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Get in on this amazing experience, Soul Writers Circle! We open for enrollment for SEASON 2 (June-Nov) on April 6, 2021

Writing and meditation are both, in many ways, solitary acts that involve deep listening and a far-reaching willingness to show up. And when we practice mindfulness and writing together—oh, the possibilities for inspiration, connection, and heart-awakening conversation.

Join psychotherapist/mindfulness teacher/yoga instructor Augusta Kantra and poet Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer in a monthly online community practice in which we build a community that supports each other as we explore together, through silence and language, what does it mean to be alive? But as Ramana Maharshi says, The purpose of asking who am I is not to arrive at an answer but to dissolve the questioner.

Rosemerry’s and Augusta have created a connected, bonded circle of people that explore and discover together, thus they have designed this program as a six-month commitment. It is the commitment we all share that supports this vision. We understand that unforeseen circumstances sometimes arise, but barring that, we ask everyone to do their best to be at each meeting.

For exact dates, prices and more info, visit here.

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            —for Augusta Kantra
 
 
I remember that day when Augusta and I
stood beneath the satsuma tree at her front gate
and pulled dozens of bright orange spheres
from the branches, filled a basket to brimming,
and still the tree was weighted with fruit.
 
I remember how easily the leather skin peeled away,
the way I always wish an orange might peel.
I remember the juicy sweet flesh—sweeter
than most citrus. I remember it was seedless,
a surprise generosity. And the colder it is,
the sweeter the satsuma will grow.
 
But most of all, I remember Augusta—
her love-ripened smile, her sunny chatter,
her contagious gratitude
for the tree, the fruit, the scent of soft rain, the day.
 
I remember how she thrilled to share with me
something I’d never known before,
how she handed me my first satsuma—
her palm upright, extended,
and in it a small proof of abundant goodness
just waiting to be opened.
 

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In these darkened days,

I think of the potato

that, left in the pantry,

will grow long white arms

to reach for the light.

 

There is, of course,

a beauty in reaching.

But today I think of Augusta

who taught me

the beauty of softening—

 

how the same reaching effect

can be achieved

by focusing on the part

that isn’t reaching,

letting it soften.

 

Soften, she said.

Soften. And it was as if

I were new in my body.

The effect was the same,

the method the opposite.

 

I love how I didn’t know

there was something

so beautiful yet to learn

about letting go. I love

these lessons in softening—

 

how, on this morning I learn again

to relax, to unstrive, to unreach,

to lean into ease, and like a camellia blossom,

in the dark of winter to open,

to find such sweet release.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

20 billion atoms from Shakespeare

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Let yourself be danced.

            —Augusta Kantra

 

 

The poem sits down to be written.

Instead, it stares at the bay.

There’s a highway in the distance

that could take it all the way to California.

The poem doesn’t want to go to California.

It wants to be present, just here,

on the sandy bank beside the driftwood.

It wants to find its inner poem.

It wants to get out of its own way,

to obey its emerging form.

Instead, it watches the tall grass

getting danced by the wind.

It sighs. The poem wants to know

what it doesn’t know yet.

And the poem wants to be good.

Dammit. It tries to lower its standards,

then judges, compares and tries to fix itself.

It lists. It sits cross legged till its legs

fall asleep. It is a book of sorrows,

a tree of anxiety, a wave of failure.

It’s a cage of empty lines. How

did it get into this straight jacket?

The poem gives up. It stares at the bay.

Watches the grasses sway. Notices

how the wind blows its hair,

lifts its hands. The poem doesn’t know

why it’s weeping. In that moment,

the poem is danced.

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