The setting: West Massachussetts, not far from the famous Mohawk Trail, an old trade route used by the American Indian tribes before they were forcibly removed from their country. Our workshop took place in the Mohawk School library during the 30 year celebrations of Tsegyalgar, a community of practitioners following the Tibetan Dzogchen teachings of Chogyal Namkhai Norbu.
Fourteen writers took the challenge to practice bringing present awareness into their writing.
The school's corridors provided inspiration for our observation excercise.
Back to the library to write.
Who said facing a wall is boring!
Writing doesn't have to be a lonely business, especially if you have writing friends!
Colour, space, sound, light, is all there for te taking, anytime you choose to sit down and write.
Reading, listening, noticing what you like most, always a great way to improve your writing.
A taste of some of the writing from the workshop.
A perfect space to write. The vastness of the open sky and
nature below, reaching out, beyond what I can see, and feel is present… the
smells of space, with a hint of the perfect eclectic mix of cinnamon and a hint
of perfectly fresh strawberries, vibrant, emanating love and comfort. The
endless space in which words manifest and land perfectly in the way they need
to on the page. Meaningfulness, it is what it is. The smell of cinnamon
prevails. It welcomes, comforts, nurtures. The top of the mountaintops seen,
contained, by this limitless blue sky. Green pastures below. In the green and
blue, anything is possible. Anything, at all. The light, everywhere, shines,
with no darkness in sight. All is illuminated, detailed, accessible, tangible,
within reach…
Matt Hyatt
Barney needs a bath. Emily smells like spice the color of her fur.
Pancita smells fur-luscious and I could inhale her scent on and on.
Barney hates baths but he loves me, so we have the shampoo and the less
than 5 minutes of (perhaps pretend?) terror at the sight of the water
hose. When we're done and he's wet, shiny and smelling like lavender,
he rolls endlessly in the sand to undo the awful wash-up.
Emily peeks around the corner wondering if she's next.
Not today, Em.
And Panchita - you taught me long ago to never, EVER wash a cat.
Salt air, warm sun.
Smells like love to me.
Diane Campbell
