~ with Sunshine Coast wedding celebrant Kari ~
This story will be about a dance, eventually. But it starts as a story about creative writing, something as a marriage celebrant I do all the time for my couples. Every wedding ceremony is unique and new written just for two people. Often I seek ways to hone my writing craft.
A few months ago, a dear friend of mine and an inspiring workshop queen, ran a creative writing day. Glenda invited several budding writers to gather. She invited us to open our minds and let loose our pens.
I don’t usually call myself a writer. So, approaching with a little intrepidation I went along. Perhaps I imagined one has to be pumping out novels, or contracted to a magazine to claim that title. Of course there are many more writers in the world than one would imagine.
On reflection, I realised I do write. Every day in fact. I write this. A blog, a collection of stories really.
I write wedding ceremonies. I write eulogies. I write for couples. I write for families. I write for people.
Yes, I write every day.
Glenda gave the group a wonderful gift that day. She took us along the road to writing creatively. She began with simple tasks to get our pens sliding over the paper. Then she upped the ante, interrupting our train of thoughts with unusual stimuli; a gesture, a flower, or a compulsory word or two. As the day progressed we played word games, wrote lists, turned the lists into prose, the prose into poetry, and back again. Each time we had to produce a piece of writing on the spot, on paper, and on time!
I’d like to present some of the pieces I wrote that day over a series of blogs. Today we dance.
The floor is smooth. Wooden floor boards polished by feet. Slide together after every step. Bring the left together with the right, across the boards. Smooth the timber. Caress the wood. Foot does not leave floor. Slide… together…slide … together. Ready for whatever may come. There is no past. No future. Just now. Just this moment. Just this step. Then that step. That’s Tango.
She tucked a lilly behind her left ear. Not the right ear. It would get in the way. She wore a flower on the right once. Never do that again. Well it was a fake rose anyway. But it tickled and scratched his face when he took her into the close embrace. He fluffed and blew it. She had to throw it away; out of her hair, onto a chair, to dance.
The flower was on the left. A lilly; simple, plain, a tiny bit jaunty. Like the tango. She was the lilly. And the lilly was the dance. Subtle but with intent.
This year I have begun to learn Tango. I may never finish learning Tango. I relish the opportunity to let go of control; to release, to stop helping, to simply allow someone else to lead the way. To follow the lead, to rest my head on a shoulder and allow my steps to follow.