Creating while under the ineffable influence of women

Prioritize what you need today. Right now. Is that a struggle for you today or this month or year? Then this women-and-poetry-woven essay is for you.

This essay demonstrates what I write—and how I change—when I prioritize what I need right now, day after day, and month after month. Which I'd stopped doing for quite a while, but then I finally started doing again this summer and fall. Prioritizing what we need isn’t selfish. It's the play and the work that you, and I, and the world– as it turns out– most need.

This essay offers at least eight gifts that I received this week while under the ineffable influence of women and nonbinary folks in my community. In the past week, I spent three different days with groups of women and nonbinary folks in person. Simply showing up to be with these groups was my gift to myself. Everything else in this essay is a community offering. I spent one whole day at a poetry writing workshop at Whidbey Institute writing beside nine kindred spirits all day, followed by part of another day writing beside women in a Langley Healing Circles group for people who want to lean on writing together, and then I spent a third day singing with a different group of women at Healing Circles. In all three cases, we were physically present at collectively created places with long histories here: places of powerful space holding, rest, fun, sanctuary, and change that were and are co-created, in large part, by women and other holders of the feminine, the underdog, grief, and the spiritual. Places where you can literally feel the presence of ancestors. Feel the weight lift from your shoulders before words are even spoken. Places can do that. What a nice reminder.

Here are eight (or more) things that we receive when we prioritize what we most need and find ourselves under the ineffable influence of countless generations of wonderful women and nonbinary folk…

#1 – Remarkably wise prompts that encourage us to think differently

When I’m surrounded by women at a poetry workshop, for example, and I’m given the prompt question, “What is peace?” I write this...

What is peace? (1)

I saw a two-frame meme:

Top half was sky blue
a white outline of a man seated
cross-legged, eyes closed
a waterfall behind him
hands held before his chest
in namaste
or prayer—
at peace.
And below him, the words
“This is what we think Zen is.”

Bottom half was dark red and orange
flames of fire everywhere
And that same man seated
cross-legged, eyes closed
hell itself closed in around him yet
hands held before his chest
in namaste
or prayer—
at peace.
And below him
the words
“This is what Zen actually is.”

And I thought, hmmm. Maybe.

Maybe, gentlemen.

Maybe.

Nah.

Maybe not. Actually,
No.

No.

We will be together.
Our eyes will be open.
We will be on our feet
moving
beside neighbors
listening to trees
sharing what we know
each bringing our own bucket
of waterfall
–unique clues for living here–
each bringing our own bucket
of fire
– what we’re here to turn to ash–
both brought & given gladly
to the seeds we know
and the seeds we don’t know
within community.

This Zen
can’t be
captured
commodified
taken away or
explained
via meme.

#2 – Choosing to pull different perspectives and words into us, to expand ourselves

In the next activity at the poetry workshop, we were asked to choose a photo and then had several minutes to write down every word that came to mind looking at it. I'd done this activity before. Thought I knew what was coming. Chose a lush photo of a painting of a black woman smiling ear to ear, wise and silly side eye, under the blue fedora she was sporting. The painting oozed self-confidence, style, and a knowing, seen-it-in-the-trenches kind of grace--everything I could use a bit more of. Then—twist—we were asked to find a partner and instead of writing a poem using our own words, we swapped words. We wrote using the words gathered by others, looking at other things. I found this so freeing. What a deep gift, for a writer, to not have to find the right words for a change!

The words I was handed were horrible and full of pain. I loved them instantly. Ah, to be able to so openly welcome painful words in person as I do in writing at a poetry workshop! There's a lesson that will stick with me. What we do with words handed to us is entirely up to us. Here’s what I wrote doing this “use the words you’ve just been handed” activity…

What is Peace? (2)

With our dear friends suffering in Gaza
Daily, I asked myself
“What is peace?”

On my own
I came up with
isolation, depression, external force
oppression, numbness, tight & hidden,
noiseless pain.
I found myself choking on loss
pointless cruelty
and
undignified ends.

So, I got out my pen,
& I began again.
This time
I asked them
“What is peace?”
and I watched
and I listened
through my tears.

They said smiling and laughing.
The sea. The sky.
They said loving old trees and
land that loves us back, oh, and
clowns and all other goofy adults
who help children laugh
no matter how many limbs
and family members and homes and friends
they’ve lost
again
this week.

They said dancing and art,
telling our stories. Crafts people's handiwork.
Being more fully seen
both by place and by people.
Weeping openly in the streets unashamed.
Kites and poetry.
Kites and poetry are definitely peace
when beloved friends' spirits leave the earth
by the hundreds of thousands.
Also, friends who stick with us. Friends,
who don’t forget us. Friends who protect and defend
big hearts and gentle souls everywhere
not just fleeting property, philosophy, or dogma.
Friends who end brutality
within as without—
with gentleness together.
Friends are ships
they're flotillas of peace.

I wept and wept
until I surrendered.

I surrendered to those who know peace
far more intimately
together at the heart of hell on earth
than every individual here with a warm home does.
I surrendered to women
who gathered tiny parts of their children
and their blood
into plastic shopping bags
for burial. And to children
who identified their mothers’ remains
by a scrap of beloved fabric
just one-inch long or
by a hand. Just a hand.
Even with no body and no head
that hand held comfort.
That was Mom.

Don’t tell me you know peace
without these women and these children.
We all know nonsense when we feel it.

Only with them
did I find peace.

They hold Allah (aka, God)
in their hearts, always.
And now I hold them, always
in mine.

Through them
I learned that I can step away
from literally anyone
to heal and rest
and I can step toward almost anyone
but not everyone
to love larger
this time
with our always-expanding hearts.

That choice is always ours
always yours
and always mine.
We have at least that much in common.

That's peace.

#3 – Being more fully seen and heard, weeping in public, and receiving the gift of support

As a deep group of women—three different generations and three different skin tones of women deep—we talked about the idea that women hold the weight of peace. Just about everything women are asked—both fairly and unfairly—to do here on earth, is about making peace possible and real for the whole.

The next prompt we were given was the question “How are you holding the weight of peace?” I wrote from the heart, and when I went to read the following poem out loud, about halfway through, I had to stop. I began to weep. One woman put her hand on my shoulder, steadying me. They all waited in silence until I could continue and finish reading. I briefly explained that my Mom was in hospice now and sometimes certain words hit harder now. Not that anyone but me needed that explanation. Someone else asked if I would like to hear the poem read back to me, so I handed it to the woman who’d steadied me and she read this poem to us, and for me…

How are you holding the weight of peace?

I am well
I am rotten
I am held
I’m forgotten

We are heard
We are seen
We are generous
and mean

I’m a forest
I’m a kite
I’m a neighbor
in the fight

I’m impatient
I’m a mess
I’m an empath
who can bless

Meet me here
or not at all
outside
spring & summer
winter fall

Meet me in the tall grass
beside the house of worship.
All needs are met here—
very few of them, by me.

Peace is not a weight.

Here
it's an honor.

#4 – Recognizing more of yourself and feeling some of the weight you're holding shift off your shoulders

The final prompt of the poetry workshop day wasn’t a question, it was this statement: “I deserve to feel the gift (or lightness) of peace.” Having spent 6 hours writing and talking and walking and eating with women (some local, some from other places), here’s what I wrote...

The gift of peace

There was an old woman
who lived in a shoe
She had so many children
she didn’t know what to do.

Yeah, that’s not me
or maybe it is
if you count loving earthlings
as all of my kids.

Some are older, some are young
some have fire for a tongue
some are green and full of grace
some have scales on their face.

There was an old woman
who lived in a shoe
she had poems for breakfast
ate essays like stew.

#5 – Getting all of the BS out of your system so you can move more freely again

This one, I suspect, is more obvious to extroverts. Introvert Me had to learn it and has to re-learn it now and then. All that talking extroverts do is bound to be good for your systems. 😉 Hanging out with other women and other holders of the feminine and underdogs and grief and spirit—and allowing yourself just to pour out everything you’re holding that’s hurting—is so, so needed these days. Here’s another way to do it...

The day after the poetry workshop, I was at Langley Healing Circles, writing with women again, this time as part of a healing circles group I’m part of. We start each week by doing a few minutes of brain-dump writing. Some call this “morning pages,” which came from the book The Artist’s Way. I did that for years myself, before I became a full-time writer, and these days I write so much I don't do it as often, but doing morning pages definitely saves me when I've gotten way off track like I did in 2024. You give yourself three pages or at least three minutes each morning (or when you can) to free form write down all of the crap that’s in your head. Get it all out, where you can see it. Nobody else needs to see it. You don’t need to see or hear what I wrote in my brain dump this week. I don’t need to see or hear what you wrote. Just write all your own frustrations and worries and fears and troubles and outrages down. Or just grocery and to-do lists or whatever is cluttering up your mind. Get the clutter out of your body/monkey mind, so you can start to move like yourself again.

Try it! You can do this just once. Or now and then. Or do this every day. If you do it every day for a while, you can then occasionally return to your own words, look for/highlight patterns, and find new insights. It's lovely way to watch old patterns leave and new ways of being and ideas emerging.

#6 – Intentionally calling forth spaciousness, with your eyes wide open, even when you’re scared

In my twice-a-month healing circle group of women who lean on writing, one of our prompts is usually “What is most on your heart?” What a generous question. Here’s what I wrote this week…

What's most on my heart is expansiveness. Spaciousness. What it takes to leap out of a too-small, too-tight space/body/relationship/job/idea/pattern/way of being. The past 8 years I’ve been happy, but now it feels like I’ve also been both isolating and thinking too small. Necessary, perhaps, as I prioritized caregiving and making a living. But not sustainable. I allowed my role as elder caregiver for parents and my role as small business creator/runner/herbalist to take all of my time. All of it. That was lovely for a while. Then, not so much. No time for friends. Remarkably little time for writing and reading and wandering and wondering and connecting for the pure fun of it. Bleh. Not me.

I can feel those walls crumbling now. I sold my business in the summer. Then Mom entered hospice the end of August. Walls are crumbling. Skin is being shed. Tears are being shed. Gladly. Goodbyes are being said. More goodbyes that I expected.

My friend Jamal’s always-generous Muslim grandfather taught him to “Choose your jailers wisely.” Recognizing that in this world, and while in these bodies, we will always be bound by someone or something. I’m letting some of my jailers– these days that's also my loves– go, again. And, his grandfather also spoke of spaciousness in all things. Finding spaciousness within yourself, within philosophy/beliefs/religion, within relationships, within work, within everything tight and hurting and heavy. I’m wondering now—What will me being more spacious in the coming years look like? Feel like? Without the golden shackles of the business. And with a new goal of never again uttering the cruel-and-dismissive words “I’m too busy” to people who love me. Words that reflect the cruel, harsh, violent, and stale reality of the modern world, at least where I live. I’d rather be punched in the face than say or hear these words again. Times–friends– we’re a changin’. If I don't have time for you this week, if I love you, you will hear far more of the why.

What will me being more spacious in the coming years look like? Feel like?

My words for next year are deep and simple mischief. Everything I do, everyone I’m with, every moment I'm breathing in 2026, I intend to be up to deep and simple mischief. Period. I am letting go of everyone who says “I’m too busy.” to people they love. With this change, I’ll be changing the makeup, and hopefully the DNA, of our family.

Here, I can breathe more deeply and let my wild imagination roam free. I can feel poems coming as they approach and be more open to catching them as they float through…

Spacious people

There was an old-ish woman
who lived in a shoe
she had so many ideas
she couldn’t decide what to do

So she centered on mischief
on simple & deep
she ate poems for breakfast
wrote essays in her sleep.

There was an old-ish young woman
wandering free
How lovely to be letting go again
of Last Year Me.

Here strangers are welcome.
Beliefs? No big deal.
We all change a little
when somebody cooks us
our new favorite meal.

#7 – Growth in the direction you truly want to be growing in—and that happens to be the direction your beloveds need you to be growing in– even when it’s just ridiculously hard

The last writing prompt of this particular writing-centered healing group is always similar. Something like: What is it that I really want to say underneath what I’ve just written? What a great question.

Here’s what I wrote this week in response to this question…

I know what it takes to become more spacious. Far more open. Far braver. Far more generous. Far messier. Far more present. Even more me.

This is the year that I will gather my circle of women.

This is the year that my Me’s and my I’s will become our We’s.

The first volunteer to this circle, after me, was our Finn, the feisty-sweet black cat who just turned two. Every time I write about creating a circle of women who meet regularly to hang out, have fun, and/or change ourselves and the world, she jumps into my lap and starts purring. Urging me on. Literally pushing my hands into the keyboard. This cat reads my mind. Welcome to the circle, Finn. Thank you for setting the magic bar high. No wonder men once feared black cats like they feared women who could heal themselves and each other.

This is the year that prosperous and thriving together—not alone—will happen. I can feel it. I don’t have to be brave. I don’t have to have a 10-point plan, a 12-month curriculum, or a perfectly clean house. I don’t have to be anything I’m not. I just have to be me. And I have to lean on community the way my great grandmothers, grandmothers, and mother did. Individual bravery is lovely and sometimes necessary but also hard, exhausting some years, and not sustainable.

Community sustains us. We are all sustained here.

We are up to deep and simple mischief when everyone present sustains us. When we, ourselves, are sustained.

#8 – Joy even in the most difficult of times

The third group I met with this past week is a weekly singing group at Langley Healing Circles. We don’t write. We don’t talk about our troubles. We just sing together. Did you know that support groups can be groups that just sing together? Or just make art? Or create together? No talking or writing at all? Us? We just sing.

We don’t have sheet music. We aren’t turned away if we can’t carry a tune. We are led by one or more of three different women who have just a list of song titles to look at, their own life-long love of music to support them/us, and a willingness to occasionally lean on each other to remember how the tune starts. We sing short, simple songs gathered from around the world. Some are deep. Some silly. Some sad. Some all of the above. Some are in languages we don't speak. When new people show up—all are welcome—we sing call and response to learn and deepen our understanding together. Many of us are old enough that the call and response learning is helpful even if we once knew the song.

It's always simple. Always deep and meaningful. Always fun. There’s always a bit of mischief present within the group as well. When we do talk, it’s often—interestingly enough—about our ancestors, especially grandmothers and great grandmothers.

This group is exactly where I belong right now.

I know it. They know it. You know it.

We all do.

Wandering isn’t for nothing.

Being lost, resting, worrying, screaming, reflecting, fighting, and protesting aren't for nothing.

All that walking away, standing up, and letting go led me here. Led us, here.

Hello, wonder.

Hello, abiding gratitude for this life no matter what else is happening.

Hello, joy.

Wow did we miss you.

And wow, did I need you.