When a Flower Blooms Volume 2 :: Issue 6

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A blossom unfurling cannot be rushed. Let go of your timeline, release to the journey and allow the mystery of what is to simply be.


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Dreams

by Jiling Lin

“When each child is born, a morning star rises and sings to the Universe who we are… we are our Grandfathers’ prayers… we are our Grandmothers’ dreaming… we are the voice of our Ancestors… we are the Spirit of Love.”   — Sweet Honey in the Rock

Each human is a seed capsule. Each seed holds all the stories, songs, dreams and genetic material of all of the previous seeds that came before, and all of the future seeds that will come after. What magic, what beauty!

Enough of the cliche conversation-starters of, “So, where do you work? Where do you live?” I prefer to start off conversations with, “What are your dreams like?” That opens up whole new worlds of discovery. “Dreams” can be interpreted in a variety of ways: night dreams, day dreams, life dreams and more.

What do you mean when you think, talk, write about your dreams? What do I mean?

It’s all interconnected. All of our dreams are interwoven together, encapsulated within the seeds of our being.

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Alice Before Wonderland

by Wendy Fairie Robinson

Mixed media painting on paper . 16″ x 12″

To the Gypsy That Remains

by Haley Hoover

This morning I have a powerful connection with an old song.  I have often loved this song, but today my love discovers new depths through it.

I often times feel like plastic.  I am shiny and positive and talkative and productive.  I am energized by people and so I nearly always find myself at the mercy of others.  I love people and interaction.

Yet deep down there is still this whole other person.  This deep intellectual who has always felt shunned and scared. She is a child, a small girl who must be cherished and nourished and drawn out.  Perhaps it is my inner artist-child as Julia Cameron suggests, or maybe it is just the softer me.  The softer me does not beg for attention or ask to be seen.  She knows she is worthy and her heart waits patiently to be sought after.

It is this woman that leaks out in my early morning walks, my extended painting sessions, and in the pages of my journal.

How must I draw her near?

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The Sun Has No Shadow

A Morning Nature Lesson

by Barbara Heile

morning sun is shining on the Sycamore outside my window.
the branches cast their shadows on the trunk of the tree.

another tree casts its shadow on the barn.

barns are made for holding
steadily, quietly, protective

whatever is inside those weathered walls and broad roofs.
they can hold the cast shadows of others without concern.

the Sun moves the day along.
and I watch the shadows pass.

I feel the desire to paint this barn, again.
I can feel mind wanting to make a religion out of this moment of seeing and feeling,
to drive the point home
again and again and again,
however beautifully.

sometimes it is enough
just to see.
and to write.

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Pebble Graffiti

by Deasy Bamford

Pebble Graffiti on the banks of the River Severn, UK

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Inside Me

by Helene Rose

inside me
you will find a deep dark cave
where I go to retreat in moments of tenderness

inside me
you will find a river of love
that flows with strength and compassion

inside me
you will find a heart of gold
that I polish often with nourishment and attention

inside me
you will find a gushing waterfall
whose power and force bring electric change

inside me
you will find a rose garden
scented so sweet and painted so colorful

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In the Balance

by Mel Shapcott

Watercolor . 12″ x 16″ . 2014

Year of the Crone

by Jennifer R. Miller

The neighbor’s bamboo wind chimes
clink together in the afternoon breeze,
gliding in so warm and sultry from the west.
But all I hear are the rattling bones…
all I have known this year is the Crone.

She has spread her cloak wide
like a Valkyrie soaring above the battlefield,
like a vulture swooping in for the feast —
her claws sinking deeply into sorrow and regret,
her raspy throat swallowing down aborted dreams.

She has come for the ones who bore us,
the women who pushed us down into the dark tunnel
to emerge screaming and grasping for the light.
Now they, too, must face the velvety blackness.
Now they, too, must reach for illumination.

“We must be born to die,
and we must die to be born,”

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The Call

by Nathalie Jackson

I heard a call
Deep within my very bones
To be all I’m here to be
Through synchronicity
Sublime divinity
And profound creativity
I leaped
I stepped
      Moving
      Growing
      Becoming
The Earth She beckons me
She’s captured me
She lures me
In the heart of Her heart
I hear my own rhythm
Ancient bones that are my bones
Ancient blood that is my very life force
Ancient rhythm
That calls forth my very Beat
The path laid out for My Feet alone
The whisper that screams, “LEAP!”

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Queen of My Heart

by Annette Wagner

Who is the Queen of my heart? She wears a crown marked with the symbols of neolithic temples. She has a door opening over her head — the door of her heart. She is contemplative and seemingly vulnerable, yet immensely power-filled in her own being. She allows her heart to lead and tells her mind to support her heart. She stands easily in her power and lives in a place of unconditional love.

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The Rhythm of My Feet

by K Lenore Siner

“Art is not a thing, it is a way.”                — Elbert Hubbard

There is something that is parched and tired. The day is full of emails and errands, hurried communication, lists. I have not felt the soles of my feet on cool dirt. I have not sung the song of my grandmother mending. I have not thought of the symbols in the iron fence on Broadway or inhaled the scent of someone’s hair, or looked at the moon. There is only coming and going, there is no direction.

A painting is a very real way of remembering what has value. Images and objects that are created with expanded awareness and compassionate purpose emit those qualities in their very being-ness. They have the ability to fill our essential human desire for connection and meaning and nourish our aesthetic self that so often is found languishing under fluorescent lights. They are doorways that can connect us to a time, an emotion, an element, an archetype, an ancestor. They are a guide that returns us to center.

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I Hear Her Calling

by Sha Shama

I hear her calling, her voice like a siren’s song. I know I am not the only one, a lot of women hear her… some men do too! She’s calling us back to her, asking us to remember.

Remember what it feels like to dance with the wind, sleep under the stars, be kissed by the sun. She’s asking us to connect back with the spirits of trees and the streams. to dangle our bare feet into the lakes, letting the minnows nibble our toes until we dive into the deep. She’s calling for us to leave this sterile cold society we have created, this safe and orderly existence that knows not the pleasure of plucking a warm, ripe plum from the tree and immediately biting into its richness letting its flavor consume you even as you consume it. This sad place in which we have become so worried about having great sex that we have forgotten how to make great love. Yes, she is calling us to lay our lovers down upon the warm, soft moss until we are so lost in each others embrace that we have nothing left to lose. She is calling us to bare our souls and open our hearts to her passions. But that kind of fearlessness terrifies us and so we pretend we don’t hear her, but she calls. She will continue to call until one, some, all of us answer and run headlong into arms forever changed.

Paradise Flycatcher

by Lydia Hesse

Acrylic on canvas . 48″ x 36″

What Mom Carries

by Nicole Taylor

She lives with my brother’s family.

My maternal mother peers at my book
on the butcher block counter,
Dorrianne Laux’s What We Carry,
she repeats the title.

I carry a lot
she tells me and I
know this. I just watched
her wind the portable
computer and cord
and carry them downstairs.

I just watched her carry her orange juice
across the kitchen to answer
the door, to let in my hip nephew,
returning home this late evening.

I just watched her carry piles of laundry.
She picks up a knee-length soccer sock
saying “This goes in their room,”
“This is Nate’s” my hip fifteen year old
skateboarding, video-gaming nephew,
and “That’s Nate’s.” She carries
Dad and Mario in her memory.

The Girl Who Loved Good Times, Jazz and F.S.F.

July 24, 1900 – March 10, 1948

by Nadine Waltman Harmon

I was that skinny girl who ran bare foot
embarrassing my mother who thought a judge’s
daughter should be more disciplined to avoid
gossip in Montgomery. I dream of times when
my ‘Jellies’ and I scandalized the town, but what
they talked about the most was the time I fell head over
bare feet for that dashing lieutenant and escaped
with F.S.F. and headed for the big city, leaving
my innocent days behind to fall into the pit
of darkness; of being controlled by a husband who
loved me; who took credit for my creativity,
works that should have had only my byline.

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Amy Tan

by Bonnie Gloris

Oil paint and collage on paper . 8″ x 6″ . 2012

“You see what power is — holding someone else’s fear in your hand and showing it to them.” — Amy Tan

I Am Enough

by Samantha Fernandez

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