30 September 2007
28 September 2007
a sordid past?
I can't do it. I can't tell you about anyone's past - I just can't make that judgement. Even if its only in my imagination I haven't got it in me to give details about anything anyone has done, sordid or otherwise. Its not right.
Please believe me I had no idea that it would come to this. I had no idea that she was once involved in so much, well, so much activity. No I will not tell you what kind of activity - lets just leave it at that.
After all, when one is young one is prone to all kinds of nonsense. Its easy to fall in with the wrong sort of people, particularly if one has lost parents and friends in some tragedy or other. Vulnerable, you understand. Its not as if the girl was born bad, oh no, she was perfectly innocent. At first.
Its inexplicable, this horrible event now. After all, we've come to trust her. We know she isn't capable of it. She can't be. No - she told me everything, all the dark details of her whole life. Why would she do that if she was planning to betray us?
There's nothing more to be done - we must ask her ourselves - confront her. Surely even one with such a history as hers is incapable of a bald-faced lie. She wouldn't dare, not to me. Not after everything I've done for her, taking her in, giving her a home, a name, a new identity. I taught her everything I know about living among decent, civilised society.
Yes, ask her yourself. Let her tell you her secrets, her shame. Let her speak for herself, and you can make up your own mind. But I won't say another word against her.
My lips are sealed.
Please believe me I had no idea that it would come to this. I had no idea that she was once involved in so much, well, so much activity. No I will not tell you what kind of activity - lets just leave it at that.
After all, when one is young one is prone to all kinds of nonsense. Its easy to fall in with the wrong sort of people, particularly if one has lost parents and friends in some tragedy or other. Vulnerable, you understand. Its not as if the girl was born bad, oh no, she was perfectly innocent. At first.
Its inexplicable, this horrible event now. After all, we've come to trust her. We know she isn't capable of it. She can't be. No - she told me everything, all the dark details of her whole life. Why would she do that if she was planning to betray us?
There's nothing more to be done - we must ask her ourselves - confront her. Surely even one with such a history as hers is incapable of a bald-faced lie. She wouldn't dare, not to me. Not after everything I've done for her, taking her in, giving her a home, a name, a new identity. I taught her everything I know about living among decent, civilised society.
Yes, ask her yourself. Let her tell you her secrets, her shame. Let her speak for herself, and you can make up your own mind. But I won't say another word against her.
My lips are sealed.
23 September 2007
22 September 2007
on sundays my name is....
...my name is... my name is..
I don't know anymore.
Who am I?
I renamed myself,
but its not enough,
I found the name
before I knew
what it meant.
Its not my name.
If I stand here
and look
at myself
in the mirror,
I see what you see,
but do I see me
as I really am?
Tell me,
and I'll look
through your eyes
and know
what my name really is.
Is it written somewhere?
If I stand here
in front of you
and say
you are tall,
and have dark hair
and a strong,
lean body;
you are funny
and sexy and cool
and I love you,
am I saying it to you,
or is it me I see?
Aren't you my perfect mirror?
What is my name?
What do you call me??
Oh - who cares anyway??
I'm not my name.
I don't know anymore.
Who am I?
I renamed myself,
but its not enough,
I found the name
before I knew
what it meant.
Its not my name.
If I stand here
and look
at myself
in the mirror,
I see what you see,
but do I see me
as I really am?
Tell me,
and I'll look
through your eyes
and know
what my name really is.
Is it written somewhere?
If I stand here
in front of you
and say
you are tall,
and have dark hair
and a strong,
lean body;
you are funny
and sexy and cool
and I love you,
am I saying it to you,
or is it me I see?
Aren't you my perfect mirror?
What is my name?
What do you call me??
Oh - who cares anyway??
I'm not my name.
my god, phobia
"I'm moved by another intention: to warn. And warning, too, belongs to the negredo, for it speaks with the voice of the raven, foretelling dire happenings that may result from the seduction of black."
(James Hillman)
Phobia is described by most dictionaries as any kind of fear or dread, sometimes irrational, but as mostly implying strong aversion and morbid hatred. Its a dark idea, as far as ordinary human emotion goes, but if we have it, then we need it.
A cursory glance into the etymology of the word - and I can't claim to understand any concept without knowing its origins and essence - reveals its roots, or rather wings, in phobos - flight.
This, to my mind, points towards a mythical and therefore primordial style of fear - something that defies simple rationality and goes further and higher into the realm of the Gods. Its not just 'being afraid of spiders' its a deep-seated primal and polar postion against the very 'spiderness' of life itself.
In a pantheistic world view Phobia is an archetype and part of the larger story we're all subject to in our mortal human lives. More than that, the particular form or manifestation that phobia takes brings definition and becomes a pre-condition for action, behaviour and event. Phobia is an identity or role to be played out.
Suffice to say that if Phobia is true to its own shape, then to say that someone has a phobia is allopathic and untidy - its truer to say phobia has that someone. One is phobic.
So, this archetype, this force, Phobia - a character in its own right - is lived into experience in epic journeys and returns and battles in varied ways. Perhaps as a 'shadow' persona or villain that must be violently overcome; an anti-hero who's pain has entered, like all things divine, via a wound or trauma; a beautiful but divided soul to be healed and integrated; a healer; an outcast, lone-wolf or hermit. Or as the unclaimed parts of hero's, saviours, kings and queens. Encounters with giant insects, reptilian devouring creatures, vile odours, dark green creeping decay. Episodes of falling into dangerous hidden places, being buried and confined or abandoned to the dangers of nature.
Its ancestry in flight also places phobia in the realm of air - pneuma - and comes cawing and circling from above; birds of prey; carrion scavengers; open exposure to vast empty spaces; searing light and blindness. Its pneumatic nature calls attention to its language and ability to create out of its images; warlocks and witches and their winged messengers appear; uncanny abilities of mind-reading and control; repetitive destructive thoughts and voices calling and singing for death.
Just as phobia serves the narrative, phobia is served by the narrative - the story of phobia keeps the archetype in power. A strange irony (poetry?)- while phobia is defined and contained, it breaks free, provokes adrenaline-surged slow motion corridor runnning and lung-burning screams, and no escape. It will always fly faster.
lost in space
I can hardly believe its been a week without blogging! After last weekend's frenzy of social activity (including a party here on Saturday night and my daughter's fifth birthday party on Sunday) I fell in a bit of a heap early in the week. Then someone gave me a Sci-fi novel - let me tell you that Space Opera is like a narcotic for me - so when not busy with the children or attempting to push through with The Artist's Way, I was pretty much in a fiction induced stupor on the couch.
But now I'm Back!
But now I'm Back!
15 September 2007
a first...
I missed fiction friday because I couldn't squeeze the effort out to finish my story - and I blame the distraction of a visit from my sister (she lives interstate) and her daughter! Its great having them here and we always have lots to talk about and come up with great ideas for creative projects.
And so... fanfare... drum roll... I left the baby with my sister last night and went out for drinks with friends - for the first time in over a year!
Yay!
And so... fanfare... drum roll... I left the baby with my sister last night and went out for drinks with friends - for the first time in over a year!
Yay!
12 September 2007
little red
Edie. July 16, 2000photo by G Chow 2000 all rights reserved
I'm not comfortable with birth stories that gush about how wonderful or how terrifying and traumatic the experience was. I'm not sure why that is, but have an idea its because birth and motherhood tend to be either idealised or 'awfulised' and having done it five times now I know its not either.
For the same reason, I avoid mother's groups and the Parents Asscociation and even tuckshop duty. Its not that I don't like other women or mothers or babies but simply that I don't like talking about it. That and, because I have five apparently well adjusted daughters, I do tend to attract a lot of commentary on parenting and children.
For the same reason, I avoid mother's groups and the Parents Asscociation and even tuckshop duty. Its not that I don't like other women or mothers or babies but simply that I don't like talking about it. That and, because I have five apparently well adjusted daughters, I do tend to attract a lot of commentary on parenting and children.
When I say commentary what I really mean is judgement, complaint, opinion and advice. But mostly just comments - which range from pure amazement to the verge of insult;
"how do you do it? You're so calm!"
"so are you trying for a boy??"
"oh my god! Your POOR husband!"
(I JUST do it, I have to be calm, no I'am happy with girls, yes, thanks, he'd be the luckiest man on earth.)
Now I'm very proud of my children, but I tell them and not other people. And when it comes to advising others I stick to non-commital phrases like 'ah, you do whatever works best for you' and 'you'll find the right way'. Mostly I've wondered if people want my advice or if they just want to talk about their own experiences.
Especially the birth. People really want to talk about birth.
Recently I overheard my baby's grandmother describing how I 'just popped the baby out nice and easy' and couldn't help but snap back that 'it was Childbirth you know - and it hurt!'. I also couldn't help but be a bit upset that something I'd drawn a circle around had been so casually diminished.
It could be time I started telling people and commit to my experiences without buying into the ideal - if only to keep the grandmother from spreading propaganda about my incredible baby-popping abilities.
So if I tell you about this birth I want you to bear in mind that every story is a fiction - even the true ones. By this I mean that I can only tell it from my point of view and no one elses. Perhaps the midwife would say 'oh yes, she had a strange labour and quite unexpected' and my four year old who sat by me would talk about the water in the bath and the red candle and how I sounded a bit like a cow.
Also, because of this birth the next two births would be effected so this is really the beginning of a much longer story.
I suppose I am getting to my point. Even as I sit here ready to write it I'm still not sure there's a story to tell. There wasn't a labour because even though waters had burst and there was a mild pain every hour, by the book that isn't labour.
But there was, at that time and for various reasons, pressure to get the baby out of me and I felt it. I couldn't stop weeping after two days of waiting - an entire cosmos seem to conspire to test my limits. I'd tried long walks on the beach, yoga, everything possible and had reached the point of despair that it would never begin.
Eventually the words 'You're crying for your broken waters' sent me back into myself from the height of panic about going to hospital or the baby being at risk. It had crept up on me, inevitable and strange. My body had been doing its thing quietly and in its own time and could only be trusted, as it turned out I was ready.
There are no words that can accurately describe what happens to a woman as a child is about to come into the world through her, but I can still distincly recall telling myself that no one was able to do this for me, for us. For a while there was only me and my womb, the water, a red candle burning and a red moon above. And the laughter which bubbled up from some depths I didn't know I had and spilled out into the air with each contraction.
In hindsight I admire the bravery of that midwife who allowed me to hold my own as my body and baby did their work, a push and then twenty minutes later another push, with me mooing and laughing in the dark. Then when there was a head already born under the water and we waited endless minutes for the next contraction, she held my hand and kept quiet.
So Edie emerged into the bathtub of my friend's house by the sea during a total lunar eclipse, after two days of leaking waters and an hour of intense euphoria. I sat in the bath as if turned red with the blood my body had made to sustain the pregnancy, the blood of separation, holding this little scrap of child. Then she smiled.
(I'm not comfortable with my own birth stories, probably because they're so gushy and terrifyingly strange.)
Especially the birth. People really want to talk about birth.
Recently I overheard my baby's grandmother describing how I 'just popped the baby out nice and easy' and couldn't help but snap back that 'it was Childbirth you know - and it hurt!'. I also couldn't help but be a bit upset that something I'd drawn a circle around had been so casually diminished.
It could be time I started telling people and commit to my experiences without buying into the ideal - if only to keep the grandmother from spreading propaganda about my incredible baby-popping abilities.
So if I tell you about this birth I want you to bear in mind that every story is a fiction - even the true ones. By this I mean that I can only tell it from my point of view and no one elses. Perhaps the midwife would say 'oh yes, she had a strange labour and quite unexpected' and my four year old who sat by me would talk about the water in the bath and the red candle and how I sounded a bit like a cow.
Also, because of this birth the next two births would be effected so this is really the beginning of a much longer story.
I suppose I am getting to my point. Even as I sit here ready to write it I'm still not sure there's a story to tell. There wasn't a labour because even though waters had burst and there was a mild pain every hour, by the book that isn't labour.
But there was, at that time and for various reasons, pressure to get the baby out of me and I felt it. I couldn't stop weeping after two days of waiting - an entire cosmos seem to conspire to test my limits. I'd tried long walks on the beach, yoga, everything possible and had reached the point of despair that it would never begin.
Eventually the words 'You're crying for your broken waters' sent me back into myself from the height of panic about going to hospital or the baby being at risk. It had crept up on me, inevitable and strange. My body had been doing its thing quietly and in its own time and could only be trusted, as it turned out I was ready.
There are no words that can accurately describe what happens to a woman as a child is about to come into the world through her, but I can still distincly recall telling myself that no one was able to do this for me, for us. For a while there was only me and my womb, the water, a red candle burning and a red moon above. And the laughter which bubbled up from some depths I didn't know I had and spilled out into the air with each contraction.
In hindsight I admire the bravery of that midwife who allowed me to hold my own as my body and baby did their work, a push and then twenty minutes later another push, with me mooing and laughing in the dark. Then when there was a head already born under the water and we waited endless minutes for the next contraction, she held my hand and kept quiet.
So Edie emerged into the bathtub of my friend's house by the sea during a total lunar eclipse, after two days of leaking waters and an hour of intense euphoria. I sat in the bath as if turned red with the blood my body had made to sustain the pregnancy, the blood of separation, holding this little scrap of child. Then she smiled.
(I'm not comfortable with my own birth stories, probably because they're so gushy and terrifyingly strange.)
thought of the heart
"Speech is not of the tongue, but of the heart. The tongue is merely the instrument with which one speaks. He who is dumb is dumb in his heart, not in his tongue... as you speak, so is your heart." PARACELCUS
11 September 2007
the artist's way...
... yes we're about to start the twelve week course, so if anyone else wants to join US just chime in anytime this week...
So do we need guidelines for how to proceed with it?
A lot of it we do individually - the morning pages, artist's date etc... so I'm thinking we just blog our experiences (yeah not the morning pages) and offer each other support.
any ideas?
(forgive me if I'm a little more than just a bit strange today - am having one of those...)
So do we need guidelines for how to proceed with it?
A lot of it we do individually - the morning pages, artist's date etc... so I'm thinking we just blog our experiences (yeah not the morning pages) and offer each other support.
any ideas?
(forgive me if I'm a little more than just a bit strange today - am having one of those...)
10 September 2007
little people...
...that my seven year old daughter just finished making - apart from being quite adorable they stand for the way kids just create - no intellectualising, no drama, just sit and create. Amazing.
and oh my, look at these little guys too...
and oh my, look at these little guys too...
dark moon catharsis
before
Ok so it doesn't look all that different but believe me I am already more productive and more aware of good things that are happening...
after09 September 2007
thots (that's without the 'ugh')
Reading through the offerings of the blogging crowd is an eye-opening and life-affirming experience. There are some outstanding pieces of work, some funny bits and a lot of from-the-gut honesty - particularly about the writer's lot.
Common to many of us is the tendency to make excuses for why we are 'not a writer'. I'm an expert at this myself so I really feel it when its presented to me. Lately I've been trying to reprogram myself using the same technique I used when I was quitting smoking - kind of a de-brainwashing technique that requires me to question those self-defeating beliefs.
One thing I've noticed is that its impossible to feel bad about my writing when thinking positive thoughts about it - so the aim is to introduce as many new ways of thinking as I can, while questioning the one's that have thus far let me down.
08 September 2007
sunday scribblings...
let me tell you about Writing...
Writing is my first love, my soul mate. We were childhood sweethearts, meeting in kindergarten and inseparable through school. Our playmates were Poetry and Story and when I moved away at age 13 we found Letters to see us through all the changes and scary new places. Letters came with us while we were travelling overseas, too, and helped us stay connected with everything back home.
Poetry and Story are married nowadays and so much more sophisticated - we're godparents to their children - but I can see they'll always be the same sweet and loyal friends. We lost Letters in a terrible disaster which really is too painful to discuss. Suffice to say Letters can never be replaced - no matter what that darn Email says.
But Writing and I have grown together over the years. There were times apart - I confess I've always been hard to pin down and nothing like as faithful and forgiving as my Writing is. He shows me exactly who I am, and I can never be a lesser person because he loves me. He's funny, sexy and beautiful - and dark, tempestuous and idiotic.
When we're together we tend to be wildly intense and because of that I've tried to make it work with other lovers, foolishly expecting that anyone else could free me or change me or give me something Writing can't. But its hopeless. For me there's only Writing.
Oh I have my very dear friend Drawing - she's a great distraction and companion. She goes places with me that Writing isn't interested in. Drawing has the knack of attracting people to her in all kinds of situations, so she's lots of fun to socialise with. And she teaches me to see things with my heart. I just adore her! She's eccentric and fearless and like me can't keep still. But there's something about her which seems not quite 'all there' - as if she isn't finished.
Occasionally Writing and Drawing and I collaborate on a project and it always goes really well. (All three of us have a thing for black ink pens and leather bound journals) We get together at The Page and all kinds of things happen. Maybe I should worry that the two of them will take off together? Hmm. Textual chemistry!
Sometimes I believe that because I have Drawing I can love Writing more.
So, anyway, right now Writing and I are working together toward a better future - I think we've both reached the age of settling down - we've got a new home, a few new friends and we are talking about having a baby. It could be good to just do some ordinary things for a while.
I'll let you know how that goes...
Writing is my first love, my soul mate. We were childhood sweethearts, meeting in kindergarten and inseparable through school. Our playmates were Poetry and Story and when I moved away at age 13 we found Letters to see us through all the changes and scary new places. Letters came with us while we were travelling overseas, too, and helped us stay connected with everything back home.
Poetry and Story are married nowadays and so much more sophisticated - we're godparents to their children - but I can see they'll always be the same sweet and loyal friends. We lost Letters in a terrible disaster which really is too painful to discuss. Suffice to say Letters can never be replaced - no matter what that darn Email says.
But Writing and I have grown together over the years. There were times apart - I confess I've always been hard to pin down and nothing like as faithful and forgiving as my Writing is. He shows me exactly who I am, and I can never be a lesser person because he loves me. He's funny, sexy and beautiful - and dark, tempestuous and idiotic.
When we're together we tend to be wildly intense and because of that I've tried to make it work with other lovers, foolishly expecting that anyone else could free me or change me or give me something Writing can't. But its hopeless. For me there's only Writing.
Oh I have my very dear friend Drawing - she's a great distraction and companion. She goes places with me that Writing isn't interested in. Drawing has the knack of attracting people to her in all kinds of situations, so she's lots of fun to socialise with. And she teaches me to see things with my heart. I just adore her! She's eccentric and fearless and like me can't keep still. But there's something about her which seems not quite 'all there' - as if she isn't finished.
Occasionally Writing and Drawing and I collaborate on a project and it always goes really well. (All three of us have a thing for black ink pens and leather bound journals) We get together at The Page and all kinds of things happen. Maybe I should worry that the two of them will take off together? Hmm. Textual chemistry!
Sometimes I believe that because I have Drawing I can love Writing more.
So, anyway, right now Writing and I are working together toward a better future - I think we've both reached the age of settling down - we've got a new home, a few new friends and we are talking about having a baby. It could be good to just do some ordinary things for a while.
I'll let you know how that goes...
07 September 2007
three wishes
>
This Week’s Theme: three wishes
Dear God,
I know you're really busy solving all the world's problems, and you sure have your work cut out for you, but would you spare a minute to listen to me? It would be really nice if I could ask a favour. Yes I know I am supposed to be all grateful and say thanks and please bless Mum and Dad and all that before I ask you for anything but that's what I say every time and you ought to know all that by now.
So here's the thing - I really really REALLY want something special for my birthday this year. Something that all the other kids will stop and stare at and will want to come around and play with. I mean I am not very popular at school on account of always reading books and doing homework, and I think I've actually forgotten how to play, so its about time I had some kinda pulling power. That OK?
And, if its not too much trouble, could I have a party too? But make sure Mum doesn't make a carrot cake again like last time - that really was the LAST time any kid wanted to come to my place. Hopefully they've all got amnesia on that front.
Last but not least it would be super if for a while I didn't have to wear second hand clothes. Not that there's anything wrong with them, don't get me wrong, and its environmentally friendly and all that - but it could help me with the abovementioned social problem if I could be just a bit cool. For a change. Please?
Thanks and god bless. I mean bless you. Oh, you get the gist.
poetry thursday
Because we here in Australia are hours ahead of time (not really, but its nice to think of it that way) I posted my contribution to Poetry Thursday yesterday (on Thursday) and it is below...scroll down.. no further..yes thats it..
fibs
While, er, 'researching' just now I came accross the blog of Gregory K.Pincus - inventor of the Fib.
A Fib is a wee poem that follows the Fibonacci Sequence - that is 1/1/2/3/5/8 - the mathematical pattern that is found in nature (eg Nautilus Shells) and in Sacred Geometry is said to be all sorts of perfectly wonderful things... very mystical.
here is mine:
i
was
crap at
maths at school
however this is
really very interesting
I never thought I'd say this but I love Fibs...
clothed in the hours
...as the moon is void-of-course and its a free day for the children (that is, its a free day for the teachers, a free day for the school but not a free day for the parents who have already paid for the day at school, but I digress) I am shunning all duty. I shall wear pyjamas all day if I want to, and the children shall eat cereal and drink chocolate milk. The dishes and laundry and sweeping can wait.
Actually I've been looking at some other writer's blogs - still on my quest to belong to a writer's community that is accessible and accepting (I'm a member of the Writer's Centre here but so far I am only receiving newsletters, lovely useful things they are). There are some amazingly productive peeps out there in the world! I suppose I could be too if I didn't have a million children and spend my small spare time shopping for divine gold sandals as per yesterday. My seven year old writes at least two books a week (I'm serious - they are picture books, words and illustration by Edie Chow Sinclair and self published on the spot) and I am still wondering what I could possibly write about after eleven years at University. (perhaps I am 'institutionalised'??)
It turns out, also, that there is a Poetry Friday - which leads me to wonder if there is also a Poetry Wednesday, Poetry Tuesday or Poetry Monday? On a Poetry Saturday I'd write Haiku - in honour of Saturn's rulership of structure and limits and pure form. On Poetry Sunday it would be free verse; Poetry Monday I'd write with Iambic Pentameter. Poetry Friday should definitely be Venusian, erotic and sensual. Poetry by Archetype and astrological rulership.
See where my mind goes?
If anyone out there is reading this and is interested in a season of working through 'The Artist's Way' to get the creative spirit moving - throw me a lifeline!
Actually I've been looking at some other writer's blogs - still on my quest to belong to a writer's community that is accessible and accepting (I'm a member of the Writer's Centre here but so far I am only receiving newsletters, lovely useful things they are). There are some amazingly productive peeps out there in the world! I suppose I could be too if I didn't have a million children and spend my small spare time shopping for divine gold sandals as per yesterday. My seven year old writes at least two books a week (I'm serious - they are picture books, words and illustration by Edie Chow Sinclair and self published on the spot) and I am still wondering what I could possibly write about after eleven years at University. (perhaps I am 'institutionalised'??)
It turns out, also, that there is a Poetry Friday - which leads me to wonder if there is also a Poetry Wednesday, Poetry Tuesday or Poetry Monday? On a Poetry Saturday I'd write Haiku - in honour of Saturn's rulership of structure and limits and pure form. On Poetry Sunday it would be free verse; Poetry Monday I'd write with Iambic Pentameter. Poetry Friday should definitely be Venusian, erotic and sensual. Poetry by Archetype and astrological rulership.
See where my mind goes?
If anyone out there is reading this and is interested in a season of working through 'The Artist's Way' to get the creative spirit moving - throw me a lifeline!
06 September 2007
by jove, a poem
I really love Thor's Days. Here's a poem I wrote a couple of years ago that always makes me feel good..
say it again!
say that my heart
beats
like it wants
to get out
of its cage
that you can feel
its secrets
through my skin
and that tonight
I'm wrapping paper
around you
so softly
these words
fall
like fruit
into my hands
angel
say them again!
copyright d sinclair 2007
say that my heart
beats
like it wants
to get out
of its cage
that you can feel
its secrets
through my skin
and that tonight
I'm wrapping paper
around you
so softly
these words
fall
like fruit
into my hands
angel
say them again!
copyright d sinclair 2007
05 September 2007
more mercury...
Some Alchemists I know always say that wherever you look you can find Mercury, and sometimes you don't even have to do that...
Today was one of those days - Mercury came to me. First in the form of a chance encounter with a woman I am interested in getting to know - an illustrator - and subsequent conversation about children (mercury is the 'divine child' of the archetypal world).
(It was an interesting discussion because it mirrored some recent thoughts about certain things, in particular about how we 'wear' the blame and shame of others in the form of criticism. Kids try it all out on each other quite brutally it seems.)
Then another woman approached me and struck up a conversation about how thoughts create reality...I'd never met her before - how did she know?
Only moments before I had been journaling on precisely that subject and had written down how much I'd enjoy being part of a community of like-minded persons.
Later on she told me she 'sees things' and 'hears voices'... spooky.
Today was one of those days - Mercury came to me. First in the form of a chance encounter with a woman I am interested in getting to know - an illustrator - and subsequent conversation about children (mercury is the 'divine child' of the archetypal world).
(It was an interesting discussion because it mirrored some recent thoughts about certain things, in particular about how we 'wear' the blame and shame of others in the form of criticism. Kids try it all out on each other quite brutally it seems.)
Then another woman approached me and struck up a conversation about how thoughts create reality...I'd never met her before - how did she know?
Only moments before I had been journaling on precisely that subject and had written down how much I'd enjoy being part of a community of like-minded persons.
Later on she told me she 'sees things' and 'hears voices'... spooky.
day of mercury
I've been a hermit since the weekend - working on 'releasing the past' as well as revisioning the future.
One of my daughters has turned five, so there's been a lot of baking and icing in this house, not to mention all the pink wrapping paper.
I blame the Sun in Virgo for the idea that 'if I'm going to do this blog I have to have something profound to write about' that keeps holding me back. Maybe my tricky brain just wants excuses to keep things the way they have been.
Oriah Mountain Dreamer says (in 'What We Ache For') all it really takes is to show up at the page, all excuses and reasons why I shouldn't put aside. So here I am.
Yep. I'm at the page. I'm sitting here at my desk, with my hands on the keyboard...
One of my daughters has turned five, so there's been a lot of baking and icing in this house, not to mention all the pink wrapping paper.
I blame the Sun in Virgo for the idea that 'if I'm going to do this blog I have to have something profound to write about' that keeps holding me back. Maybe my tricky brain just wants excuses to keep things the way they have been.
Oriah Mountain Dreamer says (in 'What We Ache For') all it really takes is to show up at the page, all excuses and reasons why I shouldn't put aside. So here I am.
Yep. I'm at the page. I'm sitting here at my desk, with my hands on the keyboard...
03 September 2007
thanks to the blog genie
...aka my sister for fixing up some dodgy happenings with the blog since the ads went up... love you Sis xx
01 September 2007
I'm all talk...
..and I'm so tired of protean already...maybe its the taurean moon of the moment but now all i want is steady, safe and all the same same same.
hopefully more tomorrow...
hopefully more tomorrow...
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