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Zen Peacekeeper.

Change-Maker.

Story-Teller.

Yoga-Guide.

Action-Amplifier.

Courage-Cultivator.

Story-Teller.

Permission

Sunday, August 19, 2012 by Marianne Elliott

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While I’m on this silent writing retreat, I’m just going to post some of my morning writing practices. They may have nothing to do with what I usually write about here. Except that they are about the process of writing. If you want to join me, it is simple. Set a timer for ten minutes and start writing, using the prompt. Keep your hand moving. 

Ten minute writing practice – prompt: Who gave you permission?

Who gave you permission to write? Who told you it was okay to put these things down? These private things? Who told you you could tell these stories?

Was it your blood, pumping – boum, boum, boum – speeding up when you read a story that catches you, grabs you, pulls you in?

Was it the hairs on your arms standing to attention? Whenever you read, or hear, or see someone telling a story so true, so close to the flesh and bone, that your skin contracts and your hairs stand up straight?

Was it your breath, coming fast and shallow when you read stories that uncover what has been hidden, showing you that you are not the only one to think these thoughts, to feel these desires, to ask these questions?

Was it your hands, restless for pen and paper, twitching and itching until you give in?

Was it the wind that comes down of Taos Mountain, cool caress of your skin and whisper in your ear of your mountain, Maungatautari. A whisper from the land you belong to and all it’s stories?

Was it the sun, stroking your hair with warm fingers and telling you that it remembers you too – it remembers the days in the high mountain desert in Ghor, the dry, cracked earth, the long afternoons sitting under its warm gaze and the stories you were told there.

Who gave you permission to tell these stories? Was it the stories themselves, tucked into the folds of your flesh, carved into the lines on the back of your hands, curled tightly into the corners of your heart?

Was it the stories? Did they come whispering to you, asking: ‘Do you remember us too?’

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