Wednesday, 16 August 2017

Mountain Mother

All over the world, mountains have been considered sacred—it seems to be a human constant. 
(Jay Griffiths, Wild: An Elemental Journey, 2006, p. 379)

All the great mountains were seen as the Goddess “sitting” on the earth. The mountain was the original throne-womb; it combines the symbols of earth, cave, bulk, height, and immortality. In the towering mountain overlooking the land is embodied the enormous strength of the Goddess. 
(Monica Sjöö and Barbara Mor, The Great Cosmic Mother: Rediscovering the Religion of the Earth, 1987, 1991, p. 73)


Plenty of indigenous people … see mountains as female, … this gendered attitude suggest[ing] a mothering deity, a protective stance both from the mountain and from the people. Ecological writer Dolores LaChapelle, in Earth Wisdom, describes Paleolithic statues that combine the veneration of mountain as mother and the observation that the mother is mountain to the child.
(Jay Griffiths, Wild: An Elemental Journey, 2006, p. 345)


In her autobiography, environmental activist Wangari Maathai describes her people’s traditional understanding of Sacred Mount Kenya thus:

Mount Kenya, known as Kirinyaga, or the Place of Brightness, and the second-highest peak in Africa, was a sacred place.  Everything good came from it: abundant rains, rivers, streams, clean drinking water.  …  As long as the mountain stood, people believed that God was with them and that they would want for nothing.
(Carol P. Christ, ‘The Mountain Mother: Reading the Language of the Goddess in the Symbols of Ancient Crete’, https://feminismandreligion.com/2017/05/22/the-mountain-mother-reading-the-language-of-the-goddess-in-the-symbols-of-ancient-crete-by-carol-p-christ/)


As a mountain, I can sit, deeply rooted, substantial and strong and completely still, as the winds buffet my flanks, or the rain wears lines of erosion into my skin. I can allow my emotional weather to pass over me as I remain at peace. An occasional earthquake may shatter the stillness, but I move with it, in synchrony with the earth. I ride it out, with patience and acceptance.
(Myself, Being the Mountain, July 2016)

Mountain Mother, watercolours and gouache on gesso prepared card, 2017

Tuesday, 8 August 2017

An Everywhen: A Poem


Expanding inwardly, 
creating more space for the generative darkness.
An inhalation that opens the interior
– in-held breath – 
so there is (no longer) an exterior – 
only self, whole.

Bird-self, tree-souled, 
a bow to the Others who 
make me.

Yellow wattle shining in afternoon light, 
gold-lit green fierceness at midwinter. 
The same yellow in the lemons, 
round-bright and sweet with sour.

I write from myself and for myself, 
from what is not myself, 
to be more truly myself
– transparent – 
cutting through illusion to the real: 
tree, sunlight, breeze, bird.

Rainbow lorikeets, faster than 
my eye can follow, 
entering me with their feather-selfs, 
opening me to what I am not, and to
the interplay of complements without hierarchy.

Relishing this place, this 
everywhen – for I am,
now, I am; 
will not be, one day; 
have not been, before –
but now – NOW – 
I am – 
and the earth embraces me, 
one small molecule of 
her curvaceous flesh.

(July 2017)

Tuesday, 1 August 2017

The Carpenter’s Wife: A Recreation Story

Lately, I have been feeling quite pessimistic about the state of the world, getting lost in despair over what we are losing, and have already lost, as climate change (amongst other calamities) destabilises and destroys the healthy workings of this fragile blue-green planet. I’ve felt guilt and hopelessness, exacerbated by my own health issues, yes, but tied first and foremost to the fate of the earth. I believe and know that we are connected with the natural world, and that an unhealthy culture and polluted landscape creates unhealthy and unhappy people. (And this is to say nothing of the fact that life itself is in the balance.)

If this is the case, what are we to do about it?

I wish I had easy answers, solutions to all the problems we are faced with as humans, and as earthlings. 

But I’ve been reminded, thanks to Jacqueline, the wise writer of Radical Honey, and this article that she recently shared on Facebook, that the seeing of beauty is radical resistance to despair. And that is, after all, part of what this blog is about—beauty and creativity as an antidote to destruction (and/or illness). So all I can do, at this point, is make my own small offerings of beauty to the world. It won’t solve any problems, but it is a small act of resistance, at least, and for now that will have to do.

Thus, I offer a brief tale of renewal—a different kind of creation story. Since today is the early spring festival of Imbolc, I thought it apt.

This is one of my early stories, written between January and March 2015. I do not think it one of my best—I really dislike the ending—but I think it is full of hope. That is, active hope, based upon taking action to take apart what is damaging (industrial civilisation), and to heal and recreate what is beautiful, joyous and full of the pleasure of life itself.

* * *

The Carpenter's Wife


A Recreation Story


‘I cannot live in this world,’ said the carpenter’s wife. ‘There is too much ugliness and not enough beauty, too much sorrow and not enough joy, too much pain and not enough pleasure. No one speaks with the Earth, with the growing things, with the four-legged ones, the winged ones and the swimming ones. No one speaks with the oceans and the deserts, the rivers and the mountains. There are voices in my head, voices all around me, but no one else seems to hear them. Husband, I cannot live in this world,’ she said, tears glistening in her eyes.

‘Well, this won’t do,’ said the carpenter. ‘I cannot have my wife unhappy. This simply won’t do.’ He rubbed the stubble on his chin and looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘My dear, I think there is only one course to take. We will have to dismantle the world, undoing the ugliness and sorrow and pain, and then we can begin anew, creating a new world. We can build and form and magic into being a new place, a new Earth, with beauty and joy and pleasure woven into its fabric. A world in which there are people—such as you, dearest—who will speak with the Earth and the growing things, with the four-legged ones, the winged ones and the swimming ones, the oceans and deserts, rivers and mountains. Many people will hear the voices, nothing will be silent anymore. You will be able to live in this new world, my love.’

The carpenter left his tearful wife and walked out of his humble house into the big world of smog and machines, populated by millions of deaf and blind humans going about their business. As he surveyed the blighted scene before him, he realised with dismay that dismantling this world was going to take a lot of work, so he enlisted the help of his friends: the stonemason, the blacksmith and the magician. Together they combined their skills and strengths, their knowledge of wood, stone, metal and magic, and they began the painstaking task of taking the old world apart, piece by piece. 
They began by deconstructing the skyscrapers, bringing the overbearing towers back down to the earth from the dirty sky, and they broke up the suffocating highways, freeing the lifeless ground underneath so it could breathe again. Then they burst the rigid, blank-faced dam walls that held back the freedom of the rivers, and water gushed out once more like life-giving blood through arteries. They broke the belching, sulphurous smoke stacks into pieces and cleaned the choked air of pollution, and already the Earth held more beauty, joy and pleasure than it had before. 
It seemed to the four men that their work was made much easier because large cracks had already appeared in reality, as if the new world was trying to burst through, for every manmade thing disintegrated at their touch—ashes to ashes, dust to dust. A reinvigorated world was beginning to take shape as concrete and steel crumbled to fine powder, and earth and water and air were liberated from the shackles that had been imposed on them. 
After some time the men found that the great dismantling was complete, so the carpenter, the stonemason, the blacksmith and the magician, weary and sore from their efforts, returned to the carpenter’s house and sat down to rest. The carpenter’s wife, hearty and rosy-cheeked, brought them steaming cups of tea with a twinkle in her eye. 
‘It’s your turn now,’ said the carpenter, happy that his wife was no longer tearful, for now that the men had played their part, it was time for the women to make their contribution to the reconstruction, the recreation of the world. 
The carpenter’s wife went out and called her friends: the stonemason’s wife, the blacksmith’s wife, and the witch, and together they combined their skills and strengths, for all women are skilled in creation and womancraft, and all women are strong. Swirling out from their dextrous hands came an alchemy of earth, water, air and fire, and the most important ingredient—love—and this enchantment obliterated what was left of the old world and replaced it with interwoven strands of beauty, joy and pleasure.
The new world that sprung from the women’s hands and hearts had green things growing out with snaking tendrils to cover the land, vast breathing forests like green lungs, meandering rivers wandering sedately or splashing wildly to the deep sea, and majestic mountain peaks that caressed the crystalline blue sky. It had four-legged ones, winged ones and swimming ones, creatures with fur and sharp teeth, feathers and slippery scales, who helped to chirp, howl, grunt and sing the Earth into life. There was snow and wind and rain, and flowers blossoming in the sunshine. Moon-bright nights and fragrant days. A marriage of every element.
Surrounded by all this wonder, the humans were no longer deaf and blind. Now there were wise women and men who spoke with the Others and listened to their wise and wild counsel, forming new friendships to ensure that the newly made world of beauty, joy and pleasure would endure and flourish.
The carpenter’s wife, the stonemason’s wife, the blacksmith’s wife and the witch looked upon what had been created and they saw that the world was filled with all manner of wondrous things. They spoke with the Earth, with the growing things, with the four-legged ones, winged ones and swimming ones, the oceans and deserts, the rivers and mountains, and all the Others said they were satisfied with their new home. The women saw that their work was finally done, and weary and sore, but elated as well, they stopped to rest, returning home to join the men who were enjoying their steaming cups of tea.
‘We can all live in this world,’ said the carpenter’s wife, smiling at last. 


* * *

I can’t for the life of me remember why I decided to write about a carpenter—only that the first line of this story came to me, and I tried to allow it to be what it needed to be. I think perhaps, in writing of carpenters, stonemasons, blacksmiths and magicians/witches, I was remembering what Jay Griffiths wrote in Kith: The Riddle of the Childscape (2013):

As a child, when I pictured the Middle Ages I could see who everyone was: a woodcutter with his axe, a merchant selling satins, a farmer or a weaver. People’s activities and their trades were graspable, visible and knowable, unlike careers in finance, project management, or consultancy, which are incomprehensible to children [and to me!]. Where there were unknowns, in the Middle Ages, they were known unknowns, the secret magic of witch, healer, seer and wizard … In terms of landscape, the Middle Ages told me of a finite, knowable village and an infinite and knownly unknowable beyond, and both glimmered with appeal. No plastic. Things were handmade and crafted, unprocessed and unfactoried. Everything was itself and was knowably makeable, findable, buildable. Everything came from the known earth around: leather, wood, wax, honey and apples. Things known, in this sense, shade into being close, intimate and beloved: this is not about information but relationship. (pp. 276–277)

The carpenter, stonemason and blacksmith represent trades/crafts that deal with tangible, handmade things: wood, stone and metal; while the magician and witch add the crucial element of magic, which is as much a part of the physical world as anything else. 

I’m not convinced that stone and metal, being non-renewables, are truly sustainable (and certainly timber used faster than it can be replaced is not). Yet there is a big difference, for instance, in the blacksmith plying his trade at the edge of the village, making horseshoes and shovels, compared with the building of massive skyscrapers which require tons upon tons of steel. One is small-scale, indeed, human-scaled, and still attached to the earth; the other is massive, industrial and completely artificial.

I think I also thought that if these men are ‘makers’, they can also be ‘unmakers’, and tear everything down. Initially I had them doing that work, as well as the recreation, and that caused the story to stall for a while. I needed a couple of months to realise that it is right and proper for the men to take apart the unnatural world they have created, but that it should be the women—the ones who had always stood behind the men, merely as ‘wives’—who should now step forward, moving from passive to active, to put things right again. 

I am seeing much that suggests that something to that effect will indeed take place. If we do manage to survive what is coming, it will be women, and supportive men, who will be the creators of the new cultures that take us beyond this time of endings, and into a brighter (though difficult) future. 

I don’t like the ending of my story—too simplistic? Too twee?—but I do hope it will come true.

Imbolc Blessings!

Thursday, 27 July 2017

On Anger, and the Pitfalls of Positivity

Since writing ‘Furies’ several weeks ago, and thinking about the emotion of anger, I’ve come across several pieces of writing, and a spoken-word poem, that deal with the positives of anger, the necessity of it, and these have told me that I am not alone in my feelings.


… a terrible thing is lost in the suppression of anger – your relationship with one of your greatest allies: Instinct.

Anger arises when your heart has been offended, your values have been wronged, your beloveds are threatened, or somewhere, justice has been denied. (1)


Anger is not 'bad' or 'negative' or 'unspiritual',
or a sign of your weakness.

You are alive. And you have a right to ALL your feelings.
You need not act on them, and please don't push them down.


It comes to cleanse, not to destroy.
It comes to remind you of your tremendous power.

So be kind to your anger;
It is only trying 
to protect you from harm. (2)

Kayla Q’s powerful spoken-word poem, ‘Questions I’ve Been Asked as a Midwife’, ends with this line:

Thank god that being a woman has given me enough rage to get my work done. (3)


The point, it seems painfully (and beautifully) clear to me, is to not eradicate anger, but to try to be clear about when and why and at whom I am angry, and to be mindful of my anger. When appropriate, to let anger inform and even possess me so long as it does not consume me, as I can, when appropriate, let love or fear or joy inform and possess me so long as they too do not consume me. To aim my anger, not displace it, just as I would hope to aim and not displace my love, fear, or joy. I do not mind when someone expresses anger at me for something I have done to him or her. I do, however, mind when someone expresses anger toward me I do not deserve. The same can be said, obviously, for love and other emotions. (4)

And Lucy H. Pearce writes:

Nice girls don’t feel angry. We are taught that early on. We should focus on the positive. Send love and light.

And so we push it down, distract ourselves, and learn to turn the anger in on ourselves, to pick ourselves apart. And gradually we become fragmented in order to survive, cutting off from our bad body parts, our big feelings, our traumatic memories, the horrific news stories.

And rather than get mad, we get sad. It’s easier to cry quietly under the covers than yell in someone’s face. We have been socialised to express anger as sadness. It’s the safety valve for when it all gets too much. Or we turn the anger in on ourselves. It makes us sick. Makes us bitter. (5)


But anger is the key. As Mary Daly so ably says: “Unlike depression, which is a defeated withdrawal and turning one’s energy against the Self, righteous anger is expression of creativity and hope.” Burning up injustice in white hot words and furious emotion. Anger is explosive and raw and real. Anger hurts… but it can also heal. (6)

As I’ve read and pondered, it has especially bothered me that we tend to categorise emotions and thoughts as either positive or negative, as though some things should be felt or thought, but not others; some things embraced, others rejected. Yet emotions are neutral, neither good nor bad, but merely responses to situations, and therefore natural; and, unless suppressed, they are unavoidable. 

To be human is to experience all emotions, to feel and express and be taught by them. If we skew all our thinking and feeling to the so-called ‘positive’ side of things, we lose the opportunity for so much development and learning. If we skew our heart-minds that way we become false, putting on a display of light and optimism that is inauthentic and shallow. 

This led me to think of the practice of ‘positive thinking’, of directly combating negative thoughts with positive ones, which has indeed been helpful for me. Though my own personal experience leads me to state that I think the practice has been inaptly named, for it is less about being positive than it is about being aware. The reality is that in the midst of difficult feelings, thoughts or symptoms, it can be almost impossible to be positive; but, with deliberate attention and gentleness (and much practice), it is possible to be aware. That is, to be aware of what you are experiencing, and to acknowledge and accept it for what it is—a difficult state, yes, but not a negative one. Just a feeling/thought/symptom. Just a circumstance that you happen to be going through, and a temporary one at that. It will pass.

I think the pitfalls of positive thinking can be two-fold. Firstly, forcing yourself to think positively all the time can in fact lead to more negative thinking. For instance, when you berate yourself for having a negative thought—This thought is bad! I should not be thinking this!—you are merely creating another negative thought. If, instead, you simply allow yourself to think the thought, and become aware of it as unhelpful, then you can gently set it aside, and tell yourself, It is okay. I am allowed to feel this. Essentially, to be gentle and kind with yourself, rather than trying to enforce rigid rules that must be obeyed, and becoming self-critical or upset when you are unable to stick to them.

Secondly, positive thinking can be used as a means to suppress all emotions that are considered negative or undesirable, to cover over and ignore whatever is difficult, rather than dealing with it. In the long term, this is disastrous for the health, not to mention for the feeling self, who may well lose the ability to feel at all.

I’m not saying that positivity is a bad thing, or that we should be angry all the time, as that would be skewing things in the other direction entirely, when what is best is balance. Yet we are human, and in our perfect imperfection, we feel, think, and sometimes behave in ways that are not balanced, and that is okay. Difficult emotions and negative thoughts do arise from time to time, and have to be dealt with. Papering over them with a veneer of everything is fine, does no good. What is required is a courageous acknowledgement of negativity, of all thoughts and emotions, and a safe and healthy expression of them. Instead of trying to control our emotions, we should just let them be. Just let ourselves be.

In the case of anger, expression of it may mean speaking up, disagreeing, saying ‘no’, swearing, yelling, even destroying something (ideally in a controlled way). The mature expression of anger does not involve violence or aggression (at least, not in ways that would do actual harm to yourself or others). It involves an honouring of the emotion and what it is telling you. 

Anger is a messenger, a teacher, a facilitator of change.  

All emotions must be honoured for what they are.

What I’ve come to feel about illness is very much the same. It must be honoured, acknowledged and accepted. Even when symptoms are hard to bear, they must be recognised for what they are—a temporary state that you happen to be experiencing. It’s not all you are, though it is part of you. 

This past year has been full of dis-ease and difficulty for me: problems with my health, meaning I’ve had even less energy than usual, and a corresponding struggle as my emotions follow the downward trajectory of my body; an inability to create as much, or in the way I’d like to, resulting in much frustration, and the return of self-doubt; and a spiritual crisis of sorts, requiring me to reassess and question what I believe, leading me in some exciting, though testing, directions. In short, I’ve been reminded of the challenges of illness, and have had to think more deeply about my circumstances, rather than just trying to glide over the surface of things with positivity in tow, refusing to face reality.

When you have a chronic illness, and are unproductive in a society that tends to value production over people and the earth, it’s easy to fall into the trap of feeling ashamed and guilty—I should be doing more. I should be trying harder. Why aren’t I getting better? (Shame and guilt are difficult emotions that also need to be acknowledged and learnt from.) But what illness—and nature—has taught me is that things occur in cycles—day and night, the lunar phases, the sun’s path across the sky, the seasons … Nothing is ever static, though it may often seem that way for those of us stuck in bed, housebound, or severely limited in how we live our lives. Yet shame and guilt, like anger, like all feelings, will take us somewhere, then pass by, transforming into something else.

Illness needs to be accepted. This doesn’t mean that we stop trying to find ways to feel better, to seek out ways to address our problems, whether physical, emotional or spiritual. What it does mean is that we should not be searching for ‘cures’—this is the equivalent of positive thinking leading to a denial of reality. (This kind of search tends to get our hopes up, only to have them destroyed, over and over again.) What I am looking for is a kind of healing that enables me to cope with and find joy in my life as it is, right now. This, I think, is the more revolutionary way, to live with awareness and acceptance in the present moment. To embody and honour each feeling, each thought, each situation that life gifts to us.  

The ultimate challenge, perhaps, is to be positive even when you are negative—to be both, not one or the other. Be aware of and embrace the darkness with the light, the sadness with the joy, the anger with the good humour.

I know that what I want and need to do is sink into the depths, to peer into my own shadow, and see what bright-with-darkness treasures I find there. One of the fiery-black gems I have found, along with the wisdom of illness, is Anger. It has been teaching me some important lessons, and helping me to transform. 

It would be wonderful if we lived in a world where anger was no longer necessary; but the reality is that we live in a world filled with abuse, violence and injustice. I would argue that anger, in the face of such things, is a moral imperative. It is wrong not to feel it, for anger is what can and does drive change, what seeks justice, and brings healing, if we harness it and use it well. Lucy H. Pearce writes:

Just imagine for a moment what would happen if women, individually, united, got angry about the injustices they face. Imagine if we focused our power. The walls of civilisation as we know it would come tumbling down pretty fast. (7)

Yes! It may seem paradoxical, but our anger would indeed make the world a better place. Let’s feel it, learn from it, express it and act on it in creative ways, finding the blessings in negativity. 

(I began writing this piece two weeks ago, when I had a cold and was resting in bed. Of course, my mind refused to rest, so I grabbed my notebook and recorded my thoughts. I think this is proof that good things come from illness and the shadow-lands it forces us to roam.)

References
1. Toko-pa Turner, ‘Making Anger Your Ally’, http://toko-pa.com/2014/01/26/making-anger-your-ally/
2. Jeff Foster, ‘The Beauty in Your Anger’; I originally found this poem on Facebook, but you can read it here: http://absentofi.org/2016/03/jeff-foster-the-beauty-in-your-anger/
3. Kayla Q, ‘Questions I’ve Been Asked as a Midwife’, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vIv1t4aUnmU&index=8&list=PLC5PJtWBigV3SY5Ipg5xW8T9xgYcYJ7c6
4. Derrick Jensen, excerpt from p. 288 of Endgame, http://www.derrickjensen.org/endgame/anger/
5. Lucy H. Pearce, Burning Woman, Womancraft Publishing, 2016, pp. 63–64
6. Ibid, p. 65
7. Ibid, p. 66

Tuesday, 25 July 2017

Notes from the Heart of Winter

More calendula flowers have awakened, faces bright in the cold.


The sun is moving higher in the sky, so gradually—yet still too fast! I’m giddy with an ascent I can’t keep up with. It makes me sad, for part of me wants to stay in the dark of winter. Despite this, I know I’ll welcome spring, when it comes, for each day has its night, and the darkness is always within. 


Yet I’ve seen some spring blossoms opening already—some at the beginning of July! Is this normal, I wonder, or a sign of climate confusion? It seems Spring is already on her way, doing battle with the Queen of Winter.



Thoughts of immanence; of potentialities rather than actualities; of opposites dancing.


A noisy-bright rainbow lorikeet.


The warm feeling and green smell of summer, right here. A gift of images that called up an intense longing that I wanted to grasp, a tangible expression of how opposites coexist—high summer in the depths of winter.

Wednesday, 19 July 2017

On Poetry II

To Make a Path of Honest Words 

I am tempted to say that I am not a poet, to excuse the lack of sophistication of my poetry; though to say such a thing would be disingenuous, not to mention missing the point. 

I decided to write poems this year, to listen to the words that would come, often unbidden, and write them down in the forms they chose, because they would say profound things in concise and beautiful ways. I wanted to be enchanted by the song of words once more, to rouse myself out of the lethargy that had claimed me. And because I have not been able to turn my mind and energy to story-writing for some time (which requires a kind of thought that is sustained over longer periods), I wanted a form of writing that was succinct, using few words to say much. 

Over three years ago, when I was just beginning to write, I wasn’t sure I could write poetry. In my Morning Pages I said this:

Part of me wants to be able to write poetry. At this point I feel unable though. I feel like poetry requires the poet to go deep into things, and I am still wading in the shallows. I’ve gone deep in some ways, into myself, but I want to be able to do the same with the landscape and weather and nonhuman creatures. 

And this:

I think poetry is in order. Writing things that are expressive in concise ways. Direct. Precise. A nugget of wisdom. Of expression. Something small and contained, being full in every way.

And then, surprisingly, some poems emerged, including ‘Tree Woman’ and ‘Wedding’, which I shared last year; and suddenly, in a humble, embryonic way, I was a poet. Then Story began to claim much more of my attention, and I forgot how powerful it was to create in small, though sometimes greatly potent, ways. 

So turning my attention back to poetry this year has been a return to my beginnings as a writer, my first explorations of words, images and meanings, and how they could be formed on the page. It has been about remembering the joy, creative energy and transformation that came to me when I started to write. It has also been about medicine and healing, getting myself through this difficult period with my health, and creating in little, manageable ways, when I have been unable to do much else.

Writing poetry is also a good lesson in listening, in maintaining openness, and trusting in the creative process. Trusting words to say what they (or I) need to say.

Thus, poetry has been something of a lifesaver, a practice that is not only beneficial, but most importantly—doable—in my current circumstances.

Of course, I have wondered if my poems are any good. Should I really share them here? But what exactly makes a poem good or bad? All I know is that I felt good when I was writing them, and they came into being with very little effort on my part. I merely responded to a word, a line, and the poem arrived, fully itself.

Of her own poetry, when experiencing a manic depressive episode, Jay Griffiths writes:

I didn’t really care if these poems were good or bad; if medicine cures, it is irrelevant whether it tastes bitter or sweet. I had to write without censoring myself, to curl mania around and bring it home safe; to make a path of honest words, to write the truths which save the psyche, not because the words would be perfect but because they would be present and pure. In the darkness of night and illness, I could riddle the stars for their sparks. (Jay Griffiths, Tristimania: A Diary of Manic Depression, Penguin, 2016, p. 124)

My own poems—small, humble, imperfect—are my truths, my medicine. Bitter or sweet, good or bad, they say what my psyche needs to say, what my body and the earth need to speak through me. Present and pure, they are a path of honest words that has kept me walking the twisting path of the writer. That is the point.

My poetry so far this year:

Thursday, 13 July 2017

Immanence: A Poem

That I am here should be a blessing 

but I am only half here 

kept from full embodiment 
except as a dream, an ideal 
the fullness of a life that is beyond me 

yet still inside me

immanent

Thursday, 6 July 2017

Self: Silence Speaks

Silence speaks through the sheerness of the heart that opens softly to spill a jewel of light. 
This is all I have to give. It is enough. For if I listen to the gem-light, the fire, there is speech. 
Sap drips and flows forth like lifeblood, and a lifeline of oviriditas*—the green heart of things. 
An opening. Through the doorway and into the tree, wood-scented and umber light …

Self: Silence Speaks, May 2017, felt tip pen and acrylic on card
* ‘Oviriditas’ meaning greenness or verdure—a term coined by Hildegard of Bingen, the twelfth century German mystic, to name “the greening power of the universe”. (Glenys Livingstone, PaGaian Cosmology: Re-inventing Earth-based Goddess Religion, iUniverse: Lincoln, NE, 2005, p. 62)

Note: the word should in fact be viriditas, dropping the ‘o’; I don’t know why my source says oviriditas, whether this is deliberate, or an error, but it is what I was thinking of at the time I wrote the above piece (13 July 2017).

Tuesday, 4 July 2017

A Message to Myself

You don’t have to like your art—you just have to do it.

Perhaps what you have to say is different from what you think you must say. Perhaps there is a side to yourself the world needs to see, even though it is not what you wish to reveal.

There is courage in letting what comes come, and letting it be what it is: raw, honest, authentic. 

Your perfect self is imperfect; your imperfections are your perfections.

The only thing you will lose, in unmasking yourself, is what you do not need; but what you will lose if you remain hidden is the chance to be yourself.

It is your choice.
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