Already it became a burden to assemble all the years of words into some order.
Order alone can be a burden, yet a necessary part of the whole process.
A beginning has taken place since the writing teacher held a class,
actually a workshop to jump start the assembling.
Shirley Ann Dormish, workshop participant
www.WriteYourLifeStory.org July, 2009
Who could know the consequences of a pink plastic tablecloth,Among Writerspastries on little fancy dishes, windows bellowing in light
and strangers sitting under a white ceiling?
Who could know the consequences of the small voices
asking for room on the fresh page sitting before each writer?
The room smells of cinnamon, coffee and perfume.
I can hear the breathing of writers.
They breathe deep as they spread themselves upon the page.
They dip into ink pots of their souls
and make tiny dancers of their pens.
The table is a stage and each a ballerina for a pen.
The melody is heard, it is silence.
From their movements, the shape of their dancer bodies,
music is written.
A mountain is climbed.
Courage is the lover
and away they ascend to dance in the clouds.
Writers, the dreamers they are, don’t believe what you see.
The creative fidget, the bangle bracelets
and lipstick conceal the holy genius
who has found their feet upon a mystic ground,
singing in the silence.
It is a process,
a lonely motion
and down the dancers go into the well
and back up they rise to catch their breath,
dripping in the juice of creation,
the pulp of human living and down again they hit the vein,
plunge beneath the surface
swimming in the waters of their spirits.
Not a splash is made, not a resistant movement,
the flow has come and away they go.
And in their hands these writers carry all those they love.
They never leave anyone behind.
Their hearts are bigger than their sleeves.
Their hearts pound with intensity because
something has moved them.
The writers push off from every shoreline
with the heel of one hand
and reach into the unknown with the other.
Tiny dancers in their hands, big dreams in their ink.
They are dangerous people;
they draw upon the unformed and go beyond words
but speak languages unknown.
They are the revolutionaries;
they are the channels of freshness, newness and genius.
They are the canals of new birth
and when in their midst we can see the fog rising,
clarity is crystal
a new day commences.
By Taryn Browne
www.WriteYourLifeStory.org
January, 2009
WEDNESDAY MORNING WRITING
I stop here.
It’s a place to share the words,
hear the talent
and move the pen quietly
over the lined pages.
I love the unique way each writer speaks his or her story
and it feels safe to tell mine.
Our teacher is special, an encourager.
Each person has enriched my life.
I stop here each Wednesday with anticipation
and wonder what the future will reveal
in regard to all the words laid lovingly in boxes,
in notebooks and on tiny scraps of paper.
One day perhaps, a book will bear
my name and make a difference.
I stop here with hope.
Shirley Ann Dormish
2/11/09
www.WriteYourLifeStory.org