Let Me Know You Are Out There....

If you are reading this blog and have an interest in Women Writing for (a) Change Up North, don't be silent -- let me know. I am happy to answer any questions you might have about our classes and retreats.

I just returned from a Leaders' retreat and it was terrific.  I came away with great facilitation ideas to use in classes and retreats, guaranteed to bring your most creative self to the fore!

The beginning of the retreat was for our own writing (even we leaders need writing retreats to jump start our creativity).  I wrote 4 or 5 poems over the eight days of the retreat.  WWf(a)C validates me, strengthens my voice, elicits creativity.  My writing is held gently by those who listen to it.  I get much needed feedback in a supportive environment.  My voice is nurtured in the confidentiality of the writers' circle.  

We are looking for women who want to take some time for themselves to develop their writing, discover their voices, awaken their creativity.  If this is of interest to you, just contact me at gibby767@aol.com for more information.

As usual, I'll close with a poem, this time about writing. 

AT THE TABERNACLE OF WRITING

My desk is an altar to the Goddess

of  Writing, who blesses me

when I have been a good girl.

on it are gathered a brimming chalice

and plate, gleaming, ready

for my work: number 2 hb pencils,

chaste pads of paper, pages bearing

the imprint of their Maker: Staples,

resting beside my trusty Apple Macintosh.

Draped over a chair, the alb and stole of my vocation:

Levi 515 jeans, a white turtleneck, buttery soft

from ample washings, the incense of Tide and Downy.

I wake promptly at six, smack the alarm,

shake the sleep from my brain,

pad down the hall for morning ablutions,

I want to sit down to a feast of bran muffins

and Kenyan AA coffee from Zingerman's,

but perhaps I should fast before the ritual.

Still unclean, I scrub my thoughts with prayer,

intercessions for others and myself,

that a worthy stanza might stumble my way today.

Poised at the tabernacle of writing,

I reach for the Ark of the Covenant

and, ready, begin to receive a poem.

Blessings,

Anni