Last weekend during a women’s “Wintry Mix” art retreat, we studied the element fire. We drew four slips of paper from a paper bag as it was passed around. Mine read:
bonfire campfire passion comfort
I wrote this poem using my four words, while observing a burning votive candle for awhile. Give that process a try! Here’s to writing more in 2020!
She wore her passion
bright as a bonfire,
her eyes dancing wildly
like flickering flame.
Oh no you don’t,
No longer will I smile passively
like the Southern Belle you honed,
holding back my thoughts
in deference to your own.
Come, she offered.
Join me here by the campfire I’ve built for all.
For, all are welcome at my campfire,
melting all over the land,
forgiving all transgressions,
especially my own.
Come sit with me in the comfort of stillness, silence,
just the crackling of heart openings.
Our flames quiver,
until our campfire
settles easily into a cozy, steady, mesmerizing source
of comfort, warmth,
These words from my friend, Fran, were just what I needed to start my day. May you also be blessed and join us in spreading light to this aching world.
Source: Be Light
“Mothers and their children are in a category all their own. There’s no bond so strong in the entire world. No love so instantaneous and forgiving.” Gail Tsukiyama, novelist
via Quote For The Day — Canoe Communications
What fun to totally let your mind roll first thing in the morning to a random prompt!
Prompt: 10 min. “Joining the Conversation”
Joining the conversation is always a bit tricky. You leave to go to the bathroom, weaving your way among the tables, eyes searching for the ladies’ room sign, having chosen a spot in the conversation where you knew a little of what was being said. You’d heard that part before. Didn’t want to miss anything but, damn, you had to pee!
Time to pull out a toothpick? Get the salad out of your teeth? Apply some lipstick. Find a mint. Fluff the hair.
Returning to your seat, smiling as you go, you perk up your ears to see where the conversation is now, not wanting to interrupt, but longing to jump back in, as you replace your purse on the chair back, pick up your white linen napkin, scootch your chair back under the table and take a sip of water.
Randomly, the subject has changed from that of Cynthia’s husband’s mom’s foot that wasn’t healing well to an update on one of Lee Anne’s kids who’d gotten married last year in a grand affair in California you’d also unfortunately missed.
“Wait, sorry. What did I miss? Are Meredith and Jim pregnant? Moving back to North Carolina?! Did he get that new job??”
Rachel takes her fork and scrapes it across the empty plate, gathering remnants of the decadent flourless chocolate torte they’d all shared after their monthly meal, while Jaime fills me in on Lee Anne’s news. Abbreviated synopses allowed among these friendships, decades in the making.