These are excerpts from participants who attended the Breitenbush writing and yoga retreat. So grateful for their presence in the world.
A poetry piece written by Kristen Schoonveld:
What takes its time in this world?
What does not hurry?
A ball of dough,
soft as a belly,
rising
in one, long inhale
that lasts the whole day.
~Kristen
ZIA:
(Waking up at in a cabin in the forest. Listening to the sounds of the people around me and the morning then turning over to write.) April 25 2012
Focus.
Light.
Heart.
Zipper.
Flip-flop.
Walk.
River.
Forest sounds.
Birds calling.
Shout voice.
Focus.
Breath in.
Breath out.
Begin again.
Focus.
Dream state to body state. My cadence fluctuates.
From home state to away state. My creativity blossoms.
Putting down my pieces.
Rearranging my burden.
Organizing my kitchen then picking it up and carrying on.
Carry on up the switchbacks or along the flat path.
I still have my bare-feet shoes.
I still have my items that I will need in the afterlife, those lessons I have learned, that bag of salty chips, the amazing hairbrush that makes my scalp tingle, the bird seed rustling in the bottom of my puffy jacket pockets. It is there to throw out when I reach the lake. Someone gave me these things and told me I will know what to do with them when the time comes.
I hear the low hiss of a tiny stove. I hear the Mother-of-all mixing pancake batter for us. I hear her feet in her shoes on the tiny pebbles as they shift under her as she squats down to prepare, to cook, to serve.
I am aware as I can be of the burdens both foisted and chosen. Maybe it is not the Mother I hear but the Father. He is putting rock ice in the ice cream maker shell, turning and turning, doing the work to give us a treat.
Maybe I cannot identify what they do, but like a child going to sleep at night. I am reassured by the soft sounds I hear and I am glad my door is open a crack.
Zia Schatz
