Writing From The Soul - Rescued From The Trash

10 minute writing exercise.....

Rescued from the trash….the first one is always a little hard to get started. Like the engine of my car on these cold winter mornings in Utah. Warming up the fingers…

Rescued from the trash..hidden under the boxes and glad bags and apple peels. What is hidden there? Hiding beneath the other garbage so that no one sees. It doesn’t want to be seen but yet wants to be rescued without saying a word. Hiding but wanting to be seen and rescued.

She is small and quiet and cold and hiding. She doesn’t know if she wants to be found. But she does. She wants to be rescued from the trash, and not be a piece of the trash and more.

Unveiled and unhidden and known and seen. In all her glory. She is love. She is a goddess and she is ready to rise from the trash like a phoenix from the ash trash. Let her out. Let her be seen. Let her be all that she is already. Just peel away the trash from around her and she pops out like a stripper from a birthday cake. Ta daaaa….. Sequins and fishnets and heels shining as she steps gracefully down from the mounds of sweet icing. She is sweet and grace and love and she is here ready to be seen. Ready for her debut!

Rescued from the trash are my writings that almost didn’t make it. Hidden in the verses is my soul. The words just seem to be words until I read them out loud and then I know. It connects me to my soul. The words from when I was 13. Such a strange time in ones life. All hormones raging pimples popping boys looking boobs sprouting. What the hell is going on? The song on the radio says it all. Chicago – If You Leave Me Now….

I knew it was important to write when I was 13 and now I’m glad I have the words to look back on. It’s a path, a story, of feelings, songs, paved with tears and lessons and loves along the way. Travels too. Around the world and back again. New languages, new food, new souls. It makes me whole. I’m getting antsy to hit the road again. It’s been 1.5 months in one place and I’m ready to go again. Feeling boxed in inside the room with the forced air heat to ward off the winter chill of the mountain air.

Gotta get someplace warm. Gotta be by the ocean again. Smell the salt air and feel the open minds of people in California. The mountains are good but not so much when I can’t get out in them in the brittle cold. I’m a warm weather gal. The cold chills my bones and makes them stiff as they wrap around my insides and heart. I need to thaw out. Get out in the mountains of Cali.

Writing from the soul

I started attending a Writing From the Soul group when I was in Bali, and now, thankfully we continue online. We meet on Sunday nights for a very powerful hour and a half. There are people in Bali, Canada, Equador and the U.S. in our little clan. We are given a short prompt and then we write for ten minutes. Not thinking, not editing, just writing from the soul. Not from the head. Hearing what our unconscious has to tell us. I close my eyes and type and the words flow and I don't even know what they are until I read it aloud to the group. It's been an amazing exercise and I am continually surprised at what happens. 

One of the recent prompts was "In A Place Where Trees Can Speak" 
This is what my soul had to say about that:

In a place where trees can speak it’s a magical forest. Where fairies live and flit around in the trees as the trees speak to them. They tell the secrets of the ancients. They know all the wisdom there is to know in the world. In this place the trees stand in a circle and share the truth of the universe. We only have to listen. It’s damp and mossy and warm there. I am enveloped in the trees. They hold me with their branches and warm me and care for me. They speak to me and tell me all I need to know. I just need to listen. To put my hand on the rough bark of the tree and listen to what they have to tell me.

The ancient souls. Keepers of the universe. The trees may laugh at us as we fumble through our lives. Thinking we know everything and that we rule this planet. We know nothing. But we are learning as we go. Falling down and making mistakes along the way. Skinning our knees and putting many band aides on the scrapes until we forget the mistakes we made. When the last one heals we forget. But how long before the scrape does not heal? We may have one scrape too many. Do we have enough band aides in the bathroom mirror cabinet? Enough salve to keep the bacteria out?

In a place where the trees can speak is where I want to be. They know their stuff. They write books and speak a beautiful soft whimsical tree language. It’s there is we want to hear it. The face on the trees…. Reminds me of the wizard of Oz. Magical place where trees can talk and dance and wave their limb arms and tell stories and warn us of our misdoings.

Let us sit in the center of the trees of wisdom. Gather and soak in the message. The meaning. The love the encouragement. We can do it. We can pull out of this mess. Turn the tide. Pull back from the edge just when we’re about to fall off into the abyss.

Listen. Listen to the trees. The bark is rough but the words are soft and silky and warm and inviting and enveloping. The roots are as deep as time. The first bit of time started with the trees roots and all that knowledge is soaking up in them. Dancing with the trees and the wind. Blowing the dust from out of my roots. I want to be a tree hugger. Why is that a negative term? We should all hug trees as part of our everyday existence. Maybe things would be different then. Holding hand with the trees. Listen to their language and their hearts. Wooden hearts. Not a bad thing for a tree.