If I Could Go Back...

If I could go back…I’d be born again—to the same mother who fell in love, with a curly haired guy who could dance, somewhere in Italy in the middle of World War II. 

If I could go back…I’d let my mother know it wasn’t necessary to grieve the four babes she miscarried between my birth and the birth of my sister. It was my sister each time, trying it out and deciding she wasn’t ready to be here again. Maybe because she had past life issues.

If I could go back…I’d pay more attention to my little brothers instead of being so wrapped up in teen angst and drama. Maybe more time with them would have prepared me for a son. Then again, maybe not. He came in thinking he was the parent and I was the child — and he told me about our previous lives as gypsies when he could barely talk.

If I could go back…I’d love all over again everyone I’ve loved. I’d not change the wild and crazy and fabulous sexual life I led briefly because the future-non-sexual-alien-me used this life to exhibit videos at Galactic Center of what physical sex was like in the 1980’s on Earth.

If I could go back…I’d not really change anything because I’ve grown from both ups and downs. When I first began writing it was from angst, and now it comes from wisdom and joy as well as angst and everything in between. I’m grateful I’ve had this moment, this blink. To quote my mother (in my dream a month after her death)...

“This life is just a blink in the universe of time. Enjoy Every Moment.”

In the Circle...

At the writing retreat, beginning each writing session, Susan would take us around the Medicine Wheel, lighting a candle at each of the four directions, adding a layer of information each time. In the circle became a jumping-off line. I sat in the South, where kids play (I'm still having fun!). Here is a portion of what I wrote that day:

In the circle... I become deaf and other senses are heightened. I see clearly my grandmothers in the sky – Gramma Clark with her large welcoming bosoms and Grandma Schaefer, a tiny, birdlike woman with giant energy. Thank you both for your gifts, for your children, for without them I would not have this body and these experiences. I am grateful.

In the circle… I become blind and other senses are heightened. I feel the connection to the Mother, to the Earth, the Heart, the Trees, the Sky – All of Nature. Thank you for your gifts for without them I would not have this body and these feelings of sacred awe. I am grateful.

In the circle… I become dumb, and other senses are heightened. I hear the drumming of the rain on tin rooftops, the clatter of the waterfall from the gutter to the wooden deck, the cooo-cooo from one dove to another, the hum of the refrigerator that holds the food that feeds my body. I hear the pens, scratching across tablets, as nine women join in a silent exercise and express their heartfelt feelings. I am grateful.

In the circle… I cannot smell, and other senses are heightened. I feel the others pain, I see the joy-light in their eyes, I hear the laughter of child-like happiness born-in-the-moment, the stories unfolding over breakfast, sharing intimacies, and sorrows, and creative fictions that delight or daunt. I am grateful.

I am grateful my cup of life is overflowing – I am filled with these women’s expressions that evoke my own, mirror my experiences, support my desires and dreams. Together, we are making music that thrums the strings of my heart, my feet moving and tapping and stomping to the percussive rhythms of the ring of us – joined in a trance. We dance, we create, we laugh, we love. Anything is possible when women like this are in my circle.

You Do It:  Anyone reading this post, is in my circle. Your circle could be anything...I'm looking at the circle at the top of my coffee cup this morning, and into that circle I pour Peet's decaf water cured Mocha Java ... and it warms me. 

Please post your comments and tell us about your circles. Just take up a pen or pencil, and start with the jump-off line (write it over and over until something else comes, just letting your pen lead you):  In the Circle…

What's been stirred in me...

At the retreat, following each meditation, Susan would offer us jumping-off lines to get our pens/pencils moving. This jump-off line "What's been stirred in me..." was the last one on Sunday. Here is what my pen said:

What’s been stirred in me often takes a long time to find action. I am a Ferdinand type of Taurus and it takes time to chew my cud, to bring up my feelings and identify them, my stirrings. It takes some sitting quietly under the trees, and smelling the flowers (usually freesias and star lilies) before full-blown ideas and action ever surface.

Stirred in me? Anger. Outrage at a boyfriend’s abandonment with no explanation, evoking a realized anger for the first time – I was 42. Anger was hidden in my family, and I’d perfected a trick of sending it instantly to my unconscious. Ranting and screaming into an empty house was intensely healing. This stirring event resulted in the story on the "About Me" tab at the top of this blog (originally published in Science of Mind magazine).

Stirred in me? Protectiveness. My mind-reading, gifted granddaughter needed a safe haven from her mother’s boyfriend, drugs, and alcohol. Protectiveness for her stirred in me her first year of life, yet final decisive mediation-court-approving action took nine years to get her into her father’s arms.

Stirred in me?  Tribal connection. After years of solitude, depression and narrow focus on family, a need for community has re-emerged, leading me to in-the-moment decisions, as I follow soul’s dictates, I’ve been expanding my circle (next post, another piece from the jumping-off line "In the circle...") and including new people — spiritual, loving, playful — astrologers, kids, carpoolers, photographers, painters, and writers.

Stirred in me? Creativity. Multi-tasking a year and a half of grieving with workload burnout/stress and creative gestation dictated silent power/meditation. Labor Day weekend last year, an art teacher (total stranger) made me an offer, and I cracked open, open, open, and said “Yes” to her art class in Mexico in April 2009. Another few months of bubbling, stewing, and stirring and the blog was born, January 2009 — the chance to combine all my passions:  writing, collage, painting, photography — recording and sharing the beauty I see in a creative way.  

Stirred in me?  Deeper Gratitude -- for the wonder of it all, the magic I am living, and the wondrously talented and supportive circles of people I’ve just met again.

You Can Do It (please share with others in comments):  Just take up a pen or pencil, and start with the jump-off line (write it over and over until something else comes, just let your pen lead you:  What’s been stirred in me…

More magic ~ a writing retreat in the redwoods

I followed yet another synchronistic event to a women's writing retreat at St. Dorothy's Rest, which took me this past weekend to the wine country, to a rustic yet comfortable and cozy setting under the redwoods in the rain. In a conversation at work, I discovered Richard and I both loved Freestone, Occidental, Camp Meeker and St. Dorothy's rest — outside Sebastopol you hang a right instead of going to Bodega Bay (which I also adore). We discussed a desire to do a workshop/retreat at St. Dorothy's, and when I googled St. Dorothy's thinking I was in standard Google search, yet I was really googling from Google Images - which popped up a flyer for a writing retreat, and a gorgeous photo of St. Dorothy's. I instantly emailed Susan Hagen (author of Women at Ground Zero) and signed up. I'll post photos on the photo page later this week.

Follow your heart and watch the magic unfold. ~ Dennis Adams  

Mexico ~ Magic ~ Melons

I've been in quarantine. I returned from my magical trip to Melaque, went to work last Monday and (the magic continues) the company sent me home (anyone having been in Mexico the previous 7 days, was to work from home for 10 days).  Quarantine become deep Spring cleaning - getting ready for company. And I've just returned from a 3 day women's writing retreat. My feet are still not on the ground ... so much magic. 

First day of magic at La Paloma, I was invited to join Pam and Constance on their sun deck - they were painting already. I've never done a watercolor in my life - unless you count those kids things (I don't). I settled into my chair, margarita in my hand. Pam (another so-called student, so-called because she should be teaching) gently brings me a wooden lap tray, with a sheet of really outrageously expensive watercolor paper, a round tipped paintbrush, and a few paints. "Join us," she says. "Mix some paint and just do something." My surprised eyes, as big as saucers with internal trepidation, landed on the gate to the beach. 

Later that week, after Jerry's beginning exercises and some shared tips from Pam and Constance, I painted something I like. We wrote first, choosing our own three words at random, the fourth word we were all to incorporate in our story:     Watermelon. 

My three words:  begging, smack, glass.  

My story:

For the three thousandth time, Mama served the beans and rice. "Ugh! I can't take it," Tita screamed at her Mama. "This is all we've had to eat for three years. And now, not even water to drink! I'm begging you..."  She smacked her empty glass down on the table. "I want WATERMELON!" she cried, as she ran away.

Lesson:  Write a Magical Realism, Mexico type of Tale. 

She'd vanished twenty years ago. He looked everywhere for her and the clues to her whereabouts led him from Sacramento, CA to Melaque, MX where he met three local witches who told him they knew where she was. He was overjoyed. They led him to the bay, through the alleys and down the cobbled streets lined with palms, past the bank, and the tall tower.

One of the witches (the youngest and prettiest) took his hand and led him down the beach, past the empty, hollow of an old hotel long ago lost to a hurricane. The second witch told him she was visiting Mami Wata, the local mermaid goddess, in her home under the sea and was expected back on the beach very soon. He believed her, as her words rang true in his soul (and she was a dark beauty ~ he'd always gotten into trouble with dark beauties).

The third witch, an older redheaded woman and quite trustworthy in his estimation, said, "Now you must wait, but it is so very hot! Let us bury you up to your face in the cool sand while you wait." He was sweating profusely, and he agreed. They dug deeply and laid him in the the hole carefully, covering him gently to his chin, letting his large mustache show clearly above the sand. The dark beauty offered him a cool drink through a straw which put him into a deep slumber. While he slept, while he waited, the sand washed up with the tides and covered his face.

When one walks the beach early in the morning while the tide is out, he can be seen waiting for her to return.