Losing My Religion

What’s wrong with Wicca?  That’s what I’ve been asking for nearly four years now.  I have yet to get an acceptable or plausible answer to my question.  I arrived at this endpoint of being a practitioner of The Craft not through hasty decisions or following the novelty of a thing; I did much research and asked a lot of questions before I embarked on the road of the Old Ways.  This was not something that I did or do take lightly.  The step to Wicca was a very sacred thing for me.

I grew up in a Christian home the youngest of three girls with a single mother.  It was required of us to attend church with my mother until we were 18-years old or we moved out on our own.  Over the years I never questioned my mother’s religious or spiritual leadership nor did I ever question what church we would attend.  I guess it could be said that I was following my mother along her spiritual journey without even a thought as to tending to my own.  Throughout my life I’ve been a member of several different denominations; the Disciples of Christ, Baptist, African Methodist Episcopalian and, finally and most recently, I was baptized as a convert to the Catholic Church.

I’d studied religion quite a bit but I never really committed to one or the other fully.  Of course with my upbringing Christianity was pretty much inherent in me even along my search for the perfect fit.  I think that for too long I was caught up in the religiosity of religion more so than the looking for the satisfaction in my spirit and the relationship with the God I was searching for.

When my mother passed away prematurely I became very angry with God as I identified God at that time.  I searched the Bible, televangelists, gospel songs, Eastern philosophy and anyone or anything else I could get my hands on for answers to why my mother would be ‘taken’ from me at such a crucial part of my life.  At this time I was gravitating towards Eastern philosophy because it seemed to hold the most answers for me but, after a while, even that wasn’t working.  I truly felt like a lost soul.

For many years after my mother’s death I claimed no allegiance to any sort of religion or philosophy or spiritual path.  I gathered a hodgepodge of practices and did the best I could with my spiritual yearnings.  Through my studies I had heard about Wicca but I had never given it much thought.  Like many other people I equated it with little more than witches, magic and spells.  I did know that it was a sort of nature religion but as for the other things; I couldn’t have been further from the truth.

Image result for images of wiccan symbols

I had a co-worker who I knew was a practicing Wiccan.  I never thought to ask him about his beliefs until one day when we were having a casual conversation about religion/spirituality when I got the nerve to start asking questions.  I was still a bit hesitant but I was curious.  I started doing research and reading anything I could find about The Old Ways.  The more I read and discovered the more increased my affinity to this path of spirituality.

To go back a bit, for a large portion of my life there was some sort of draw to the Catholic Church for me.  I was drawn to the ritual; the way Holy Communion was shared, the act of confession, the reverence for the Saints and even the Rosary.  I liked the observation of the different times of the Catholic calendar and the attention to the various Christian holidays.  It wasn’t until I started researching and learning about Wicca that I found how closely the two resembled one another.  When I got even deeper into my exploration of Wicca I learned why these two things looked so similar and why I was feeling Wicca in my spirit.

When The Church was organized there was a very large pagan population.  These people were primarily agrarian and they lived their lives observing ancient practices and rituals that had been handed down to them from generation to generation.  Being agrarian it was important for them to be in tune to the seasons, the phases of the sun and the moon and, more importantly, to the land.  The ways handed down to them were a guide for their way of life.  Not only were they a guide but they were also a systematic observance of the divinity in all things nature and man’s place in the world.  The goal of this belief system is to live in harmony with the world around us.

The Church, in an effort to convert these people, revamped many of their holidays and festivals, known as Sabbats and Esbats, so as to draw them in while letting them still have a semblance of what they were used to.  This is the reason there is so much similarity between the two.

One of the most widely observed holidays, Christmas, comes from the pagan Sabbat Yule or the winter solstice which takes place approximately December 20-23.  This holiday celebrated Mother Earth giving birth to the Sun.  It was a time to give gifts and lighting a Yule log and decorating with holly and mistletoe.  All of these practices were adopted by the Catholic Church.

Another major holiday, Easter, coincides to the Pagan Sabbat, Ostara, which is a festival of fertility, new birth and a time to celebrate the earth coming alive again.    It is also a time of new beginnings and a time to plant.  This was a colorful and happy time of celebration.

Lughnassadh is yet another festival incorporated into The Church.  This holiday is celebrated in August and is a time of baking cakes and harvesting wheat.  It is also a time of feasting and a time to begin storing for the winter when the earth sleeps until Spring.  Though originally celebrated in August this time was ultimately moved to November and became what we now know as Thanksgiving.

Halloween is also a holiday that has its roots in the Old Ways.  Halloween comes from the pagan Sabbat of Samhain.  During this time animals were killed to have food stored up for winter.  It was a time of sacrifice and, according to pagan ways, a time to observe the death of God who would be reborn during Yule.  It is at this time that the veil between the planes of the living and the dead is the thinnest and this is a good time to make contact with deceased loved ones.

Over the centuries The Church incorporated more and more of the pagan ways as a means to convert the people of the land until it was, eventually, unlawful to practice the Old Ways.  It was, quite simply, because of this that these practices went underground due to fear of prosecution or even death.

When it was introduced back into society after being underground for centuries there were many misconceptions about the truth of Wicca, it is for this reason that clarification is necessary.   Following Wicca does not mean bashing of other spiritual practices or religions.  Quite the contrary, Wicca is about kindness towards all people and recognition that we are all a part of the divine in the world.  Wicca is about reverence for nature and all of God’s creatures and elements.  Wicca is about recognizing God in all things and in all people.  Now, yes, some of us do practice spells however these are not directed to interfere with anyone’s free will or to cause any type of harm.

Wicca is not about worshiping Satan; it is not about animal or human sacrifices and it is definitely not a cult.  Practiced in its true, original form it is about love and harmony for all and in all.

My spirit was never as content in my past as it is now.  Wicca has taught me so much about love and tolerance and harmony with the world.  Every day I grow closer and closer to the earth and all the creatures in it.  I have a tolerance for other people and other religions and spiritual paths like never before and I have no need to be better than this person or that person or to try and put my beliefs above someone else’s.  I am learning to be a better human being, a better sister and a better member of society.

So I ask again; what’s wrong with Wicca?

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Seductive Musings

***Contains graphic content and language***

I vibrate at the sound of your voice

and when I hear it

I have no choice

but

to let my juices flow

down below

where I find myself touching and wishing

it were your

Each breath I take reverberates

with the heated anticipation of the

satiny smoot

gyrations of

your

eloquent locutions

sent out on high

where by and by I

absorb your essence

Open my soul

with the verbiage that you let

roll

seductively from your lips

landing in a place

amidst my hips

stirring a pleasure that I treasure as

secretly sublime and with each rhyme

you prime me for the next installation of the

dissemination of your light

When I take a toke of the words you spoke

I am high and

without hesitation

I know why

you draw me in and it’s so flyy

still internally I cry

out

because of a propensity to be drawn to the

intensity

of who you are

I am overcome with the primitive hum

cumming from the sensual drum of

your tongue

against my cerebrum

Hand to hand, love to love, breasts to breasts

against your chest I long to rest so that I can hear

the rhythm of your heart from where all elements

of you have their start

Feed me with the spoon of your hand as you

command my

full attention and freely given

submission to your brilliance that consumes

all

as I release my inhibitions

to the fall

that drops me deeply at the call

of your spell

emphatically and radically you possess

the rest

and the best of what I am

lest

I lose myself to the uncertainty of the rest

of whose women who envy seeing me blesst

by your presence

Lying beneath you I feel your weight

as I greatly welcome your touch to

abate

this burning I know from head to toe

each time I allow myself to go

further into your mind

where I find

peace to release this desire that consumes me

to aspire to rise higher and higher to the

level you require for

true intimacy

I am an open book and I want you to look

into me

so that we can be free

to express ourselves sensually without speaking

as with our hands and mouths

we explore one another seeking

skin on skin and

her on her as it were because

this is what makes us one

You make love to my body but

the real capture is my brain

where you never refrain from

filling every

receptor, synapse and vein

with your juicy mental nectar

With you I am never warm but

HOT

because you know how to access that spot

to get from me what I’ve got

when you fuk my mind not just a little

but a lot and

unmeasured states of consciousness persist

because what you have I can’t resist

and the thought of you makes me squirm

and twist

in

my

skin

The decadent torture of my whole person

that you give

makes me ecstatic just to live

with the knowing that each moment with you

leaves me growing

more enlightened and much less frightened

of what the future may hold because

our pluralistic union has made me bold

and

so I am told

nothing can hold me down now

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L’amour dans le Bayou -Une Histoire des Gens de Couleur Libres

Showcasing She

The humid breeze blew across her face as she made her way up the avenue towards home.  The sound of her boots clicking on the cobblestone street comforted her and the sway of her skirts was a lullaby accentuating her petite feminine frame.  Many white men stole backward glances as she navigated through the crowds on the packed streets.  Her unblemished beige skin took on a reddish tone in the bright sunshine.  Her auburn hair, meticulously held in place by a tight chignon, glistened and the spiral tendrils framing her face were the perfect portrait of femininity.  Lizette was well aware of her beauty but she always maintained an air of grace and humility.

She was a lovely woman and she took great pride in her Creole heritage going back generations in New Orleans.  Her mother had come to Louisiana during the slave revolts from Saint Domingue and become a…

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L’amour dans le Bayou -Une Histoire des Gens de Couleur Libres

The humid breeze blew across her face as she made her way up the avenue towards home.  The sound of her boots clicking on the cobblestone street comforted her and the sway of her skirts was a lullaby accentuating her petite feminine frame.  Many white men stole backward glances as she navigated through the crowds on the packed streets.  Her unblemished beige skin took on a reddish tone in the bright sunshine.  Her auburn hair, meticulously held in place by a tight chignon, glistened and the spiral tendrils framing her face were the perfect portrait of femininity.  Lizette was well aware of her beauty but she always maintained an air of grace and humility.

She was a lovely woman and she took great pride in her Creole heritage going back generations in New Orleans.  Her mother had come to Louisiana during the slave revolts from Saint Domingue and become a worker on a thriving sugar cane plantation where the owner, known as Grand Monsieur, had fallen in love with her.  Their clandestine meetings resulted in Lizette’s birth.  When her mother died suddenly and unexpectedly Grand Monsieur took Lizette into his home and lavished her with the finest clothing and education his money could buy.  Lizette was his daughter and, despite objections from the rest of his family, he made sure she was treated with dignity.  When he died he made provisions for Lizette and she was given her own residence and her own substantial plot of land.  She was a free woman.

Her home was modest but decorated with the finest linens, table settings and furniture and it was always immaculate.  Lizette had grown to be an exceptional woman and she was mature well beyond her twenty years.  There wasn’t a subject from the politics of the day to literature she couldn’t discuss and this characteristic added to her mysterious appeal among men and woman alike. It was her demure personality and magnetic allure that had caught the eye of a self-made, wealthy Creole trader Gerrard Xavier Leroux.

Gerrard had been drawn to Lizette the moment he saw her working her modest vegetable garden early one morning on his way to do business.  The way small rivulets of perspiration dotted her forehead causing the soft hair around her face to curl up and the earnestness with which she worked had caught his attention. He knew that he was in love with her the moment he set eyes on her but he set about to court her as a proper gentleman would.  Over the next five months they had grown to know one another and fall madly in love.  He’d asked for her hand in marriage one balmy New Orleans night and she’d tearfully accepted his proposal.

Now as she ascended the stairs to her home she marveled at her good fortune.  She often smiled to herself when she thought about the fact that she was mistress of a lovely manor with a decent fortune set aside in the local savings and loan bank.  Now she had the added pleasure of planning her upcoming nuptials to Gerrard.  Lizette had no living relatives but she was pleased to have been welcomed into Gerrard’s family so she was planning her wedding with his mother, Grand Mamette, and his two sisters.  One week before the wedding they had nearly finalized all the plans including the arrival of Lizette’s hand-crafted wedding dress that had been shipped in from Paris.  She couldn’t wait to become Mrs. Leroux and she was ready to celebrate; laissez le bon temps rouler.

Lizette sat quietly in her great room going over the menu for her reception when she heard an unfamiliar sound coming from the balcony of her bedroom.  Only briefly concerned she reckoned the sound to the wind and went back to her notes.  When the sound seemed to intensify she laid her plans aside and made her way to the stairs leading to the second floor of her home.  No sooner than she rounded the banister when she was assaulted by the most intense pain in the small of her back as she was struck with such force that she fell on her face and slid across the hardwood floor.  She had barely caught her breath when she was yanked up by her hair and pushed into her bedroom.  Before she knew it a burlap sack was stretched over her head and her hands were tied behind her back, she was thrown on the floor and her clothes were ripped from her body.  Lizette tried to scream but was immediately silenced and stunned by the fist that came down hard on her mouth filling it with the warm, metallic taste of her own blood.

She tried with the bit of strength she had left to fight her assailant but to no avail.  He crushed her with the full weight of his body and, over and over again, he violated her reveling in the sheer, sick pleasure of the whole thing.  Several times she lost consciousness only to be revived by the attacker subjecting her to more of his masochistic torture.  After what seemed like an eternity Lizette finally gave in and allowed herself to surrender to what surely would result in her death.  The last thought she had was of Gerrard and her wedding.

Evening had set in and Lizette woke disoriented.  She awoke to Grand Mamette cleansing her many wounds and comforting her and she allowed herself to be nursed as she looked with incredulity at the bowl of water mixed with much of her blood.  In a wave the memory of what had occurred washed over her and she began to tremble with fear and hurt.  Why had this happened to her?  Grand Mamette began to soothe her softly and reassure her;  reposer mon cher sa va bien se passer, that everything would be just fine.  Mamette had dressed her in a long cotton gown and had prepared a light stock and tea for her.  Unfortunately Lizette wanted nothing to eat or drink, the memories of her waking nightmare returned and she was overcome with gut-wrenching sobs of dismay.

Tears streamed down Lizette’s face not so much because of the assault she had experienced alone but because, most importantly, she had been robbed of the purity that she had guarded with tenacity so that she could give it to her husband on their wedding night.  Grand Mamette sat next to her on the bed and cradled her in her arms and rocked her as she continued to console her and stroke her hair.    When she was sleeping comfortably Grand Mamette eased out of the room and went to console her grief-stricken son who had been the one to find Lizette.

Gerrard seethed with anger at the thought of Lizette’s ordeal.  He wanted so badly to absorb her pain and restore her feminine innocence.  Though he could do neither, his love for her had instantly grown stronger and he knew that he would not rest until he had avenged this travesty.  His mother did her best to calm him and assure him that Lizette would come through this.  She convinced him to return to work while she watched over his beloved.  Reluctantly he left and returned to his store to finalize records for the week’s transactions.  Having finished his business Gerrard headed to a nearby tavern to have a few drinks to calm his mind after the morning’s events.  Thoughts of what had been done to his fiancée refused to leave his mind and he needed to release some tension.

As he sat at the bar listening to the atmosphere around him he couldn’t help but overhear one particular conversation.  A Spaniard was talking about the way he’d taught one of the native Creole women to respect men and stay in her place.  He talked on about how proud she acted just because of her fortune and good upbringing and the way she walked the streets as if she were better than anyone else.  He described his escapade in detail and Gerrard knew, without a doubt, that this was the man who had done the horrible things to Lizette.  Gerrard rose from the bar slowly and went over to where the Spaniard was retelling the accounts of the morning to a group of men playing cards.  In one quick motion Gerrard grabbed the man around his neck from behind and slammed him head first onto the table sending cards and liquor flying.

The man began cursing in Spanish flailing about trying to get a foothold from the attack but to no avail.  Gerrard was much bigger and stronger and his anger over what had been done to Lizette gave him strength like never before.  He held the Spaniard and began choking him from behind until he began to turn ashen from a lack of air.  Gerrard had it in his mind to do the man in by choking but the more he thought about what had led up to the moment the more he knew how it would all end.  He reached in his belt and pulled out his knife and, in one sweeping motion, cut the man from ear to ear.  With blood rushing from his neck the Spaniard stumbled about as his life slowly ended.  Gerrard wiped the knife on his pants and replaced it in its sheath.  The man fell to the floor dead.

No one made a move as Gerrard walked to the bar and finished his drink before leaving the tavern for home.  He didn’t fear any sort of repercussions or authority looking for him for murdering the man who had raped his soon-to-be wife.  Here in their corner of the world justice ruled and that is what he’d gotten.

Lizette and Gerrard were married in a ceremony that was talked about for miles around.  As they danced their first dance she looked him in his eyes and smoothed his hair knowing that he was her husband and her savior.  His chivalry let her know that true love still existed in the hearts of men and there was no question that she would give herself to him fully when the time came.

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A Perfect Bowl of Fruit

Showcasing She

I am by no means a dogmatic Christian or, what some may call, a Jesus freak, quite the contrary.  I am more of a spiritual person who can appreciate many different religious/spiritual philosophies.  I respect the Noble Truths of Buddhism, the tenets of Wicca, the Vedas of Hinduism and the ritual of Catholicism.  Since I do consider myself more of a spiritual person I was pleasantly surprised when I came across a Christian pamphlet that had a subject matter right up my spiritual alley.  This little publication ultimately has made a positive addition to my life.

The pamphlet was about a much-taught passage from the Bible that discusses a set of characteristics that can be attained by following the life of Jesus Christ.  These characteristics are known as the fruits of the Spirit.

Paul instructs the people “But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, gentleness…

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A Perfect Bowl of Fruit

I am by no means a dogmatic Christian or, what some may call, a Jesus freak, quite the contrary.  I am more of a spiritual person who can appreciate many different religious/spiritual philosophies.  I respect the Noble Truths of Buddhism, the tenets of Wicca, the Vedas of Hinduism and the ritual of Catholicism.  Since I do consider myself more of a spiritual person I was pleasantly surprised when I came across a Christian pamphlet that had a subject matter right up my spiritual alley.  This little publication ultimately has made a positive addition to my life.

The pamphlet was about a much-taught passage from the Bible that discusses a set of characteristics that can be attained by following the life of Jesus Christ.  These characteristics are known as the fruits of the Spirit.

Paul instructs the people “But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, gentleness and self-control.  Against such things there is no law.” (New International Version, Gal 5:22-23).

The pamphlet spends a great deal of time explaining these verses.  It explores understanding them in the context of the place and time they were written, the author of the epistle where the verses are found and even what was going on in the timeline of organized Christianity.  All of this information is very interesting and written in a very accessible manner; I did read the entire thing.  However I found myself drawn to the discussion on how the afore mention fruits can be a part of life.  The pamphlet explains that these fruits are a blessing to the person who has them and not all fruits are given to all people to the same degree.  Most importantly, they are not an absolute.

“The first important thing to understand about the fruit of the Spirit is that   it is fruit of the Spirit.  …They are the Spirit’s.  We must understand that these characteristics are produced by the third person of the Trinity.  He is the agent, the source, and the power that grows the fruit” (Campbell 9).

Now this really caught my attention because even though I am quite familiar with the Bible as a text I’d never before seen or thought about this passage in this way.  I’d always assumed that you either “grew” these fruits or you didn’t and I thought that only Christians would even exhibit them in such a righteous manner.  I also believed that all Christians were gifted with all these characteristics together.  To my great satisfaction the more I read the more the smile on my face grew because I’d been mistaken.

“Indicative and imperative are ten-dollar words that simply mean the difference between an observation of the way things are (indicative) and a command or instruction to do something (imperative).  The significance of this shouldn’t be overlooked.  This means that the fruit of the Spirit is not a to-do list.  Fruit grows from the Spirit.  It’s not the result of our hard work or discipline, it’s not a list to check off when we feel we’ve “got it down”.  It’s not even a list to put on our wall to remind ourselves of things we need to work on.  It’s not a list of imperatives—commands for us to follow.  It’s a list of indicatives—it’s just the way things are” (Campbell 9-10).

That’s when it hit me that I could have some fruit too.  These characteristic are, quite simply, the way we should all act as members sharing this planet and towards one another as members of humanity if we believe in any sort of Higher Power.  Who couldn’t use a little more self-control in their life?  Couldn’t we all stand to be a bit more loving, peaceful and patient?  Really these characteristics could be useful to us all at some time or another.

I want this fruit in my life and I know I can have it.  I want this fruit not just for myself but so I can share it with others.  Regardless of religion or spirituality I see incorporating these characteristics in my life as a win-win kind of thing.

Now whenever a person or situation seems to be seeping into my psyche or being trying to unnerve me, I think back to the fruits of the Spirit and tell him or her or it to just stop eating my fruit.

*Referenced work  Live Free A Fresh Look at the Fruit of the Spirit Our Daily Bread Ministries  Constantine R. Campbell

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Her Inside

She’s a witch, a gypsy, a Woman, a tease

spinning her web

taking hearts captive with ease

She’s electric and warm

golden from the sun

She’s her own beginning and end

mystery on the run

Bells on her feet

ever smelling of Spring

She draws you in with a hint of her sting

The trees talk of her greatness

flowers grow in her heat

elusive yet inviting

She’s ready to meet

You love her you hate her

she’s fickle she’s fine

She’ll tell you she’s yours

then say that she’s mine

Her love is exciting

juicy, sweet and sublime

so decadent and tantalizing

it feels like a crime

You can’t help but want her

she calls you by name

The way she gets into you is her claim to fame

But when it comes down to it

She’s worth the time

This beautiful Earth Mother

righteous and divine

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Elevation Deep Within

Each heartbeat brings me closer to the threshold of fulfillment

as I await your invitation to come into your destiny

take me by the hand and walk me through your fields of anonymity

where I am hidden from the eyes of scrutiny cover me in your

sanctity and bless me with your fullness

there is none other but you when I am in this place

your grandeur is the element that keeps me in this realm of

fascination pursuing perfection with all earnestness

You speak to me and all that ever was is gone because you bring

to manifestation the whole of my hopes and dreams

readily I am leaving regrets behind and welcoming your gifts as a healing balm

to my ravaged soul

Realization of you in me is the most powerful potion and you are the

sweetest obsession feeding the unseen nature in me that exudes the

secrecy of our sanguine entanglement binding us in a karmic fulfillment

of what is pure and essential to my every meditation

I am ripe fruit coming from the tree of your prosperity ravage me and

allow my sweet juices to run over and bring forth more of the same

as we create what is our relative reality confusing attempts to undermine

the certainty of our mutual enchantment

It is essential that I give myself to you as I accept your transfusion of

awakening destiny within the depths of my being living only to see the

elevation of my consciousness to join with beauty as never before described

with words only images and metaphors can fully expand upon what is seen

with trepidation by the untrained eye beholding what is evident but

transfixed

by forces too powerful to comprehend

Search me and find that what I give to you is pure and saturated with

inconsequential possibilities for fulfillment exuding from where you

seek your source and find life ready to be obtained with fervent splendor

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Back To The Drawing Board

Back in IOP (Intensive Outpatient) therapy…oh joy.  This will be my lot three days a week for the next sixteen to twenty weeks.    I walk in the room and come face to face with a motley crew of alcoholics and addicts who have committed to staying sober and working The Steps.  The facilitator is a slight red-head who reminds me of Shirley MacLaine but she is slightly disheveled and majorly unorganized.  I have to correct her about my name and that immediately makes me feel some kind of way.  My initial reaction is that I’m in the wrong place.  I’m a bit anxious and I feel out of place but, ironically, I start using DBT (Dialectical Behavioral Therapy)  exercises; the nature of the group, to calm myself and find my niche in this space.  Twice we are interrupted from getting things going by the late arrival of two people and this aggravates me like nails on a chalkboard.   After everyone has finally settled in Teacher, what I’ll call her, announces that there is a binder of information we are responsible for and she hands me a white binder with a stack of papers that go inside.  She apologizes for the incompleteness of this wealth of information, none of the papers have holes punched in them, telling me that there is no three- hole punch in the building.  Ugh.  Really?  I’m at a loss for words.  This isn’t starting out good at all.  I keep telling myself to give this all a chance because I know the routine all too well; I’ve been in four other groups over the course of nearly a year.

Group begins with a check-in consisting of going around the circle and giving our names, announcing our addiction(s), how much clean time we have and what kind of mood we’re in.  Surprisingly I’m calm with the fact that I will soon give my story to a new group of strangers.  The eye contact that I get from the other group members as we go around the circle puts me more at ease and when it’s my time to introduce myself I’m confident and strong.  Teacher starts things off and my apprehension starts to creep back to the surface.  She’s speaking but it’s as if she really doesn’t know what she’s supposed to be doing.  I feel like I’m balancing on the edge of my seat in anticipation of her next word or instruction because she just seems so hesitant to take control of the meeting.  I want to jump out of my seat and snatch up her papers and her spiral guidebook and just teach the class myself.   Finally the ball gets rolling, albeit slowly, and we dive into the skill for the day.  Not even five minutes into this I discover that my stack of papers is missing the literature for the topic.   This is yet another speed bump to slow our momentum.  Teacher apologizes profusely and excuses herself to go make the necessary copies having to get originals from one of the other attendees.   She returns and we try this once again.

Class seems to creep by so slowly and I feel like I’m in another state of consciousness.  The information is helpful and informative but Teacher just seems a bit off-key to me.  Everyone else seems to be comfortable in a homey kind of way and I envy the way they seem to be able to abandon any judgement of the entire situation, they seem to be completely at ease.  Am I missing something?  We keep it moving and finally one of the other people speaks out of turn and asks Teacher isn’t she ready for a break.  A collective sigh of relief goes around the room and we all start putting down papers and heading for the door even before we hear how long break is going to be.  Maybe my observation was wrong about how the other groupies feel about the whole thing.

We all return from break grateful that there’s only thirty minutes left of this haphazardly conducted meeting.  Though we trudge along and play the game I can tell that I’m not the only one frustrated with how things go here.  I try to keep from watching the clock when one of the gentlemen brings to our attention the time and I perk up and see that time’s up and group is over.  Before Teacher is able to fully give ending instructions we begin packing up our things and preparing for our ending circle to recite the Serenity Prayer.

Wow, it’s over and I made it through and I’m actually glad I came.

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In A Manner Of Speaking

Showcasing She

Wrap me in your voice

and

caress me with your words because

you

stimulate me

and invigorate me

and

your lips

pour forth knowledge that

excites me

and

gets me wet to the touch with juices

flowing full of that intellectual ecstasy that

you have placed inside of me

just

by

being

you.

The inflection of each syllable that

you speak

has me weak as you run over me like fresh water

emanating from deep within the earth where

Wisdom takes her form and manifests on each

divine breath you breath.

How smooth each phrase you speak that

brings me to the peak

of orgasmic oration and I

spontaneously erupt in prose.

What is it that lies so deep within thee

that brings me to

illegal elevations of illuminated alliterations

as if I am in a trance caught up in the stance

of your natural brilliance.

The mantra that reverberates…

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