What do you project into the silence?

 

Today I am reading from a blog post from the archive. Something I needed to remind myself about this week.
XO Andrea

Are you craving connection? Let’s Storybowl.

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Are you craving connection?

One of the things that feeds my soul the most is to sit in a circle of women + share true stories from our lives. I often fantasized about this at parties making small talk – Can’t we just sit in a circle and get to the real stuff?? I would think. And then I would immediately assume that I was just being too intense, too scorpio, too much… So I would hunker down in the corner of the party with one person who wanted to go deep.

But then one day I had a vision – A group of women seated in a circle playing a game. A bowl of prompts would be passed around and each person would tell a true story from their life based on the prompt. It would not be about performing the perfect story but about sharing a little piece of our heart.

I have now played this game with dozens of women + it is AMAZING each and every time. We get to the REAL gracefully + easily. There is a lot of laughter and sometimes a few tears. It is always rich, always connecting, always full of compassion and ultimately healing + full of joy.

Would you like to join me? Upcoming Storybowls:

Tuesday, August 12th, 2014
$55 6-9pm (Dinner included)
Private home in Berkeley, CA

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Wednesday, August 20th, 2014
$55 6-9pm (Dinner included)
Private home in North Oakland

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Want to dive in a little deeper?

I will be co-leading a workshop on October 10th-12th, 2014 here in the Bay Area and it’s going to be FUN.
We will write, make art, eat great food, share stories, make new friends. More details on my site here!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Turn on the f*cking faucet

Voice messages: My Grandfather’s Blessings

If you could come over to my house right now, I’d make you a pot of tea and read to you from my favorite book in the world – My Grandfather’s Blessings. Let’s pretend.

Gate C22 a poem by Ellen Bass

 

Gate C22

At gate C22 in the Portland airport
a man in a broad-band leather hat kissed
a woman arriving from Orange County.
They kissed and kissed and kissed. Long after
the other passengers clicked the handles of their carry-ons
and wheeled briskly toward short-term parking,
the couple stood there, arms wrapped around each other
like he’d just staggered off the boat at Ellis Island,
like she’d been released at last from ICU, snapped
out of a coma, survived bone cancer, made it down
from Annapurna in only the clothes she was wearing.

Neither of them was young. His beard was gray.
She carried a few extra pounds you could imagine
her saying she had to lose. But they kissed lavish
kisses like the ocean in the early morning,
the way it gathers and swells, sucking
each rock under, swallowing it
again and again. We were all watching–
passengers waiting for the delayed flight
to San Jose, the stewardesses, the pilots,
the aproned woman icing Cinnabons, the man selling
sunglasses. We couldn’t look away. We could
taste the kisses crushed in our mouths.

But the best part was his face. When he drew back
and looked at her, his smile soft with wonder, almost
as though he were a mother still open from giving birth,
as your mother must have looked at you, no matter
what happened after–if she beat you or left you or
you’re lonely now–you once lay there, the vernix
not yet wiped off, and someone gazed at you
as if you were the first sunrise seen from the Earth.
The whole wing of the airport hushed,
all of us trying to slip into that woman’s middle-aged body,
her plaid Bermuda shorts, sleeveless blouse, glasses,
little gold hoop earrings, tilting our heads up.

-Ellen Bass