Circle of the Seven Senses
Submissions

Submissions

Submissions

This Submissions page invites creative contributions that were created within or inspired by Circle of the Seven Senses retreats or workshops. If you would like to submit a piece following a Seven Senses session, email Liesl on Liesl@circleofthesevensenses.co.uk. She may recommend light edits prior to sharing on the site. Enjoy!

Rise Rooted

I kiss back to life

the wild garden of my Self

Fire in my hands

liquid light in my belly

fuel to touch stars

sink roots earth deep

Breathing

I create tremors

fruit falling at my feet

disturbing those asleep

tiny earthquakes felt

by my awakening presence

Love demanding dance of the earth

rises rooted

moon at my fingers

sun in my hair

rising 

vibration

blossoming inside

rising 

rising…

To rest

in the re-built temple of

Divine Feminine

Shakti

Leandra Ashton

Awakening

The woody scent of her womb clings to the morning breeze, which carries with it a Sunday drizzle; dreary, grey, but life-giving. Dotted across her thigh lie the delicate, heavy-headed blossoms of Spring; Earthen vernix painted on every bud. They press through her flesh, tearing away from her placenta to breathe their first independent breath of coupled oxygen molecules, to feel the heat of the sun on their unfurling petals and blades of green. Dark, dank magic released into the world under the beckoning shade of the evergreen canopy which tries to dampen the noise, and as the eyes adjust, the taste of dirt and iron settles on the tongue, pricks of sweat mingle with rain and run down her leg into her soil, tracing the curve of her roots as they disappear into the core.

E. Anne Dawson

Spirit and Sway



We are gathered,
As the wind whispers up, up to a crescendo of intense harmonies,
Here, now, our spirits soar along those same, misty, crashing sounds in the skyline,
          ………. … ………
A single note, inspires us to move,
Suddenly, the room is full of swaying, feminine forms,
And a mutual beauty is formed.
                  …. …. ….
Mary K Kinneavy

On leaving, my thoughts gathered into these words…

          A NEW SILVER STILLNESS

Imagine, if you will, living and breathing
In a place that makes sense;
A place of MIRRORS, of Winter snow and log fires,
Holding together, a silver stillness,
Where my pen can write freely, lucidly,
And with ease, and with ease…
 

MKK

Gallery of Heartbeats

The back alley of swirling cobblestones winds steadily downhill and through Sunday drizzle, a village seascape appears.

Here, a corner café sits snugly against ancient stones. It tells of boots, sandals, shoes and barefooted children that have crossed its threshold. Of the gallons of tea, mini cake mountains, and scone avalanches gleefully demolished. Of secrets whispered over frothy hot chocolate and thick gossip devoured over toasted teacakes.

Through its large windows, cameos are captured in fleeting precision. A walking frame accompanies a bespectacled lady, rotund in striped pink and grey. She tucks into a doughnut, red jam erupting. Licking her fingers, she eyes up a sugary second and third, temptingly lying before her on a patterned plate, safe for just a moment more.

At the counter, a small child, tumbling curls bouncing in rhythm to each excited jump, reaches up for her iced fairy cake maddeningly just out of reach. Her tattooed mother, piercings and purple hair, pauses in her pressing chitchat with the till assistant, to order a sharp stop, delaying purchase of the promised treat.

Tucked away in a corner, a weary looking grey haired couple wearing sensible shoes and clothes, hang waterproof hats on the back of their chairs. A stream of steaming amber pours slowly into mismatched china cups. Their weekly treat of egg and chips with brown sauce, followed by Victoria sponge with extra cream, is eaten in silence. They’ve nothing left to say. No one listens anyway.  

By the window, in solitary confinement a youth, jarringly out of place. His face shaded inside a hood, he sits pasted to a stool, the responsibility of conspiracy theories weighing heavily on his shoulders. He stares through invisible prison bars at immeasurable nothingness, unprepared for the long littleness of life. He could splinter into a million pieces.

I experience a deep connection to them all, my soul reflected in theirs. We are wired to life’s matrix and inextricably to each other, linked with golden threads to that sacred time between the end of nothing and the beginning of something. 

When we fall short, we must not condemn or abandon ourselves but gently offer unconditional acceptance.

I turn into the February drizzle, walk past the café’s big windows with its gallery of heartbeats and continue down the shiny, winding cobblestones.

The vignettes follow me, singing in disharmony. Together, within the infinite galleries of human chaos and magnificence, we are resplendently resilient.

I invite them on my journey into tomorrow. 

Misty Angeli