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Where the Golden Bees Dwell


As promised, part two of four in my orated series. Two WHOLE QUARTERS of the way there.


All my stories are published as a vignetted excerpt of my personal journal.


Kept in time, over the years.


Collating healings within, each time I draft and share.




 

Last time we walked,

we wandered through metaphorical gardens until finding something that caused us to stop.

And what did we do there but LISTEN.


What we FOUND was a species,

a flower.

Bold and brave.

Standing tippy-toed, not quite loud but not quiet still.

Firm; without any apologies.

Observing from an undefined height, her very own boundaries.


Backboned ENOUGH to crack the icy ground where we Ourselves stood upon;

peering down.


Boldy LIFTING HERSELF, full bloom,

lips practically pressed against ours,

warm and welcoming despite the fierce

-external conditions that existed among and around Us

and It,

during the very early part, of this year’s Chicagoland Spring.


…when we were wandering,

just meandering along,

in those frigid-cold, hardly

-Post winter gardens.


For forty years I had forgotten about those Rad Little Ladies.

How pungent and powerful they were.


ARE.


How they welcomed me home every Spring from the time I was 3 until 18.

The longest I had rooted, anywhere…


That was an interesting walk;

wasn’t it?

The one we took before.



Now, I invite you, using my wordsmithery,

To hear my voice.


Coming in echoes,

from a deeper,

less-

well-lit

-part of the gardens.


Brace yourself to some degree.

Perhaps as if you knew you were liable to get stung, unexpectedly.


Hear my voice please.


About a little girl who at one point was willing to crawl through blankets of poison ivy,

To get to her mother,

Where there, they might both be saved.


Not from each other,

but from the shaming, misogynistic, predatory lifestyle of which many young women have been born.

I know it to be true.


For they are my Kinswomen.


Seeded in beds that they didn’t belong.


Where the garden's boundaries were…


ARE


sometimes still


not at all-

respected.


Innocence not lost – but downright stolen.

Years of vitality smothered under toxic soil.


I invite you, using my wordsmithery,

To hear my voice,


To understand what trauma can do.

To understand how nature can help.

To understand where and why, a “Golden Bee” might dwell as she does.


I invite you, using my wordsmithery,

To hear my voice,

To understand,

That although none of it may make sense to you, it does to others.

To understand that if it isn’t yours to comprehend,

it is proper and fair to simply buzz over to the next offering, until the end.


I invite you, using my wordsmithery,

To hear my story and my voice about how we were someone else’s vice.

It might even sound beautiful…

it was not.


 

But behold my Loves!

This is the power of creation!

Of words and poetry and prose.


Something can happen,

when you free yourself and let it flow.

You can say what you need to say, and potentially let it all go.

Without every single detail made-

to be known.


So.

Come with me through the metaphorical gardens as I dare to, in my own voice and in my own words, poetically explore a triggering subject that could no longer be neglected.


And when it no longer was, it healed.


Tremendously.


"Back here, by the old smoke stack.


You remember the place…

The one with the backwards bench?"






















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