There has been a sweet quiet on this website all week.
My son graduated from high school.
My daughter is plowing through her last days as a freshman at Monument Valley Regional High School.
And I was in a play directed by Pooja Ru Prema.
You can see a gallery of photos of Rites of Passage here. (The gallery is incomplete, but gives you a flavor of the experience. I will post more photos.)
I have been living the reality of rites of passage all June.
As the rain pours today, art day, I resume with putting motherhood on the front page. Motherhood is a journey every woman takes, birthing art, children or businesses- if you choose to claim this journey of your life as a birthing. You may not and that is totally fine by me.
I have been steeped in birthing, as a creative person, my whole life- ideas, plays, adventures, children and now books. During the month of June I will continue to share guest blog posts from Barbara Radecki, Cheryl Paley and others along with more of my own.
Summer reading lists are floating around all over town.
My first suggestion to you is Terry Tempest Williams’ When Women Were Birds.
In it she says:
“…Twenty-two years later, these words, this image, “When Women Were Birds,” came to me in a dream without explanation.
Are we still?
Or are we in motion, never to be caught? We remain elusive by choice.
“I am a woman with wings,” I once wrote and will revise these words again.
“I am a woman with wings dancing with other women with wings.”
In a voiced community, we all flourish. “
~Terry Tempest Williams
When Women Were Birds
My experience in Rites of Passage gave wings to my voice.
I read to the audience as they passed through our Kitchen, curated by Karen and me as FeMail, honoring Woman as Domestic Goddess. Karen and I conceived a space where the creativity of women births communion, communication and connection. We decorated the kitchen table to be an altar to our art making, to the alchemy born from women’s interaction with every day life. While Karen made art, I read, Tanya made toast and Gil washed the dishes as the audience meandered around our space, listening, smelling, seeing, hearing and touching. They left at the beckoning of a bell.
We carried and carry on.
Winged. Voiced. Blessed.
Here is to June. Wet, dry, hot or cold, grateful to be alive.