Wylde Woman Dreaming, hand built ceramic sculpture by Tammy Vitale.

Woke up thinking of Shadow Wymyn – the creation of them is evolving.  More on that later this week.  Which led to thinking about Wylde Women  and trying to remember the banner saying I wrote for the now defunct website, which led to thinking through the beginning of their story [Born from sea & storm & syncronicity, we claim our Selves & the power of our own naming; we are sunbeam and moonlight, gathered from the four winds:  we are the Wylde Women]which led to jumping out of bed to write all that down before I lost it (Husband:  good morning????where are you going?  Me:  flying down the stairs:  I have to get my notebook and write this down before I lose it!).

Which led to a search on my computer for the banner wording, which led to THE STORY!!!!! which I wrote as a beginning story for yet another book – now forgotten.

Which lead to how to cull what I need for the Wylde Women wall sculptures and I’m thinking I can use the book mark making software on my computer!  Yesterday I bought tickets and small cards at Michaels to try to fashion their price tags.

Much work to be done lining all this up, but a great and auspicious start.  Is this Finding Water or body work or both or something else that is freeing up all this dammed up energy?

Anyways, here is the rough draft of the story (which must be condensed, seriously, to fit on a bookmark, but you see where this is going….happy happy happy dance!).

This part is a lead in in the book, but I like it – perhaps a piece will stay on the bookmark:

What happens when a story is never told, or is told no more?  Where do the words go?  Is that what we hear when we gather in fire circles and watch the flames – the sound we have always thought was just the wind playing in the leaves?  Or are the words what the child hears when she holds a seashell to her ear – not the ocean at all, but words which have no home.

What happens to the energy that the telling creates?  Does it drift off into the universe and join the comets or the cosmic dust?  Or does it settle in corners – become what we sweep away when we clean house?

Every one of us has stories.  Not just one, but many.  Sometimes, after a while, the story we tell to ourself or to others changes – is it because we have learned a new truth?  Or because we want to hide an old lie?  Or do stories grow and change just like people – no more static than the water in a river moving toward the sea.

Every one of us has stories.  If we do not find a way to dance or sing or write or paint or sculpt or make this story in whatever way we create, then all those who might have heard have lost something dear.  The story becomes the shiver that passes over one standing in the hot sun listening for something lost that she cannot name.

This is one of my stories [here comes the Wylde Woman part].

Once upon a time, in a place just beyond the brightness of the nearest star, there was a woman who was wild.  And she was lonely.  she was lonely not because she was alone but because she could not find her Self.  One day, she decided that she no longer wished to be alone, so she set out to find who and where her Self might be.  She prepared for this journey not by collecting maps and packing baggage and determining a destination, but by stepping out of what she knew into what she did not know and following the directions indicated by her heart.  And lo, along the way she found others just like her who were seeking their Selves.  And as they looked everywhere for these Selves, they walked and talked, or sat and dreamed or were serenely silent together.  After a time, they looked around and were surprised to find they had arrived at a space where they were no longer lonely.  And because this was good, and because they wished to mark this new community of Self-knowing and Self-sharing, and because they knew there were more adventures ahead, they decided to celebrate this first of many arrivals.  Thus, as the warmth of the summer solstice enclosed them, light and dark equally shared the day and night, they gathered together in a circle honoring the importance and equality of each Self.  They told their stories Self to Self.  Then they joined hands and breathed out into the waiting air their communal name:  we are the Wylde Women.  And this is what happens when Wylde Women dream.

And there you have it to date. 

thought for the day:  Each of us has stories.  Do you know yours?  Can you write them down?