#6 Training Begins: The Sword April 6, 2020
Posted by wimynspeak in Sourceress: The Book of Fear.Tags: Family, fear, guides, home, Life, mentor, power, story, Sword, training, truth, Violence, Warrior, women
add a comment
Nothing is ever as it seems, neither in time nor space nor the threads of circumstances that make up a story or a life. No matter how it is experienced, there is a flow of truth that is related to perception, and another which is harder to define for it is not often recognized for what it is: THE Truth, the ultimate. We will not presume to lecture on the latter, for that would likely be fruitless. Most of us live in the relative truth that is our story, and it will help to keep this in mind as we return to find the girl beginning, or so it seems, her sword training in that once-upon-a-place-and-time that is neither here nor there …
The first time the girl felt the sword in her hand she was blindfolded. She thought maybe this was because her teacher was blind, so that she might share her experience, but the old woman assured her this was how they all started, each warrior in their lineage. When she felt the cool hilt against her palm, and the weight of the sword pulling at her muscles as she struggled to hold it steady, a tingle, a current of energy, like lightning, ran down the length of her arm and she let out the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
“Just feel it,” the old woman said, “its weight, its power.”
The girl nodded. Even had she wanted to speak, the awe of the moment carried away all of her words on a soundless breath.
“Now,” said the old woman, “put one foot in front of the other; it doesn’t matter which, and leave some space between them. Good. Now turn the front foot out slightly so your feet are at an angle. Yes, that’s it. This is how you set a strong foundation.”
The girl didn’t stop to wonder how the woman could “see” her stance. She had stopped questioning the blind one’s abilities and knew that though her eyes were no more than seers of shadows, the old woman, in her own way, still had certain and precise vision.
“Hold the sword out in front of you. “
The girl again did as she was told, willing her arm and weary muscles to stop shaking; the sword was much heavier than she had anticipated.
“Shift your weight front to back, keeping your spine straight, your head high, and the sword steady.”
It took all of her will and resolve to do as the blind warrior instructed, but once again the girl complied. When the old woman asked her to switch her stance again, she did so, the sword growing heavier and heavier until her arm, against her will, began to tremble noticeably with the strain. Only then did the old woman tell her to stop.
“Rest the tip of the sword lightly on the ground,” she told her, “while I remove the blindfold.”
So the blindfold was removed and the girl, eager for a glimpse of the Sword of Wisdom in her hand, turned her eyes downward and opened them slowly: Her hand was empty! With this revelation, the feeling of weight that had been the sword disappeared and she couldn’t hide her disappointment, feeling she had been tricked.
The old woman laughed, though not cruelly. “We are all disappointed the first time,” she said. “But do not feel cheated. In order to wield this instrument properly, you must know and trust that the energy of the sword is as real and powerful as the sword itself. “
Though she was not sure she understood fully what the old woman had just told her (she was beginning to see there was much she did not understand), and the taste of disappointment was yet sour in her mouth, still the girl felt a growing excitement about this new discovery: pure energy as a source of power.
The old woman waited silently, feeling the girl’s dawning awareness, more certain with each rise of the sun, each time they met, that the sword had chosen wisely. Finally she said to the girl, “Your sun cycle threshold is approaching and your blood time will surely come soon too, I suspect. We must be ready.”
The girl nodded, certain of her desire (and her destiny) to follow the path of the warrior woman whatever that meant – to be ready — but felt a fiery fear burning in her gut. Her father still did not know of her trainings, and both her mother and her mentor were adamant that he should not. She thought of all the warrior had taught her since their initial meeting, and she kept their secret faithfully, but was young and still wished to please her parents. The old woman put her arm around the girl and began to speak as if the girl had spoken her thoughts aloud.
“When we are children,” the old woman began, “we depend on our mother and father and the elders around us for everything. This is as it should be. But sometimes those who love us can begin to fear for us, for our safety, for our happiness. This usually happens to people who, for any number of reasons, have their own places of hurt, pain, and anxiety. Your father is such a man. He cannot see you as anything but his precious babe in arms, suckling at her mother’s breast, and so, to him, you are still vulnerable and need his protection. And because of the stories he’s been told and the evil he believes to be always lurking about, seeking to take revenge on the weak and unprotected, he cannot simply let you go to follow your path. That would be far too frightening, and he would feel himself at fault if anything hurtful were to befall you. For sure, the path of the warrior is not without its dangers to body and spirit.”
“My mother,” the girl asked, “does not have these fears?”
“Oh, your mother has her own stories,” said the wise warrior. “But she was lucky, as a child, to be surrounded by strong, loving women who were able to set aside their own concerns and allow the woman in the girl to emerge. She does this now, for you. She is able to hold a vision of you as a courageous, wise woman, while your father, in his mind, will not let you grow up but must always keep you dependent on him …”
“So he can keep me safe.”
“So he can feel like he is keeping you safe. Safety is an illusion.”
“Is there nothing we can do to change his mind?”
The blind warrior chuckled deep in her throat. “Oh, my dear, people have been trying to change others since time began. It has never worked. Your father will either gain this wisdom on his own, when the time is right and he is ready, or …” She stopped, seeing the girl’s furrowed brow. “Do you still have your Cup of Creativity?” she asked.
The girl nodded.
“Drink from it often in the coming moon cycle,” the old woman told her. “and see what you will see.”
That night, the girl sat at her window, drinking from her cup and listening to her herbs singing. (You remember, earlier ,I told you this would be so.) The air was redolent with their sounds and their odors, distinct as notes on a scale, carried to her on a light breeze. It had rained earlier in the evening and the girl could smell the scent of rainwater mingled with wafts of basil, lemon balm, thyme, and rosemary. She breathed deeply, humming along with each exhale, wanting to preserve this moment, for she had a feeling her world was about to be irrevocably altered.
The next time they met, the old woman brought the actual sword, but instead of handing it to the girl, she used it to draw a circle in the dirt. “Step into the center,” she told the girl, who silently obeyed. As the girl did so, she felt a winding energy move up from the earth, swirling first about her feet, rooting her in place, before it spiraled upward, eventually forming a halo vortex above her head. The halo pulsed with light, like a prism, and flowed with a gentle movement that was at once relaxing and invigorating. She didn’t know how long she was in the circle, but when she opened her eyes the light had shifted and the old woman, looking pleased, seemed very intent on something the girl herself could not see.
“It is as I thought,” the blind woman said. “There are powerful forces protecting you. But that doesn’t mean we can be complacent. Powerful protection is only required by those with powerful enemies.” When she the look on the girl’s face she quickly amended her statement. “Perhaps enemy is too strong a word. Let’s just say there will be obstacles and leave it at that.”
Here, too, we must leave our story ‘at that.’ We have had a glimpse of magick at play, and sensed, perhaps, a bit of the mayhem to come. But only a bit. For stories must contain a precise measure of particular elements, and it is only in the telling that each individual recipe becomes clear … and nowhere is it written that we must like it. Only that we remain true to its essence and telling.
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
add a comment
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
2 comments
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
Still Following the Bee: Sweet Sanctuary December 3, 2016
Posted by wimynspeak in General, Workshops.Tags: collage, creativity, Inspiration, intuition, magick, manifest desires, vision, women, writing
add a comment
Still Following the Bee: Sweet Sanctuary
Intuitive COLLAGE Workshop for Women
Rosemary Court Yoga Studio, 810 Central Ave, Sarasota
Saturday, December 17, from 2:00-5:00PM
You gather in the Sweet Sanctuary of the winter hive, you and your sisters, preparing yourselves for the eagerly awaited descent into the dark of the longest night, the night of visions, a time when you can see what is invisible in the light. You hum and dance your way into readiness, savoring the buzz of excitement that permeates the hive and fills you with gratitude for the present moment of communion and the deep desire that is the magick that creates what comes next…
Come join us as we use the intuitive collage process as well as simple creative writing prompts to enter our Sweet Sanctuary and ready ourselves for the descent into the longest night of clearest vision.
Open Pricing * Please pay generously according to your means.
Advance registration is required. Let me know if you plan to attend.
Still Following the Bee: Great Hive of BEEing November 6, 2016
Posted by wimynspeak in General, Workshops.Tags: being, collage, communion, creativity, hive, Inspiration, presence, queen, quiet, sacred, women, writing
add a comment
Still Following the Bee: Great Hive of BEEing
Intuitive COLLAGE Workshop for Women
Rosemary Court Yoga Studio, 810 Central Avenue, Sarasota
Saturday, November 19, from 2:00-5:00PM
You close your eyes and listen to the still aloneness that seems to envelop you like a soft, warm blanket. Your body quiets and you imagine yourself entering the great hall of the great queen, creative sovereign of this sacred realm. She has summoned you, and you honor her with your presence. When you open your eyes, you find that you are not alone after all, for the great hall is filled to capacity and you are caught in the crush of all that is supportive and wondrous. The queen offers her communion, and all present in the Great Hive of BEEing accept her gift with gracious gratitude …
Come join us as we use the intuitive collage process as well as simple creative writing prompts to enter the Great Hive of BEEing and enjoy the communion of our inner queen, calling us to BEE.
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: Crown Your Queen! September 25, 2016
Posted by wimynspeak in General, Workshops.Tags: collage, collage workshop, creative path, Creative Writing, creativity, crown, dance, honey, Inspiration, intuition, magick, new possibilities, path, queen, throne, women
2 comments
Still Following the Bee: Crown Your Queen!
Intuitive COLLAGE Workshop for Women
Rosemary Court Yoga Studio, 810 Central Ave, Sarasota
Saturday, October 8, from 2:00-5:00PM
You sleep and dream, and in your dream you see a broad door with a heavy brass handle. When you turn the handle, before you appears the vast landscape of your imagination, the gateway to “possible,” to all that is magick. You dance into this dreamscape and a pathway opens up, straight and true, and you follow it to a massive throne, intricately carved and highly polished, which beckons you to sit. When you do, a golden crown, the color of sweet honey, appears and you place the crown on your head, declaring yourself Queen, sovereign of all you can imagine …
Come join us as we use the intuitive collage process as well as simple creative writing prompts to discover the throne of our imagination and crown ourselves Queen of all that is possible.
Open Pricing * Please pay generously according to your means.
Advance registration is required. Please let me know if you can join us.
Still Following the Bee: Sweet Honey Rain September 2, 2016
Posted by wimynspeak in General, Workshops.Tags: collage, collage workshop, Creative Writing, creativity, honey, Inspiration, intuition, passion, precious gift, rain, song, sustaining self, sweetness, voice, women
add a comment
Intuitive COLLAGE Workshop for Women
Saturday, September 17, from 2:00-5:00PM
Still Following the Bee: Sweet Honey Rain
The day it rains honey you are caught in the deluge, and as you close your eyes and lift your face to the sweetening clouds, you open your mouth and drink in the glistening golden drops. The honey rain coats your throat and you find yourself humming a tune that is at once familiar and yet unknown. The hum turns into a melody and the melody finds words, until you are singing the song that has been within you since the first beat of your heart. Now, it sings you into sweetness. You smile as you swallow the precious gift.
Come join us as we use the intuitive collage process as well as simple creative writing prompts to brew up a storm of Sweet Honey Rain and drink in the song of our soul, savoring the sweetness that sustains us.
Open Pricing * Please pay generously, from your heart, according to your means.
Advance registration is required. Please let me know if you can join us!
Rosemary Court Yoga Studio, 810 Central Avenue, Sarasota
At the Water’s Edge: White September 2, 2016
Posted by wimynspeak in Bee Write!, General.Tags: beach, clouds, consequences, generosity, greed, moon, silence, snake, tree, tree of life, waves, white, women
add a comment
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.
Honeycomb Moon 