Thank you, thank you for the beautiful and peaceful time with you and everyone in Asheville. Connie, I enjoyed the workshops and your inspiring and compassionate way of teaching. I would like to put a few pictures on my web site and mention the workshop and your link. Is that OK?
When I returned home and put the little oblong stone in my memory collection, I thought back about each person and the great experiences of the week. I have my pink jewel to remind me to give what gifts I have and to share with others.
-- Summer Retreat participant (2nd year attended)
The experience of working with you is one of those treasured memories that I will hold dear. The power of your stories, the consummate professionalism and a deeply caring heart which never failed to reach out and touch the audience and me - you have the innate ability to move us all - to inspire – and to help us all to focus on why storytelling is probably the highest of all art forms – you speak from the heart.
-- Sandy
One of the highlights was visiting the Hick's family again. I treasure the opportunity to hear sweet Mama Rosa singing the old-time mountain ballads. As I listened to Ted tell his stories, I felt I was hearing his father Ray speaking through him. Rosa, Ted and Lenard Hick's hospitality is so genuine and pure. It was nice to meet cousin Orville and to enjoy his true love of stories. I liked his smiling face and how he loved telling.
The scene of the family on the old wooden porch, proudly telling the old Jack Tales and family stories is one of beauty. The house, surrounded by beautiful green trees, grassy knolls and Rosa's flowers is a picture painted in my mind. Hardships and family struggles made this family what it is today. Mountain life was not easy and to share a bit of time with the Hick's family is to enjoy part of history of Beech Mountain, NC.
-- Summer Retreat Participant (3 years running)
Connie,
I want to thank-you again for an incredibly transformative
weekend. The depth of your teaching and telling, has
really moved me in ways that I cannot put words to.
The work of story lives integrally in you, and through you....
and now touches each of us.
-- Caty
I just have to tell you one more thing about being in your presence and participating in your workshop this weekend. Your instruction to "quiet the mind" has had an amazing impact on me.
It's sooooo obvious that you are effective because you're wholly present with us as you tell the story. You engage us because you "hold" your own mind quiet, your own heart open, listening to your own body's gladness and creativity. You're forceful without forcing. An irresistible force. We tune into "that" as you become the artistic expression of the moment, speaking words and moving. Because your mind is quiet, it quiets ours and opens our hearts to you. Opens us to the deeper truth, meaning, and beauty that's happening in that moment. Magnificent!
But to quiet the mind. To steady the back and forth between left-brain and right-brain. Giving each its rightful function and place. Honoring equal, equally useful and necessary opposites. Making peace. So that life is totally free to create.
Living the quiet mind. You gave that to me this weekend. Yes, I've got some practice to do before I fully embody that peace of mind as my mind/Mind. But we both know that's the first step in the becoming. Halleluja! Laughter and Delight!
I'm sooo grateful for knowing you and your gifts. And for your outrageous generosity in giving of them. Thank you. Thank you. I humbly thank you.
-- Stephanie
The workshop was really wonderful. I’ve felt like I've been coming off a retreat. You really created a sacred space for us. I hope you know just what a fine teacher you are. I'm already thinking about next year.
-- Alan
I was one of ten women in the group, plus the leader. I was perhaps the least educated and least accomplished of them all but my soul sang and my heart pitter-patted all over the place as I became part of this band of eleven. Included was a research chemist, a home economist from Penn State, several musicians, a librarian and I know not what else. We talked of important things, not work.
One of our assignments, referred to on Friday night, was to talk the next day about an object we had brought with us. I hadn’t read the instructions closely about what to bring, so of course I had nothing carefully selected from home with meaning or pathos or even my quirky-smirky funny streak. I thought long and hard—or for at least five minutes—when I crawled into the hotel bed on Friday night. Bingo! I decided I would take a skein of ribbon yarn, all blues and grays and pinks (to be mixed with a copper strand) that I had bought for you at a yarn shop in Asheville. I stood up when it was my turn, nervous, having never made up a story—for an audience—on the spot and intended to tell of your greatness and your wisdom and your great gift of giving, and thus receiving, friendship.
Of course my mouth ran away with me as I nervously twisted the hank of yarn in my hands and I decided that I would explain that these were the actual colors of my daughter, vibrant and alive and the thought of how you are intertwined in my life gave me—on the spot—the idea of a canvas with a splash of this yarn of yours wandering around the middle. I decided that I should add other yarns, other textures, which would represent the people in my life. I added some soothing greens and blues for Neva who gives me the freedom to be her friend. I presented to the group this wonderful canvas, splotched with color and moving and squiggling and alive with those who loved me. I ended with “and I would say, look, these are my people.”
Back up. I have a new jacket. Lime green. A new blouse. Cream with long ruffles at the wrist. An old green necklace. And with a lot of makeup and a bit of a hair comb, I was sure I looked no older than, oh, probably 65. I was gussied up for storytelling, snuggling up to it all decked out in a “don’t ignore me” green. I loved it.
The audience was rather enthusiastic. I was delighted to get it over with.
One of the procedures of the weekend was to give the speaker “appreciation.” Each person told the speaker what they liked. Very positive.
I wasn’t supposed to say a word. I probably did but there was no opportunity to respond with something like, “Yeah, but did you hear the stupid thing I said here….?” It was all positive. The appreciation was all said with love, an outstanding sense of community had already taken place.
We were our sister’s champions. And one woman, Fran, tugged at my lime green sleeve and pointed to the hank of ribbon and said, “I sat behind her, I could see only this sleeve and the color of the yarn. She is color.” I loved this Fran, not because of what she said, but just because of what she is, or the she I perceived her to be on such short acquaintance. When I left, I hugged her and said, “I wish you were my daughter.” She hugged back and surprised the hell out of me when she said she wished I was her mother.
I thought of how many times you would have liked to have buried me in the trashcan and so I hugged her again!
We were in Connie’s home, high on a mountain, magazine perfect setting and house. We were asked to come in and go out different doors so we could notice different things. We sat in different chairs each session. We had periods of silence. We did a bit of do-in and a bit of another eastern exercise, I can’t remember its name. We gave ourselves appreciation. We accepted appreciation from the others. It’s a bit hard to accept appreciation when you are used to saying, “Aw, shucks, I ain’t all that good.” We ate lightly and listened hard and loved each other. It was a magical weekend. Bus trips are for the birds when this sort of renewing and growth are available!
All the other women were marvelous but I will not bore you with more.
What I want to say is that I wish you could find a weekend somewhere where you could community with other women who are creative and loving. These were also your type of woman. Talk to Lynne and see if the two of you can come up with something. You both deserve it. And of course, I am always here to keep on eye on “little fella.”
-- Letter from a workshop participant to her daughter
