Writing Workshop

Some of you may remember my post about a weekend I spent in Lake Bonaparte with Jan Phillips. I'm excited to tell you that Jan is coming to Raleigh to do a writing workshop. I would love to see some of you there! Email me at MamiePotter@gmail.com if you're interested. Here are the details:

The Word, the Image, the Story: Tools of Transformation
A workshop with author/artist/activist Jan Phillips
July 8, 2011 7:00–9:00 pm & July 9, 2011 9:00 am–3:00 pm

We are on the verge of a new era, an epochal shift from the Age of Information to an Age of Transformation. Each of us is a co-creator, a carrier of the new consciousness. The future is within us, like the oak in the acorn, and it is unfolding in the creation of our lives, our stories, our writing, and all our artistic expressions.

Like caterpillars dying to the old ways, we are readying ourselves for a quantum leap in the evolutionary journey--the realization and expression of our deepest potential. In this workshop, we'll be using music, poetry, story, and video to fire up our creative imaginations, tap into our cellular wisdom and explore new avenues for expressing ourselves as writers and poets.

• Experience the alchemy of transforming your life experience into creations that heal yourself and others

• Engage in story-telling and creative exercises that liberate your thinking and expand your consciousness

• Experience the joy of surrendering your fears and allowing Spirit to be released through you

Jan is an award-winning writer, photographer, and multi-media artist. She is the author of No Ordinary Time: The Rise of Spiritual Intelligence and Evolutionary Creativity, The Art of Original Thinking, Divining the Body, God Is at Eye Level, Marry Your Muse, and Making Peace. She has taught in over 23 countries and conducts workshops in creativity, evolutionary consciousness, and spirituality. Jan’s own quest has led her into and out of a religious community, across the U.S. on a Honda motorcycle, and around the world on a one-woman peace pilgrimage. Blending east and west, art and activism, reflection and ritual, Jan’s presentations inspire visionary thinking and social action.

Sponsored by the Resource Center for Women and Ministry in the South

Fee: $125 ($25 goes to RCWMS) checks or cash only. Lunch, drinks, and snacks included.

Chippy

I thought I told everyone to watch out for the cat.

“He sleeps under your cars, under your tires, in the middle of the driveway.”

I left bright pink notes on steering wheels, called the yard man and cleaning lady, emailed the people who come now and then. Just yesterday I made notes for my daughter and her beau: “Washer fluid, emergency brake, Chippy.”

I lured him from under the cars for a brushing, a treat, a head rub, some love. He didn’t need much and was willing to come for those measly offerings. But then he went back to his place in the shade. Under the car, underfoot, under bushes and trees. He slept so deeply; he couldn’t hear anymore.

“We’re watching out for him,” they all said. “Quit reminding us.” But still I worried each time they went out and all the time they were away, until their cars were pulled in and the cat meowed deafly and I knew they were all safe.

Then last night, I drove home. I was talking on the phone. I had done something terrible, forwarded a hurtful email, and was trying to figure out how to make that okay. I absently looked down the driveway – for once there were no cars – and then I felt the bump. For one second I rolled on talking on about the incident and thinking what was that bump then I knew. And in the rear view mirror I saw my cat rolling in pain down the drive, then he stopped.

I”VE HIT THE F***ING CAT I screamed into the phone and ran to the door beating on the glass screaming DURHAM DURHAM I’VE HIT THE CAT trying to open the door and then screaming into the house again DURHAM DURHAM I’VE HIT CHIPPY COME HERE.

And we wrapped him in a towel putting him in the car speeding to the after hours vets. In no time – twenty minutes or less – he was dead, lungs collapsed and bleeding in his chest.

This morning I looked on the driveway for some sign, some mark, some blood, something that would show me this horrible thing that happened, but there’s nothing. Just the driveway, cool and white waiting for the heat of the day.