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What I like about Redbird...
"I enjoy . . .
The close-knit writing groups
The networking and friendships.
The pool of shared knowledge and experiences, sometimes swimming in it, sometimes just dipping a toe in.
The practical guidance offered through classes, critiques, and contacts.
Knowing there are shoulders to rely upon when needed
The close proximity to my home.
The stairs, which give me the chance to expend all my anxiety and presentation fears before I arrive.
The elegant yet firm control exercised by critique group moderators, contributing to the single-purpose of each group setting: to critique.
The feeling of inclusion, of belonging to a community.
Judy's friendship. "
Jason M. Waltz
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Women's Writing Retreat with Judy Bridges September 2009 The Clearing Ellison Bay, Door County, Wisconsin |  |
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Ce He Mise Le Ulaingt,The Two Trees By William Butler Yeats Sung by Loreena McKennitt Beloved, gaze in thine own heart, The holy tree is growing there; From joy the holy branches start, And all the trembling flowers they bear. The changing colours of its fruit Have dowered the stars with merry light; The surety of its hidden root Has planted quiet in the night; The shaking of its leafy head Has given the waves their melody, And made my lips and music wed, Murmuring a wizard song for thee. There the Loves a circle go, The flaming circle of our days, Gyring, spiring to and fro In those great ignorant leafy ways; Remembering all that shaken hair And how the winged sandals dart, Thine eyes grow full of tender care; Beloved, gaze in thine own heart. Gaze no more in the bitter glass The demons, with their subtle guile, Lift up before us when they pass, Or only gaze a little while; For there a fatal image grows That the stormy night receives, Roots half hidden under snows, Broken boughs and blackened leaves. For all thinks turn to bareness In the dim glass the demons hold, The glass of outer weariness, Made when God slept in times of old. There, through the broken branches, go The ravens of unresting thought; Flying, crying, to and fro, Cruel claw and hungry throat, Or else they stand and sniff the wind, And shake their ragged wings: alas! Thy tender eyes grow all unkind: Gaze no more in the bitter glass. Beloved, gaze in thine own heart, The holy tree is growing there; From joy the holy branches start, And all the trembling flowers they bear. Remembering all that shaken hair And how the winged sandals dart, Thine eyes grow full of tender care: Beloved, gaze in thine own heart. |
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