I am alone. I am free.
We meet. Sharing senses of self. You tell me your story. I you mine.
I am you, you are me, we all are you, you all are me, we are all you, you are all me… One self, moving around this white, light, revealing space, smudged and stained with already resonant traces of actions
…We inhabit the moment.
Doing away with any tendency towards the slick, the finished, the smooth and polished – daring to be with the unknown. Messy stuff. Mistakes. Fumblings. Grapplings.
Trusting the unknown to locate new discourse, new expression.
Manifesting. Revealing, trusting, enhancing. Surrendering. Holding. Hearing. Sharing. We are a broad spectrum of diversity with different and varied priorities.
Notions of self, thrown upward
up into the white cavernous Creation Space, landing there, here, generously shared, played with, crackling laughter resonating, heartfully tumbling, bumbling through each and every of this BIG SELF.
We are sisters, brothers, daughters, mothers.
Lovers, sons, fathers, martyrs.
Baby, child, maiden, mother,
crone, warrior, queen, other
…I am part of this…
We wash away, wash away.
…Joan of Arc is somewhere in the room… listening.
…I am part of this…
Connection. Hidden self inside, always there, often hiding - we are coaxing this creature out from a deep well of creative potential.
We possess a fecundity of creative possibility. Here. A pre-linguistic being – sensing, feeling: articulate in-body-speaking. Waiting in the wings (it is). Delighted and delightful. Compulsive and constant. True, terrific and terrible. All at once. And laughter yes laughter, bellyjelly laughter
We give one another consent. Blessing. Encouragement. Challenge. Audacity. Offering. Able to just do, no matter what mistakes, what fuck-ups ensue. Miscarriage is a rite of passage -
- A gift.
And the children fly
And dance and laugh and fly
HER NAME IS NOT CHILDLESS.
SHE WILL FIND A NEW NAME.
And we play
Wear one and other.
Where we find one another.
Outside in. Inside out.
Dance. Laugh. Laugh. Dance. Inside. Out. Inside. Out.
Always in the womb of things,
The White Cavern is alive
Looks like Pandora opened another box…
HOPE: (archaic) A FEELING OF TRUST