We are both the narrator and the main character of our stories.
Share a new perspective. Small group format. Offered monthly.
This month bring a 5 min reading of prior work to share if desired. No critique.
Where: Coastal Peaks Roasters, 3536 S. Higuera, Suite 150, San Luis Obispo
Times: Sunday,Feb10th, 2013, 12-2 p.m.
Other: Group will be lead by Roslyn Strohl, M.A., LMFT and Lani Steele, Ph.D. Both Roslyn and Lani have Veteran family members and experience in writing, teaching and mindful practice. Coastal Roasters donates the space. Food and coffee for sale.
As the winter descends this week and the fierce retail seduction sets in, we can succumb to sadness and feelings of deprivation, or take a breath, change the thought and proceed with gratitude, humor and joy…..more moments practicing builds resilience and resistence to the onslaught. Through the toughest times I have learned to say, “Watch for the miracles”.
Hold to the beauty of gathering together before descending into the cave of winter. Find and polish your favorite symbols, perhaps one candle not twenty, a branch not a tree, tea not champagne, if money is tight or you are already busy.
Symbolically winter is the time for sleep, poetry, renewal, dreaming, the North, the stripped tree as well as the evergreen and the dark giving way to the light. By savoring this time we are ready when the Birth and rebirth occur.
While our fearful, addictive culture says keep all the lights on, party and decorate, Nature says gather the Beloveds, stay simple, feast on what you have already harvested, believe.
Here is my Winter Solstice offering to you.
Thirteen crows perch
on the wires
above the persimmons.
These fruit have sung to me for months
with their bright refusal to be melancholy
I have watched their curves fill into sweet polished cheeks
their orange clarity against the dying leaves.
It is past Thanksgiving, almost Winter Solstice
and so the crows and I are gathered here
to a communion of ripeness.
Who will eat first
the raven priests or I?
Who will feast on these last fruits, robust
while leaves show their age
take one last spin to Earth
The persimmons glow.
They hold a star within,
almost too sweet
not orange, not apple.
It takes years
to bend the tough persimmon wood
into the tea boxes of Japan.
Yet these most prized.
I have written too long.
Up in the persimmon tree
five crows are feasting.
The fruit yields empty baskets
orange skins hold to branches
like tiny lanterns.