I have discovered
that I am from a tribe
where women ride
wild horses in moonlight
(continued below…)
Anzac Day sunrise service in Australia – honoring ancestor veterans
.::. Intentional Creativity Happenings .::.
INTERNATIONAL RETREATS & EVENTS!
Bundaberg : Melbourne : Sydney
PRISM: Melbourne Australia MAY 3.4.5.6, 2018 ~ Only two seats left!
2018 Retreat for Innovative Creatives & Leaders of the Future,
taught by Shiloh Sophia, Jonathan McCloud, with Host, Jassy Watson
Red Thread Circle and Book Signing :: Friday May 4th, 7-9pm
CURATE SPACE, 306 Little Collins Street, Melbourne City
Apothecary : Sydney : May 12-13 : 9 Step Intentional Creativity Class
with Lou Reed, Shiloh Sophia and Jonathan McCloud
IN PERSON GATHERINGS, Cosmic Cowgirls Ranch, Sonoma, CA
Calling all Cosmic Cowgirls! 13th Annual Gathering June 1.2.3
Not a member yet? You can join!
ONLINE EXPERIENCES
PRISM Virtual Intentional Creativity Leadership Training Certificate Course
Hello Dear One,
I am writing to you from a sunny day here, in preparation for the Australia Color of Woman Training! It is all very exciting and I find I come rather unmoored from the day to day internet world.
I had this prepared to send to you from the last class we lead online, APOTHECARY : Medicine Painting – a journey with close to 200 gathered worldwide to transform tragedies to remedies. This is the painting and writing that arose from this potent Intentional Creativity experience. You will learn a lot about me in this – perhaps more than you wish lol. I am always surprised, sometimes delighted at what arises. I was amazed at the work our circle did, the students were so brave, so willing, and so truly incredible. I love my life and the chance to serve in this way….
Loving being here with Jassy Waston, founder of Earth Circle Studios and our Australia Color of Woman branch, sisters oversees. We have lots more wonderful muse down under events. Hope you can join us for somethin’ if you are in this part of the world.
When I return home you can join Jonathan and I for PRISM online as a summer adventure in art and quantum physics and leadership.
So much to say, and the beach is calling as it is my last day off before the big work of painting in circle with women from around the world….
Sending much love along the thread,
LABRYS IN MY TEAPOT
Comment on FB
Labrys In My Teapot
I have discovered
that I am from a tribe
where women ride
wild horses in moonlight
I am from a place where
there is a labrys in my teapot
The double edged golden ax
of the ancient feminine
This is not out of the ordinary
I dwell in the extraordinary
A labrys not used for battle
yet knowing always of the battle
at hand, within ourselves
and within the world
Giving cause to pour out
the medicine of remothering
What emergent cutting both ways blade
is hidden within this sign of women
in the vessel of kindness I have chosen?
I am from the soft green leafy forest
of inquiry and the occasional fairy
I am from absolute
head-on eyes-forward
looking at, speaking about…
patriarchy around the kitchen table
with candles and stacks of books
and notebooks filled with code
and jars of art pens in clay cups
Shall I conclude
that my rage
against the machine
has taken shape
there in the darkened belly
of the rounded pot?
Am I then
moderating the double edged blade
into tiny cups of intentional creativitea?
Hoping it will come out sweet,
won’t hurt, and won’t send us off the edge?
I am forged from anger
alchemized into matter
to make useful remedies
The upset of the ancients
and the indigenous lives in me
Roots and wings are embroidered
on my invisible cape
What then shall I be?
Who then shall I become?
What ministry am I from? Or for?
What is held within my cosmic apothecary?
What wounds will become medicine?
My observing eyes witness unavoidable tragedy
I have discovered my golden chalice
is stitched with the red thread
of sisterhood in song and healing
A chalice with a long narrow neck
and a bowl of communion hovering
But not for me, not now
forbidden to partake or take
or give freely from my own cup
The feast table of church
is missing the blessing of bread and wine
for women from women
This is what I see
This is what I have grown weary of watching
I am from the mystery
From teachers who are branded witches
Who hold and once held the remedies
to the poison served up as necessary
How long will this framing
frame us up as villains, rebels, whores?
The monsters from the pig compost of Circe
enter the forging ground of the crucible
Mythos fly out of the abyss coming to my aid
in the moments when I open my own mythos
So it begins, the memories
Wood stove Winter morning Wet ground
Wood floor Winter cold Wet windows of rain
I am from not enough time for me
This memory rises:
The tiger who won’t get out of the teapot
in time for tea,
asked by everyone
until invited to the table
by the youngest child
The tiger in the teapot read by me
was recorded onto a now antique tape
in a tape recorder living somewhere
in a trash heap in another country
My little voice warbled, speaks out
from the tape beneath the wrappers
of sandwiches, twinkies and once worn
flip flops tossed carelessly
I think I can hear her now
rising up from the rubble
She won’t come out unless she is
invited to the table
And if she isn’t, she may,
come anyway
Such times are these
Am I invited to the table?
Not allowed in the holy of holies
Yet I am from the holy of holies
This persistence and prevention rules me
When will this story be complete?
Can it be,
today?
Oh so tired of this one struggle
pervading me,
female authority
gender equality
cloaked misogyny
What I am talking about here
Isn’t men
Isn’t women
Is a system enforced
that we can’t see
So it is hard to fight
even with a golden labrys
Besides I am done with fighting
Since a child reaching for the heavens
yet never quite giving permission
to the Priestess in me to be
Stripping my own title by my own hand
“The REV” washed up with the breakfast dishes
Yet there are those who light candles for me
I am hidden within the archetype of artist
I like it here, yet strain at invisible chains
I may not rise to the greater call
this might have to be okay with me
I am from the Valley of the Moon
So much fire in the Valley of the Moon
this year that the smell of smoke stirs me
The burnt up treein white cherry blossom
half in black craggled fingers
shouting at the sky from the dark ground
Yet it lives ~ So must I
Valley of the Moon,
A little child,
driven out of my home
by men on motorcycles
I watch from my upper deck
as they enter the bar downstairs
My first monsters
My mother’s story of me
comforting her, starts here
in Glen Ellen
We leave, but at least the land
of Terra Sophia comes into our hands
I am from pomegranate trees
The accused muse of the perspective pomegranate
gazes out with no apology in her
non-blinking lashes, blink blink blink
She has no agreement to live in the underworld
She can come and go as she chooses
The container has distilled her red juice,
the forbidden fruit is partaken of
eyes are open, consequences ensue
Winter does not mean she is gone
we sometimes need to sleep
with the seeds and stones in soil
Even the goddess stories put us into
contracts with questionable men.
We are given the skin to enclose our stars,
then cursed from the garden
Or has the mythos of men
gotten the best of us, again?
I do not know so shall not stand
against or for the expulsion
Yet the curse of Mother Eve
is finished in me
Gazing so long at sea,
I think I hear a sailor calling my name,
I bring my pomegranate seeds,
my long red threads and colored ribbons
and my seal skin with me
in my medicine basket
My cowgirl hat catches the evening sun
Rhinestones blinding passerbys
Sailors don’t scare me
I hope this one will stay,
will choose me and poetry
I am from a long line of wild ones
staying too late for too long
too much woman
and too many men to count
I must now choose to define my self
by celebration instead of condemnation
Moderation with flare instead
of addictions nursed in silence
I haven’t the time nor care
to judge the addiction
of the ancestors
I have work to do
My paintbrushes are wet with
worry, wonder and inquiry
splashed with a bit of DaVinci
and I am ready for change
I have tables to set
and music to dance to
and stories to tell by candlelight on red velvet couches
My golden cup of Intentional Creativity
is rough hewn pulled from red clay
and glazed three times with gold
by my teacher’s own hands
It is made full enough for my sisters to drink
That’s you
Full enough for my lover to drink
That’s true
Full enough for men
willing to love us as we are
without apology or condemnation
Awe will do just fineMy lover says
I have the medicine
We all have the medicine, I say
Sovereign and unique
Yet we learn to make it together
Elixirs, potions, perfumes
spiced wines and bowls of splendor soup
My love and I are so full of loving
we open a little shop
on the side of the road with jams and teas
exotic cocktails and thin crusted pizzas
No one suspects us for who we are
We are all medicine making ones,
distilling roses, spider web
and slip of frog on edge of pond
with prayers for healing,
cries for help and bottles clanking,
cats creeping and babies sleeping
people gathering and toasting
“to the future!”
We are all medicine making ones
talking story, calling circle
and remembering a different history
than the ones we are sold and told
We may not remember, but we do anyway
There is a labrys in my teapot
Distilling lavender, chamomile,
lemongrass, raspberry leaf and
holy water from the kitchen sink
at the library of Alexandria
Hypatia is inviting me to the table
Anitidotes are everywhere we see
We see, oh yes, We see
I am from a place beyond known addresses
My home is there in the hidden hills
Beyond the city lights and brights
where women, lovers and children gather
Sure we howl at the moon
while making transformed stories come to life
The call of the wild calls to me in the night
I remember reading White Fang
by candlelight.
I shall invite the London’s to tea
to crush todays’ iron heal with me
We have saved ourselves
from the big bad wolf with a sturdy red thread
from the coat grandmother made
to keep us warm
But now, now
we have become wolven women
No more afraid
Not that there aren’t things
to be afraid of,
hiding beneath the shelves
lined with colored bottles
and old books smelling of must and madness
There is plenty to be scared of,
yet we walk in, open eyed
Ready to act
Ready to create
Ready to gather
Ready Enough
Healed Enough
We do love a revolution, yet
mostly, we make tea for you and me
and invite you into the mystery
with brewing pots of alchemy
I am from a place where,
Right this moment,
all of us are wearing
blood red and roses in our hair
No more hiding,
yet enough
with the time spent in judgement
for our oppressors
We haven’t the stomach for accusation
and we haven’t the time to keep explaining
every single ‘ism’
We do not wish to go to sleep on the
‘what is’
Yet our ‘what is’ is no longer in a battle
Secretly, we hope the as*holes are
simply dying off in time and the children
of the future can see the truth
We will march We will write
We will paint We will gather
But we won’t be divided and conquered
quartered and hijacked, silenced and branded
Magdalene has moved beyond reproach
along with Eve, Circe and Persephone,
not to mention, Jung’s first patient,
and all of the unfallen whores
who have set Wisdom’s table:
It’s time to talk
The great great grandmother of Jesus,
Rahab the harlot, is making the cake
and wearing a dress of red thread
a scarlet cord that once hung
from an open window
All women are invited
Not all women will come
We cannot promise safety
or delivery but the invitation
is here and the portal is open
We have to talk
Take my hand,
Let’s step into a new land
We can be free
in our hearts and minds
if we choose
Will you choose,
With me?
My devotion to the Blessed One
remains with me as I journey
This is not a rebellion against,
rather a stepping from one
energetic domain into another,
Jesus says:
‘For my yoke is easy
and my burden is light’
Perhaps the light he spoke of
did not mean weight
but light itself
I quest for light
There is a labrys in my teapot
speaking of liberty
steaming with mystery
calling us to come to tea
Will we?
~ Shiloh Sophia
Comment Back
About the Labrys
Labrys is a symmetric double-headed ritual axe that is one of the holiest Cretan religious symbols. It is also known as Labyris, Sagarus and Halbryce. The term ‘Labrys’ traces its roots to the Latin word ‘labus’, which means ‘lips’. So, the symbol is said to denote a part of the female genitalia, labia that is the entrance of womb. Its symbolism is also linked directly with the Labyrinth, which originally denotes the Palace of Knossos in the city of Crete.
Alternately, Labrys is believed to have been derived from the Lydian word for axe.The closest association of the Labrys is with the ancient Minoan civilization where it was used as a symbol of the Mother Goddess and was representative of authority. It was also seen as symbolic of a butterfly, signifying transformation and rebirth.
This double axe was depicted mostly in the hands of women and came to be connected with the male gods long after the decline of Minoan civilization. In Greek mythology, the Labrys (also called Pelekys) appears as an ancient symbol linked with the Thunder God, Zeus who used the axe to invoke storms.
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