The Weaving Wisdom Garden: Emerging from the Void

A Collaborative Publication Pollinating Poetic Expression

Spring Spiral: Emerging from the Void
March 20, 2023

Welcome to the maiden voyage of The Weaving Wisdom Garden, a collaborative publication pollinating poetic expression. This month we are tuning in with the transitional shift from the Winter Void into the Light of Spring.

Emerging from the void like a snake with freshly revealed skin, we step into the light of Spring with a new song to sing. Sprouting from the fertility of our composting sheddings, we begin integrating our internal shifts with the external reality. We must crystalize INTO the evolution the void season gifted our growth. The orchestra of color, the symphony of sound, the cascade of sunlight, the vibrations of expression playing our senses like an instrument. We feel our shifts taking shape in response to the invitations of the season. All that took place in the depths of the winter space finally breathes a note of clarity, as we begin dancing a new story.

Enjoy the works of heart contributed by inspired Weavers and follow your curiosity to explore their personal realms of creativity through the links provided with their names. The deepest intention of this publication is to strum resonance through nourishing expressions and enliven the ether as we cultivate connection with one another. We would love to listen with your reflections in the comments and spark inspired conversations that ripple the medicine in all directions.

Awakened Slumber

©Rachel Fae Coleman

Idylliclandstudio.com

Substack:

Chiron in the 11th House

A Channelled Message from the Tulip Poplar Tree
South Carolina || 3.20.2023

The Void is a Holy Child

do not fear the Void
it is only a passage
Light cradles it
Light holds it

The Void is held in Light
surrounded by it
halo-ed by it
hallowed

the Void is holy
a Holy Child
an incarnation
a place where incarnation occurs

you incarnate there
are
in that place
you are reborn
dissolve
become Nothing
So you may become
Something
(anything)
again

in the Void
you are remade

enjoy it
play in it
swim in it

feel the room, the space
for possibility
for expansion
for something Completely New

appreciate a place
for nothing more (and nothing less)
than Starting Over
Beginning Again

isn’t that a gift?
isn’t it a gift to be given a place
where you can be held
hidden, tucked away
while every inch of you unravels?

isn’t it a gift to be given a place
where you can be held by the Light
as you are Made New?

the Void is a Holy Child
a halo-ed child
crowned by Light

see you
see yourself
in it:
also a Holy Child
also halo-ed
hallowed --
an intended / prophesied
embodiment of Divinity
birthed
again and again
into this world

enter the Void
come undone
and Emerge Anew

© Amanda Nicole

http://alchemillas.com

Substack: The Liriodendress

Into The Great Goo

to the central cauldron
of almighty transformation
I offer all that is not me

to the great alchemical goo
I offer endless searching
for any thing outside me
to free me

I offer Worry
for a world
burning under its own nose
a world that avoids
feeling its own heart 
hearing its own cries

I offer Grief for a future
for my children
with no whales or sequoias
or hope
or a future where I have
no children at all

to the pot of goo 
at the center of all time
I offer Fear
my Grandmothers’ fears
of being betrayed, 
or worse, abandoned
my Grandfathers' fears 
of failing others
or worse, themselves.

Fear. and more Fear.

it oozes from my pores
as my sweaty Fear
drips into the hungry goo.
returning all that belongs to her; 
returning

the Fear of losing what I am

Doubt now
heavy, heaving Doubt
the goo gurgles at attention
ready to receive more
I pour 
each cup of Doubt
into her welcoming center
and she eagerly slurps them up

doubting myself 
doubting I can truly have
everything
I most want in this life
doubting I am surrounded 
completely 
by love

she feasts and feasts
on my Worry, Grief, Fear, and Doubt 
delighted
her mouth open, her heart open
she dances with glee
goo oozing from her lips and eyes
as she fills and fills 
as I empty and empty

the great goo knows what to do
and so do I

and now,
empty, awake, and ready 
I dive
into her center
swimming to the bottom
where I curl up and lie
surrendering to the 
alchemy of becoming
wait…and wait…
breathing...and breathing...
remembering who I am
remembering what I am

until
I inhale  
and open my eyes

the goo is gone
alchemized into dust
and I am suspended
in possibility

I give a strong push
and form a great abdomen 
of alignment

I lift my chin
and sprout two antennae
one of intuition 
the other of direction

I wiggle a bit
and slowly open my arms
as two great wet wings
of TRUST and FREEDOM 
unfold around me
waiting patiently
to dry in the warm sun 
spread wide
and take flight

©Verana Faye Bailowitz

http://veranafaye.com/

FB: https://www.facebook.com/veranafaye/

IG: @Verana_Faye

The Gardener, 50 x 30 Oil Canvas, 2012

©Alison Blickle

http://alisonblickle.com/

IG: @alisonblickle

PRAYER FOR THE NIGHTTIME EARTHQUAKE

In the name of bones that keep us upright
Fall loose and shatter into dirt

When alone in the name of the road ahead
Like a sign from God

The prism of braided veins
Feeds the falling down

Colors are not accepted into sight
But absorbed regardless

I am once here
A mural of all my dead memories

I am once here
Scattered among rooms of all my living memories

I am once here
As the earth breaks open

©Sheila McMullin

https://thewritemagick.com/

heart seed | inspired by “The Seed Shop” by Muriel Stuart

here in your quiet and hopeful heart it lies
strong and still as ancient stone
the potential of fire and ashes, small and dry
whole meadows and gardens in one seed alone

in a single brown husk, a field of flowers dreams
in one tiny cone a redwood will thrive
to drink deeply of a lifetime’s pure stream
and bring your truest desires alive

here in your safe and simple heart, a death
so that with life a million roses may leap
here you can blow a garden with your breath
and in your soul awaken a forest from sleep

© Deneene Bell

Email: deneene.bell@gmail.com

sattvamama.wixsite.com/sattvamama

wildsageyoga.com

IG @wildsageyoga @westcountywomen @mizdeneene  

Cypress, 48 x 36 Oil Canvas, 2011

© Alison Blickle

http://alisonblickle.com/

IG: @alisonblickle

Hermit Crab’s New Shell

“What is a Welk like you doing here at the lowest tide?”

Hermit Crab peeked an eye stalk out from behind ki’s claw to see whom was speaking.

“Oh, you’re a Hermit Crab! Why are you down here?”

Hermit crab looked around and tapped with ki’s antennae, in search of the voice’s owner. The sea floor shifted into the shape of a crab with long legs and a carapace covered in algae.

“I’m hiding from the other Hermits,” explained Hermit Crab, then shrank back into ki’s too-small shell.

“We Decorators cover ourselves to hide,” said the other crab. “But when we molt, we lose all our protection. We have to attach more camouflage when our carapaces harden again. Why are you hiding from your own kind?”

“The other Hermits have started wearing tiny bottles lately, but I don’t want to. Everyone will see me through the glass. I’m too ashamed they will think I look strange because my tail has spots. Besides, bottles look uncomfortable. I am outgrowing my shell, but at least it still conceals me.”

“What will you do when you outgrow your shell completely?”

Relaxing slightly out of ki’s shell, Hermit Crab replied, “I would like to find another spiraling shell like this, only bigger. I worry the other Hermits will judge me for wanting a shell instead of a bottle.”

“I once knew a geoduck who slid inside a bottle,” Decorator Crab shared.

“What happened to ki?” asked Hermit Crab.

“At first, the bottle provided extra protection. But as the geoduck grew, the bottle pinched ki’s long neck, and the geoduck’s shell cut into ki’s flesh. The geoduck struggled to eat and filter seawater. Instead of protecting, the bottle trapped, strangled, and starved the geoduck.”

“Another reason not to wear a bottle,” Hermit Crab proclaimed.

“So don’t swap for a bottle, but if you hide down here for too long, your shell will trap you just as tightly,” reminded Decorator Crab. “You must take risks to grow the way you need to.”

The incoming tide washed over them and Hermit Crab sensed the time had come to return home to the higher tideline. Holding Decorator Crab’s wisdom dear, Hermit Crab scuttled between tide pools. Ki raced the tide up the beach, searching for a larger shell. Hermit Crab still feared the moment of exposure, but was ready to face that transition into a bigger life.

© K. Héenmouth

Substack: A Basket of Herbs and Feathers

Email: k.heenmouth@gmail.com

IG: @k.heenmouth

The Rose

Wholeness is not
a grafted and cultivated
rose.
It is the tiny splendid roots
the new and wayward off shoots,
the bud, the bloom
and falling petals.

It is the in-hallejuah-ation
of the temperate winds,
the heady out spiral-ation
of the tide scend perfume.
The infusing of moonlight
the knowledge of stars and
the translucency of sunlight
through panes of green.

It is the passionate reaching
upsky with tendrils both tender
 and scarred,
from drought-become-wisdom;
the grateful deep drinking
of storm-sent libation
from Her muddy womb.

It is the secret
utterly wild spirit of the vine,
its ancestral lineage
and 
unbroken line of plant wisdom.

It is the boundary of bramble
and warning of harm - as much as-
its own prayers
for the Earth, the Water
and all Beings.

For wholeness 
innately is both
the Rose and the Thorn.

© Karin Vanhinsberg

Substack: Poetry In the Direction of Unity

Juniper, 30 x 60 Oil Canvas, 2012

© Alison Blickle

http://alisonblickle.com/

IG: @alisonblickle

I am Artemis and Aphrodite

Today my throat is rich with a fire the color of the Southern California summer sun.

I am enraged at the state of the world, the pain, the brokenness, the numbing, my own inability to heal myself and lack of direction with where to channel my fury.

I have the desire to hunt like Athena, aim my bow and hit the raw belly of capitalism, taking down the cis-hetero-white supremecist-patriarchy in one shot.

My lioness roar pierces through the whir of mindless oblivion that once numbed my entire system.

* * *

Tomorrow, as the fire fades and my body bleeds with grief,
I will be the child, shaking and afraid, screaming – – – – – – – – – –
“ Mamma, Mamma! ”

Mamma
hold me.

hold me.

My heart hurts. My tummy is sick. I can’t catch a full breath of air. I feel desperate and alone.

Hold me, Mamma.
Please, remind me that it’s okay.
Remind me of warmth and the medicine of touch.

Remind me that I deserve to be held, kissed, stroked, and soothed.

Wake up my inner Aphrodite as you remind me, please, that my softness is welcome here alongside my flame.

Hold me
until my body remembers
that she has permission to wield Artemis’ bow and Aphrodite’s brush
in the same
breath

© Anna Ruth

https://rubywomb.love/

https://youtube.com/@the.wildoracle

IG: @wildoracle

The Garden

Without my roots, she brings me to her garden, and drags the hose like a snake—worshipped for its shedding, willingness to go blind—among the wooded plots.

I watch her water the tomatoes as her women gather around, offering tactics of streams and steady hands—how to get rid of that groundhog that burrows below, hides and steals singular bites from ripe goods, throwing it all to the woods.

I watch as they demand justice, like they’ve been fighting all their lives, building fences that string like woven quilts passed down.

These women know so much more life than me, weathered and worn, and here I stand, with no idea how or when to plant the tomatoes, how much water to give them and what kind, and for sure, no clue how to keep that groundhog out.

Yet there is no mention of my youth. Instead, they place the hose in my hand, tell me where the water comes from, and watch me become a cloud, releasing droplets as rain.

I have never felt so connected to life—never felt my hands be gentle and assertive at the same time. I had forgotten the thrill of slipping hands into the dirt without worry of making a mess: how it was a luxury my dad let me run down our grass hill without my shirt; how it was a luxury to be able to roll in that mud, fall, be scraped, cry, and have someone else clean up the blood, tend to that wound.

We used to have a garden and we’d have pumpkins and green beans and carrots and tomatoes. I’d run out barefoot to fill that compost, witness the earth breathe. I could’ve sworn it had a heartbeat, that the ground rose and fell in front of my eyes. But a groundhog ended that world. My dad got too angry and couldn’t stop him, even with a gun.

I hadn’t really touched the dirt—I mean really touch the dirt—since then. But here, I have become a cloud, like when I was a child on that hill, running free, overlooking the vegetables. Storing water, the reserve of tears, I have grown too heavy, investing it all into new life, lighter water, still shapeshifting to be bears or snakes in the sky—whatever stage a woman was at, whatever symbol she needed to see when she looked up, uncertain of who she was and how she got there.

I would be there, like these women now, to rain over that young girl, so afraid and new—only desperate for someone to feed her, to wrap her in quilts—to keep those groundhogs out.

©Jessica Alvarez

Substack: Encounters with the Feminine

Photo by: Josie Duraso

What We Endure for Love
excerpt, read the full essay here

Early Spring Invocations

She sounds like a love song, delighted and divine, whispering her secret joys.

She looks dainty, but is far more than her small softness.

She is creation. And I can feel her blessings, though they sit quietly unhatched in the cradle of her devotion. She has made a home within the safety of a large bamboo tree, close to a human midwife and abundant earthly resources of succulent flowers and dandelions.

The hummingbird mama that I am already in awe of.

The companion that is graciously teaching me the medicine of early spring.

I looked out the window and my body was greeted by the half lit moon. This special moon, the last of winter, sat right over the bamboo tree in the shape of her nest.

Two cradles growing light, two cradles soon to bloom.

Both opening to the stars above.

The next morning I checked on my hummingbird companion. And said a prayer for her. A wind storm was approaching coastal San Diego with gusts up to 50 mph. As the wind started its howl, she hunkered down and didn’t leave her nest for food all day. Mama and nest brutally thrashing back and forth.

When I awoke the next morning I was relieved to sense the winds had calmed and mama and her nest were safe and sound as if nothing had happened. I sat in wonder of her and her nest’s resilience the rest of the day, meditating on these words: what we endure for love.

The love of the eagle who sat covered up to her head in snow to keep her eggs warm in a blizzard.

The love of the elephant who laid with her stillborn calf for 3 days in mourning.

The love of the oak trees that held each other’s roots under the earth to survive hurricane Katrina.

The love of the wolf who had the unbearable task of putting her injured pup down because it was the only thing she could do to care for her baby.

The love of families sacrificing whatever they need to, to be together and grow together.

The love.

And I feel a hand pressed on my heart. Saying yes, your love is this deep.

And this deep love will get you through the storm. This deep love will carry you to a new spring. To a new cycle of celebrating the beauty that we are.

Let us sing love songs for the ancestors that endured for love.

Let us praise this new day and hold the babies close.

Let our hearts bloom as we outstretch our arms to the warmth of the sun.

Let us love, let us love, let us love.

©Josie Duraso

josieduraso.com

Substack: Starlit Soil

Emerging from the Void

In my hand appears a raw red Ruby
jagged in shape with multifaceted beauty

The weight in my palm tips my balance
signaling my initiation through the next challenge

The gateway of curiosity begins to open me
creative knowing emerging slowly

The Ruby begins to speak in vibratory ripples
inviting my being to synchronize in rhythm

As our fields coalesce
I am awakened to my death

This phase of growing can no longer hold me
it is time to leave behind the confines of this restorative sanctuary
Bringing with me all the wisdom my knowing can carry

This signal for change stimulates my grief
the full spectrum of emotional language speaking through me

Grief is the threshold, the weaving of Wholeness
the gift of cracking O P E N

Ruby reminds me of my bravery
shape shifting her edges into a key

Instinctually I can S E E
the home of this key is in the heart of me

In that moment -conscious presence, twisting perception, embracing transformation, inviting expansion- I begin to feel the deep calibration

And with beautiful ease, a gentle shattering release
I am free

©Rhiannon Lynn

https://www.weavingwisdom.love/

Substack: Weaving Wisdom

Thank YOU for TUNING IN with these beautiful Poetic Expressions.
Your presence is deeply appreciated. We would love to hear how this touched your truth. Give a moment and share in the comments!

The Weaving Wisdom Garden is published monthly and themed to support remembrance of our cyclical nature by following the Seasonal Spiral.

Brewing in the Creative Cauldron for next month:
The Vibrancy of Possibility
publishing April 19, 2023

Please consider sending in your creative works of heart! This creation is woven through your participation. For details about the theme, the guidelines and the contribution process, visit:
https://www.weavingwisdom.love/pollinating-expression

Love,
Rhiannon