted only to protect his daughter from harm, from danger, from grief. He wanted her path to be an easy one.
But now his fear blinded him to the truth: He could not alter his daughter’s destiny no matter what desperate acts he took. In the black clouds of the storm of fear, the girl’s father began to devise a plan to keep the wretched old woman away from his little girl. There was no way he would let his daughter take up the sword — destiny and magick be damned! And the old woman, too, should she cross him to make contact with his little girl.
Outside, thunder rumbled and the first drops of an unusually cold rain began to fall on this near-by, far-away place; the heaviest pelted the little cottage where the family huddled about the fire for warmth, each lost in a tangled labyrinth of her and his own thoughts.
We will stop here, in this place where the fear that was planted when the girl was but an infant is finally taking root and heretofore becomes a major player in our story. It is not that fear was non-existent prior to this moment. We, all of us, carry fear within us as a primal emotion, but it is usually best that it does not direct the action, at least not for long. It has its place, to be sure, in keeping us safe, but when it runs the show, havoc most often ensues. And this, for now, is where we must leave our story, in anticipation of mayhem … and perhaps a bit of magick, too.
Copyright 2019 Linda Maree/Linda M Gabriel
#3 Activating the Warrior: The Sword August 21, 2019
Posted by wimynspeak in Sourceress: The Book of Fear.Tags: Blind, blood, Confusion, guides, Menarche, peace, Sword, truth, Warrior, wisdom
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And so we are, finally, past the beginning, and now we enter another phase. In this phase we will meet the warrior, and, eventually, the girl will be gifted The Sword of Wisdom. But of course we are not there quite yet. And it must be said that the warrior is not what we think. Or perhaps even who we think. Or why. When one travels back through time and language one learns that ‘war,’ the word and so, too, the idea, in its original meaning and various spellings, had more to do with the confusion of things rather than violence, killing, and the obliteration of people and things. And so our warrior has more to do with cutting through confusion than with cutting through flesh — destruction, unless it is the destruction of useless ideas. Hence, The Sword of Wisdom, for it is wisdom that cuts through confusion.
We return to our story, then, this once upon a time in time, just before the little girl’s eleventh sun cycle threshold, to find a very old woman showing up at the village gates…
She was dressed very much as all the women in the village dressed, except for one thing: at her full, plump waist was sheathed a great sword, so long that, despite her remarkable height, the tip of the jeweled scabbard all but dragged in the dirt. A sword of that size would take, one might assume, great strength to wield, and though the woman was large, taller and heavier than the people who lived in this recent long-ago time and nearby far-away place, still she was undeniably old and no one was likely to be ridiculed for failing to imagine that she could handle the great sword.
No one could know, of course, upon first meeting her, that the old woman had carried the sword an immense distance already; that indeed it had not left her side since she had received it all those long cycles and seasons past. They couldn’t know that the sword itself had grown in size and strength proportionately as she herself had done. And only she could tell that, recently, the sword had become just a shade lighter in weight, an infinitesimal measure shorter than it had been. This was how she knew it was time to find her successor.
The old woman had been raised to be a warrior ever since she had been given the sword at her blood ceremony when she herself had reached eleven sun cycles. An auspicious age to step into the blood flow, her own mother had told her at the time. She was lucky, her mother further explained as they prepared for her ceremony. Some girls, most girls, in fact, were a lot older when their flow found them, and by then it was usually too late.
“Too late for what?”
“To activate the warrior,” her mother had replied. “Because of the way things are in our world and in these times, for girls the warrior-self has to be activated early on or it will never happen, and the best time, the most auspicious time, is at first blood.”
“Never?” She couldn’t imagine such a thin slice of golden opportunity with no second chances.
“Well, almost never,” her mother had said as she finished braiding her daughter’s long chestnut hair and turned her to face her. “But it’s much more difficult. It will be easier for you. Besides, you don’t really have a choice; it’s your destiny. You have been chosen. And,” she said, smiling, “you are ready!”
The old woman hadn’t been sure back then, when she was just a child, that she wanted to be a warrior of any sort. And she would have liked to have felt as if she were making the choice, not being passively carried along on the tides of fate. But her mother had been right. She had fallen naturally into the training as easily and comfortably as she fell into the softness of sleep every night. After a while, it felt as if she had chosen her path, and she was satisfied.
Her training had been intense and rigorous. Warriors in her lineage, she learned, never set out to destroy, but to cut away, when necessary, that which obstructed, strangled, choked off, killed life. Sometimes, paradoxically, this still required the taking of a human life, but this was exceedingly rare and only considered as a last resort. And she was assured by her mentors that the day would come (soon, they hoped!) when warriors would not be required to kill at all. When they would have learned or, perhaps more accurately, remembered the secret that would allow only peaceful resolution to all conflict. When the mere presence of a warrior would inspire life-enhancing choices, collaboration, and cooperation. When the energy of polar opposite positions would come together to create a current of vital life force that nourished and sustained rather than maimed and destroyed.
This was the vision she held still, and she believed it was within reach; could possibly even happen in her lifetime, but would almost certainly happen within the lifespan of the child for which she now searched; the child whose eleventh sun cycle threshold was imminent and whose blood flow would likely begin within the same or the following moon-cycle. She was as sure of the inevitability of this awaited transformation as she had ever been sure of anything in her long, long life.
The only thing she had not been sure of was her ability to find the girl … in time. She had had to trust that she would be led to her. That her eyes that could no longer see would not be needed, and that it was the eyes of her soul, the eyes of the Great Ones, the eyes of her mentors long past who would lead her to the child. For this was also something that was not readily noticeable: The old warrior with the great sword was blind.
Going blind had been a surprise, sudden and traumatic. One day she simply woke up to darkness. She had had no warning, no premonition. She had been angry at first. How is a blind warrior to use a sword? But she had found that the sword, after all their cycles and seasons of practice and working together, had become an extension of her own arm, her will. The sword always found its mark, even when she could not see it.
Her other senses, too, had grown stronger (or maybe it was just that she had learned to use them and rely on them to a greater degree), her inner sight more acute and assured. And now her knowing had led her here, to this village. She was sure the child was here, could feel the certainty in her bones, in the peacefulness that settled around her heart. Her mission would be fulfilled, her dream for the world realized, surely. Surely …
We have come, now, to a natural pause in our story, a time for pondering. Who among us does not hope for peace, at least for ourselves, which is a start,? And who among us does not at least occasionally feel confusion, chaos, turmoil, like a great, foggy storm both within and without? We get a sense here of what is coming, and this is good. It means we are paying attention, even if we are uncertain. Attention, awareness, these are the first steps that can lead us beyond our blindness. For yes, in some ways, perhaps many ways, we are all blind. And so it is with some excitement and yes, some trepidation, that we await the meeting of the girl and the blind warrior, and the gifting of the sword. It must be noted, however, that wisdom is not bestowed so easily as desire and creativity. It will take more than the waving of a wand and the nourishment taken from a cup, no matter how valuable, how magickal, to gain true wisdom … to accept the gift and to learn to wield it with courage, grace, and humility.
Copyright 2019 Linda Maree/Linda M Gabriel
Stone Bear July 26, 2018
Posted by wimynspeak in General, Story Tellings.Tags: ancient, bear, cave, choice, stone, story, storyteller, wisdom
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Did I ever tell you the story about the time I met the stone bear? It happened countless lifetimes ago, but I remember it like it was yesterday.
I was on the hill where the old stone circle ruins now stand. Back then, the circle had not been constructed yet, and wouldn’t be for many generations, and the hill was higher, less rounded by time. The surface was covered with dark, jagged rocks and stiff, course grass; it was not the gentle, comfortable place it is now. On one side of the hill there was a very small cave, which was well hidden and said to be unendingly deep. In fact, the ooooold stories said that one could see the other side of the universe from the mouth of that cave. Of course, no one in my lifetime, then … or now, really, had ever seen such a vision, but I decided that I must do just that.
So, one morning in mid-summer, I woke before all the others and crept away from our encampment. We were nomadic, then, remember, but we would be in this place for some time yet, at least another turning of the moon, for food was plentiful and we could fill our bellies and put on necessary fat stores for winter. Though morning had just dawned, the stars still shone overhead as I made my way… they were much closer and brighter back then … and the spiky grass was damp with dew beneath my feet. I knew how to creep as silently as an owl moves in flight, and I am sure I disrupted no living creature’s rest, nor drew the attention of any of the nocturnal predators returning to their lairs with whom we shared the brightening landscape. I had just reached the path that led up the hill, where the cave and its mysteries lay silent and hidden, when I saw the stone bear.
He snuffled in front of me on the path, moving and breathing like any other living creature, but it was obvious his great hulk of a body was created entirely of stone. Even for the time it was back then, so close to the dawn of humanity, as we call it now, I knew that it was not usual for stone objects to move and breathe thus. This was obviously no carven object, such as the mage’s made, but a living creature made of stone.
I followed the creature, fascinated, and it seemed that, a time or two, it turned its great stone head to see if I was still following, as if it expected me to do just that. I seemed now to be captured by its hard, earthen energy, and felt that even if I were compelled to do so … and I was not … I could not have left the beast’s influence.
Of course the stone bear led me directly to the cave, which, from my vantage point a few steps back along the path, appeared gaping and dark, an abyss into which one might be swallowed whole and alive, to live out one’s allotted time in abysmal nothingness. But the stories promised something greater, a wide expanse of universe that would make the magic and majesty of the star-filled sky over my head seem ordinary, mundane. So I stepped closer to the bear, wanting the promise it seemed to offer.
“You must leave them behind,” I thought I heard the bear whisper when I found I could get no closer. There seemed an invisible field of force about the creature that repelled me, not in the sickening way, but in the true physical sense of the word. I simply could not come closer, no matter that I tried.
“You must leave your most precious thoughts, your fears and inhibitions, your expectations and disappointments, all of them. Leave them here. The others will not find them. Strangers will pass by without noticing them. The treasures of the mind are such that they cannot be recognized once abandoned by the thinker. Even you, upon your return, will not be able to pick them up again, not as they are now.” All of this the bear said without words, but I heard the message nonetheless and vow that this is a true telling.
Be this a curse or a gift? I wondered, and got no answer, and so I came to see that it was neither, but rather a choice that hung on the balance point of my desire. For good or ill, if I wished to see the wonders of the cave, all must be left behind, and the leaving must be understood to be undoable.
The great bear turned away and moved toward the dark entrance of the cave as if certain of my decision.
© 2018 Linda Maree
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Still Following the Bee: The HeArt of the Hive July 31, 2016
Posted by wimynspeak in General, Workshops.Tags: bees, collage, collage workshop, Creative Writing, creativity, generosity, heart, Inspiration, intuition, intuitive powers, magick, new possibilities, secret, The Hive, wisdom, women, writing
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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!
Still Following the Bee: Queen of the Impossible April 3, 2016
Posted by wimynspeak in General, Workshops.Tags: collage, collage workshop, Creative Writing, creativity, impossibility, impossible, Inspiration, intuition, intuitive powers, queen, queen bee, wisdom, women
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Intuitive collage workshop for women, Saturday, April 16
The women came together, dancing and singing, under a star-littered sky, the nearly full moon rising just above the treetops. When their circle was formed, they grew silent, listening, hearing at first only the wind in the trees, the gurgling of the nearby river, the call of an owl in the distance. And then the sounds slowly came together to form one sound, one word, the key to their hopes and dreams: Impossible! At first the women were dismayed, until one of them, the one whose face glowed with excitement in the moonlight, said, “Well, aren’t we the lucky ones! There aren’t many who get to unlock the mystery to “Impossible.”
Come join us as we use the intuitive collage process, along with simple creative writing prompts, to find our own key to unlocking the mystery and crowning ourselves Queen of the Impossible.
Open Pricing * Please pay generously and joy-fully, according to your means.
Advance registration is required.Let me know if you can join us!
Rosemary Court Yoga Studio, 810 Central Avenue, Sarasota
Saturday, April 16, from 2:00-5:00PM
The Hive of HERstory: Still Following the Bee November 29, 2015
Posted by wimynspeak in General, Workshops.Tags: ancient wisdom, collage, collage workshop, communal, communal vision, Creative Writing, creativity, gratitude, hive, Inspiration, intuition, map of life, memory, mentors, personal vision, sisters, vision, wisdom, women, world vision
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The 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.
The Hive of HERstory: Coventina’s Well September 5, 2015
Posted by wimynspeak in General, Workshops.Tags: abundance, ancient stories, collage, collage workshop, Coventina, Coventina's Well, Creative Writing, crescent moon, desire, Inspiration, intuition, magick, manifestation, path, pool of magick, shadows, The Hive, well, wisdom, wish, wishing well, women
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The Hive of HERstory: Coventina’s Well
Intuitive collage workshop for women
The wide smile of a waxing crescent moon lit the path for the women, leading them to the hidden grove and the magickal pool they called Coventina’s Well. No one knew for sure how long the Well had been there, but the stories were ancient, telling of a time of lush gardens and abundant resources. The Well could only be found when the light of the moon cast just the right shadows on the path. But once found, one could make any wish, put forth any desire, and it was bound by the laws of Coventina’s magick to manifest . . .
Come join us as we use the intuitive collage process, along with simple writing prompts, to follow the path to Coventina’s Well and discover our own hidden magick within.
Rosemary Court Yoga Studio, 810 Central Avenue, Sarasota
Saturday, September 19, 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.
Honeycomb Moon 