This is an old photograph/postcard of a “witches” coven at the Home of the Aged in Norfolk, England.
Today I spent a few hours in an expressive arts workshop given by a friend of mine. In addition to doing some yoga stretches, freeform movement, and meditation, we were asked to choose a photo/postcard from among dozens laid out on the floor — one that appealed to us for whatever reason, and get into it emotionally. I picked the one above.
Then we were asked to take sheets of paper and crayons and either write or draw what we were feeling. This is what I drew.
I loved these old, wrinkled women, having tea together outside, where everyone can see them, pointed black hats giving fingers to the rest of the world that thinks they’re weird hags, dressed in funny clothes. But they know better, and it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks of them. They have each other to laugh and remember with, and their afternoon teas in the sun.
But, since I’m not there yet, at the suggestions of my Commenters to the post below, I’m going to check out 90-year-old Caleb.
I could not see a single thing,
Words from my eyes did start.
They spoke as chords do from the string,
And blood burnt round my heart.
Are flowers the winter’s choice
Is love’s bed always snow
She seemed to hear my silent voice
Not love appeals to know.
I never saw so sweet a face
As that I stood before.
My heart has left its dwelling place
And can return no more.
She gets in the “zone” as she works on her fabric art, she says, and all of a sudden six hours have gone by, she says, and it seems like a minute. My friend, who used to be an original…