she
lisa m. fenton
workshops
Play With
Your Words
Writing Workshop
Magic Money
in issue seven
Scintillations
Alice Springs
Putting Off Trust
She
What Do I Know
About Trust?
Growing Into My Own
Bits of Trust
Slowing Down
Death of a Season
Trust Me, I Was Told
Servicemen’s
Camaraderie
Moody Girl
On Faith
Letters To My
Younger Self
photography
Leaves
Anna Giabanidis
Lemon Chillin
Brian Mayden
Steering Wheel
Julie Russell
Cover Outtakes
Scott Carlisle
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Eight: Power
Issue Nine: Humor
she was born a creative woodsprite, fresh with kindergarten wonder and
excited sunburst energy. clothing her backyard swingset in sheets: a secret hideaway circus.
digging in the sand to find a hidden treasure of jeweled rocks.
a tender rosebud curious about being. tasting the sweet air with her petals.
she was a thinker. not in the ways of science or mathematics. but in the ways of her feelings and the emotions that surged through her. she experienced feelings of intense heart bulging love and chain-linked connection to other beings and the universe.
her emotions dove deep into choked up sadness and drowning despair.
she pondered them as though they were important numerical equations. twirling the algebra above her head, wearing them on her brow. nothing hidden.
she had her moments of peace and calm when she was present in the moment, able to be connected by spirit and flesh. when being around her was joyful, inspiring. like walking on the beach under blue skies with soft beige sands.
she also had her spells of freaking out and not thinking about the protocols. she occasionally remembered that breathing into the hot potato impulses would bring calm to her heart and clarity to her words.
there were times when the feelings and emotions unexpectedly burst from her before cooling. this often led to her saying more than she should have and alienating herself from others. the geyser-hot steam surprised souls with shaming finger-pointed shards and stinging droplets.
she often realized, after hurling herself off a cliff into the arms of an unsuspecting bystander, what she had done. that it might have been better to sit with the weight of her internal situation. noticing its energy, watching it wiggle and stomp its feet. until the energy sat calmly by her side, ready to have a heart-to-heart conversation.
the lessons sometimes had to be learned more than once. for her, learning lessons by making mistakes seemed the best way to master the skills.
sometimes after she beat herself up for failing yet again,
waging war with burning planks and spiked clubs, she would find a better way.
wiping the blood and scarred flesh from her body, she could see the intended path.
a never ending journey.
until her last breath, she would share with kindred spirits.
rolling in the grass, soft and fragrant, itchy and prickly.
she wanted to relax in the beautiful waves of her authentic, soulful self.
the warm soothing rocking of the universe caressing her journey as it guided her home.
her footsteps gently directed to a place where she felt free.
she would make it there.
she was making it there.
she was there.
she experienced growing moments when the voice of her inner wise woman
sang to her with deep resonating drum beats
as the fibers of soul knowledge were woven with intuitive hands,
cloaking her with self-acceptance and permission to be in the world
exactly as she was born--a whole, centered and completely beautiful being,
unafraid to be herself.
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