My Brain Has No Heart, And My

Modern Storytellers Are The Descendants Of An Immense And Ancient Community Of Holy People, Troubadours, Bards, Griots, Cantadoras, Cantors, Traveling Poets, Bums, Hags And Crazy People.

I Come From A Long Line Of Tellers: Mesemondok, Old Hungarian Women Who Tell While Sitting On Wooden Chairs With Their Plastic Pocketbooks On Their Laps, Their Knees Apart, Their Skirts Touching The Ground... And Cuentistas, Old Latina Women Who Stand, Robust Of Breast, Hips Wide, And Cry Out The Story Ranchera Style. Both Clans Storytell In The Plain Voice Of Women Who Have Lived Blood And Babies, Bread And Bones. For Them, Story Is A Medicine Which Strengthens And Arights The Individual And The Community.

A Woman Who Is Starved For Her Real Soul-life May Look 'cleaned Up And Combed' On The Outside, But On The Inside She Is Filled With Dozens Of Pleading Hands And Empty Mouths.

Suppose... The Body Is A God In Its Own Right, A Teacher, A Mentor, A Certified Guide? Then What? .... Are We Strong Enough To Refute The Party Line And Listen Deep, Listen True To The Body As A Powerful And Holy Being?

Within Every Woman There Is A Wild And Natural Creature, A Powerful Force, Filled With Good Instincts, Passionate Creativity, And Ageless Knowing.