Vanessa Anderson
fireflyx99@hotmail.com
No Seriously, Let’s Get This Together
I recently realised or more aptly recognised a trait that had been a particular habit of mine. The habit of “getting something over with”, “getting through it”, surviving the moment, walking through the flames and appearing on the other side unscathed, unharmed and generally still in one piece. It need not necessarily have applied to something nasty or uncomfortable. No. It could just have easily applied to something that was supposed to bring me joy, to be fun, and even something that I enjoyed doing.
Take knitting or as I have more recently learnt to crochet, crocheting. I would start a project off, eager, excited to start something new, enthusiastic about the creative process. In time it turns to impatience, a hurried sense of time passing, a rush to get it finished so I could start something new. Always a feeling that I must get done, move onto something else, so much to do and so little time.
Now let’s consider something else, perhaps something others can relate to. I know I am not the only person to suffer anxiety at public speaking. For me this started early, primary school, as I recall. The thought of speaking in front of a crowd of people left me tongue-tied and restless, a day spent in anguish waiting for my turn to perform my oral. Due in no small part to the fact that my surname, the denominator by which we were all filed for hearing, started with a W.
A - W – leaving me second last to present. Always!
Thanks folks!
I recently realised or more aptly recognised a trait that had been a particular habit of mine. The habit of “getting something over with”, “getting through it”, surviving the moment, walking through the flames and appearing on the other side unscathed, unharmed and generally still in one piece. It need not necessarily have applied to something nasty or uncomfortable. No. It could just have easily applied to something that was supposed to bring me joy, to be fun, and even something that I enjoyed doing.
Take knitting or as I have more recently learnt to crochet, crocheting. I would start a project off, eager, excited to start something new, enthusiastic about the creative process. In time it turns to impatience, a hurried sense of time passing, a rush to get it finished so I could start something new. Always a feeling that I must get done, move onto something else, so much to do and so little time.
Now let’s consider something else, perhaps something others can relate to. I know I am not the only person to suffer anxiety at public speaking. For me this started early, primary school, as I recall. The thought of speaking in front of a crowd of people left me tongue-tied and restless, a day spent in anguish waiting for my turn to perform my oral. Due in no small part to the fact that my surname, the denominator by which we were all filed for hearing, started with a W.
A - W – leaving me second last to present. Always!
Thanks folks!
Perhaps on a subconscious level another reason why I chose my life partner – I’ve moved up from a W to an A – first up, no waiting, no anxious build up.
It is these moments too that I wished away, wished to be done with, so I could move on, pick myself up if necessary and dust myself off and get on with the next thing. Things became a series of events, of moments catapulted together in space and time, the achievement of having gotten past something, having gotten it over with, under the belt another hurdle completed. I am sure many people can relate or recognise this habit in themselves.
But life isn’t a series of hurdles to overcome. Yes – there are hurdles, yes there are times that quite rightly, should find themselves designated to the series of unfortunate events we may have had to endure, like root canal and washing the dishes, but for the most part, it just life and we are wishing it away, giving it freely to the moments we want done with. A life lived in moments passed over.
Over time, how much have we missed glossing over the moments we wished only to endure and not experience?
This past year - and it has now been over a year since we went into lockdown - offered a moment in time unlike any other we have experienced. Perhaps it merits being assigned to the rubbish pile along with dishes and root canal, but just maybe, in a hindsight that is not yet too distant to see we can find jewels amongst the moments past.
Learning to get over this sensation that there is so much to do and so little time has been one of the jewels I found buried under the rubble of Covid. I have stopped rushing through projects, eager to realise its end and I have started to marvel in the simplicity that it is still there the next day, waiting patiently, undemanding.
It is these moments too that I wished away, wished to be done with, so I could move on, pick myself up if necessary and dust myself off and get on with the next thing. Things became a series of events, of moments catapulted together in space and time, the achievement of having gotten past something, having gotten it over with, under the belt another hurdle completed. I am sure many people can relate or recognise this habit in themselves.
But life isn’t a series of hurdles to overcome. Yes – there are hurdles, yes there are times that quite rightly, should find themselves designated to the series of unfortunate events we may have had to endure, like root canal and washing the dishes, but for the most part, it just life and we are wishing it away, giving it freely to the moments we want done with. A life lived in moments passed over.
Over time, how much have we missed glossing over the moments we wished only to endure and not experience?
This past year - and it has now been over a year since we went into lockdown - offered a moment in time unlike any other we have experienced. Perhaps it merits being assigned to the rubbish pile along with dishes and root canal, but just maybe, in a hindsight that is not yet too distant to see we can find jewels amongst the moments past.
Learning to get over this sensation that there is so much to do and so little time has been one of the jewels I found buried under the rubble of Covid. I have stopped rushing through projects, eager to realise its end and I have started to marvel in the simplicity that it is still there the next day, waiting patiently, undemanding.
I have thrown caution to the wind and started new projects in between, juggling a myriad of things and revelling in the peace that each of them offer, I have three crochet projects and one knitting project on the go at the moment and none of them are crying out for my attention, none of them ever did. I was the demanding one, paying insistent penance to a duty that is really, a pleasure, or so it should be.
Even the duties are more pleasurable, just today I had to present a project to my management team that would see me repeating the exercise to over 400 people, not in my comfort zone. But I didn’t rush it through, I didn’t wish it over, and although I can categorically say I didn’t enjoy it, I went with it, not past it and you know what? It wasn’t that bad, it never has been, and I am actually quite good at it. I can vouch that absolute preparation does wonders for the tongue-tied.
I’m not going to just get through it anymore. I am going to nail it. Every day, in small ways, finding time to honour the beauty in the moment and if the truth be told even dish washing has its place and I am not giving up a moment more.
Even the duties are more pleasurable, just today I had to present a project to my management team that would see me repeating the exercise to over 400 people, not in my comfort zone. But I didn’t rush it through, I didn’t wish it over, and although I can categorically say I didn’t enjoy it, I went with it, not past it and you know what? It wasn’t that bad, it never has been, and I am actually quite good at it. I can vouch that absolute preparation does wonders for the tongue-tied.
I’m not going to just get through it anymore. I am going to nail it. Every day, in small ways, finding time to honour the beauty in the moment and if the truth be told even dish washing has its place and I am not giving up a moment more.
To All the Undealtwith
I am a spiritual being, a soul entity having a human experience. We are all spiritual beings existing in a physical world. A world that does not always ‘fit’ right, that makes us extremely uncomfortable and it starts with the question; why are we here?
Truly, why are we here?
Then, why is it so hard? Yet when we are asked, “How are you? “; “how are you doing?’ Are you okay?” – Our ‘go to’ response is; “I’m fine”.
But we are often NOT ok, we are sometimes anything but, ok. Even on a good day there are hundreds of triggers that lead to – ‘not ok’ but we are just so accustomed…. programmed to move on, subvert, push down and get on with it that we end up sitting with mountains of ‘undealtwith’ stuff.
I am a spiritual being, a soul entity having a human experience. We are all spiritual beings existing in a physical world. A world that does not always ‘fit’ right, that makes us extremely uncomfortable and it starts with the question; why are we here?
Truly, why are we here?
Then, why is it so hard? Yet when we are asked, “How are you? “; “how are you doing?’ Are you okay?” – Our ‘go to’ response is; “I’m fine”.
But we are often NOT ok, we are sometimes anything but, ok. Even on a good day there are hundreds of triggers that lead to – ‘not ok’ but we are just so accustomed…. programmed to move on, subvert, push down and get on with it that we end up sitting with mountains of ‘undealtwith’ stuff.
It becomes the halo we buffer ourselves from everything real, everything that is at the essence of what we are as spiritual beings having a human experience.
The human experience is shambolic, it is cluttered and disorganised, it comes in waves and sometimes we find ourselves at the peak, looking down, marvelling at how we managed to keep our heads above water. At other times, we are scrambling in the tide below, barely able to see the shore for the crashing waves above us. Yet we keep repeating the same old patterns, scarcely able to recognise the power we hold, the power to still the storm and grasp the rails that offer stability through it all.
Programmed to bury it all, for shame, for taboo, for the façade of normality we are swept further and further from our true purpose and the captivating possibilities that lie inside each of us.
I am still learning to honour those valleys as well as the peaks and braving the consequence of responding to the question “How are you?” from an honest perspective. It does not come easy and perhaps it is not meant to - growth is not necessarily comfortable. I have two highly intuitive and generously spirited children who challenge me daily to be the best version of myself I can be and I can choose to instruct them with lofty words that may or may not find their mark. Or, I can honour myself and through this honour them by being an example and showing them their own power, however uncomfortable it may be.
The human experience is shambolic, it is cluttered and disorganised, it comes in waves and sometimes we find ourselves at the peak, looking down, marvelling at how we managed to keep our heads above water. At other times, we are scrambling in the tide below, barely able to see the shore for the crashing waves above us. Yet we keep repeating the same old patterns, scarcely able to recognise the power we hold, the power to still the storm and grasp the rails that offer stability through it all.
Programmed to bury it all, for shame, for taboo, for the façade of normality we are swept further and further from our true purpose and the captivating possibilities that lie inside each of us.
I am still learning to honour those valleys as well as the peaks and braving the consequence of responding to the question “How are you?” from an honest perspective. It does not come easy and perhaps it is not meant to - growth is not necessarily comfortable. I have two highly intuitive and generously spirited children who challenge me daily to be the best version of myself I can be and I can choose to instruct them with lofty words that may or may not find their mark. Or, I can honour myself and through this honour them by being an example and showing them their own power, however uncomfortable it may be.
My last article ‘Silence in a deafening storm’ - was my first step. It was not easy to write, neither was it very comfortable to release, but it was comforting, almost therapeutic to write. In past articles I have invited readers to join my campfire to sit under the stars with me in silence or to seize the talking stick and to speak, or write their stories, their voices freed, heard by others, acknowledge and recognized. Without doing this myself, I am just preaching and you are all too deserving for that. I would have failed myself too, content to be the host, making sure everyone else was comfortable (and I do this well, too well). I am a good listener and people naturally come to me with their struggles. I am attentive, empathic, sympathetic, and I rarely call the return, comfortable helping others. However, that is a take away, a take on, it is a selfish standpoint and threatens to unbalance the scale. I made a point to address that in the last article, putting myself out there even though it was not easy and I am making a commitment to change that going forward.
Going back to the question, “Why are we here”. ?
The answer to that question lies within each of us. It is a unique experience, a whispered etching on our soul, reflecting in who we are. It is the ‘what’ we choose free of judgement and preconceived perception, it is within what we hold sacred and what we do with the time we spend in the human experience and no one but ourselves can know or discover the reason, but we should own it.
As for the question, “Why is it so hard?”
Because we should own it, but we keep telling everyone, including ourselves that we are fine, when we are not. We keep squirreling away, burying, discarding and even ignoring why we are here instead of embracing it. We must stop believing that there is shame in struggling, when we start to really talk to one another we begin to realise that we are our own prisoners, held captive by the collective belief that admitting weakness makes us fragile. It is hard because we are programmed to believe that success comes from struggle, and the strong don’t ask for help. We guard ours true selves by denying our innate desire to connect to each other on a more honest level, it has to be tiring and difficult to maintain – we make it so.
I do not know if it gets easier. I think that as with everything worth experiencing it takes a leap of faith. As with anything new we learn, it takes practice and effort and so it probably does not get easier. No, I think it starts to feel more comfortable, maybe more natural and surely if we start living our purpose, it should start to feel more comforting.
For me writing is therapy and hopefully, for you, reading it is too.
Going back to the question, “Why are we here”. ?
The answer to that question lies within each of us. It is a unique experience, a whispered etching on our soul, reflecting in who we are. It is the ‘what’ we choose free of judgement and preconceived perception, it is within what we hold sacred and what we do with the time we spend in the human experience and no one but ourselves can know or discover the reason, but we should own it.
As for the question, “Why is it so hard?”
Because we should own it, but we keep telling everyone, including ourselves that we are fine, when we are not. We keep squirreling away, burying, discarding and even ignoring why we are here instead of embracing it. We must stop believing that there is shame in struggling, when we start to really talk to one another we begin to realise that we are our own prisoners, held captive by the collective belief that admitting weakness makes us fragile. It is hard because we are programmed to believe that success comes from struggle, and the strong don’t ask for help. We guard ours true selves by denying our innate desire to connect to each other on a more honest level, it has to be tiring and difficult to maintain – we make it so.
I do not know if it gets easier. I think that as with everything worth experiencing it takes a leap of faith. As with anything new we learn, it takes practice and effort and so it probably does not get easier. No, I think it starts to feel more comfortable, maybe more natural and surely if we start living our purpose, it should start to feel more comforting.
For me writing is therapy and hopefully, for you, reading it is too.
Silence in a Deafening Storm
It is ok to be quiet. In those moments when you are coping and the surviving is taking all of your energy. It is ok to be quiet. I came to learn the phrase ‘to hold the space open” before I understood it. I presume this is the irony of the graduated. We are all dealing with trauma, from the lives we have lived and the things we have experienced, anything unresolved, anything that violates our self-image or creates internal conflict is trauma – we are all dealing with trauma.
To hold the space is an unspoken contract between two souls, where we recognise and acknowledge the trauma, without judgement without resolve. It comes from a place of pure love. It puts aside ego and the innate response mechanism that presumes to know “how to fix it” and simply is a space to be - safe, with each other, outside of general relativism. Pure love supposes a freedom from pain, a resolution of trauma but I am finding it comes often from those who have endured, or who are still enduring and simply have the capacity to see in you a reflection of themselves. A knowing. I have come to understand it intimately because I am surviving my own trauma and learning to thrive on my own terms and those who have held the space for me have my divine gratitude.
It is ok to be quiet. In those moments when you are coping and the surviving is taking all of your energy. It is ok to be quiet. I came to learn the phrase ‘to hold the space open” before I understood it. I presume this is the irony of the graduated. We are all dealing with trauma, from the lives we have lived and the things we have experienced, anything unresolved, anything that violates our self-image or creates internal conflict is trauma – we are all dealing with trauma.
To hold the space is an unspoken contract between two souls, where we recognise and acknowledge the trauma, without judgement without resolve. It comes from a place of pure love. It puts aside ego and the innate response mechanism that presumes to know “how to fix it” and simply is a space to be - safe, with each other, outside of general relativism. Pure love supposes a freedom from pain, a resolution of trauma but I am finding it comes often from those who have endured, or who are still enduring and simply have the capacity to see in you a reflection of themselves. A knowing. I have come to understand it intimately because I am surviving my own trauma and learning to thrive on my own terms and those who have held the space for me have my divine gratitude.
When you are coping/surviving, you do not have the energy for explanations. If you can, you go to places where you know one sentence or one word, or even silence will speak the volumes you have yet to transcribe. If you cannot, you go inside – and that is an ok place to be, for a while, but we are human and the need to connect with those around us runs deep.
It is okay to be quiet. Silence does not always denote denial. I have been quiet because I have gone in search of my own voice and I have found it spent on repetition, repeating the same old words, weary of its own redundancies. I have rethreaded the storyline, transforming the victim to victor, the dependent to the enlightened and in so doing releasing all responsibility to the things that were not mine to hold.
The story told is my own, it does not bear the weight of your understanding or acceptance, but should it trace itself along your own then know you are not alone.
I distinctly recall the feeling of having ‘come home’, it was a relief that made me realise I had been swirling round and round like a leaf in a tornado and the centred silence I felt with him, was like coming home.
It is now more than twenty years later, we have built a home and a family together but I am learning that it is I with the power to still the storm, it always has been. You may call it a spiritual contract, past life connection or soul mate, we, my husband and I have been together a while, many life times and many lessons.
It is okay to be quiet. Silence does not always denote denial. I have been quiet because I have gone in search of my own voice and I have found it spent on repetition, repeating the same old words, weary of its own redundancies. I have rethreaded the storyline, transforming the victim to victor, the dependent to the enlightened and in so doing releasing all responsibility to the things that were not mine to hold.
The story told is my own, it does not bear the weight of your understanding or acceptance, but should it trace itself along your own then know you are not alone.
I distinctly recall the feeling of having ‘come home’, it was a relief that made me realise I had been swirling round and round like a leaf in a tornado and the centred silence I felt with him, was like coming home.
It is now more than twenty years later, we have built a home and a family together but I am learning that it is I with the power to still the storm, it always has been. You may call it a spiritual contract, past life connection or soul mate, we, my husband and I have been together a while, many life times and many lessons.
In this one, the cornerstone lies exposed to the elements, wrenched free and raw to the touch.
We are currently – under reconstruction and it is a messy process. We have shifted some walls, discovered some rot, recognised the makeshift MacGyverisms in our design and even contemplated abandoning the project altogether and dismantling the remains.
Here is the thing, once you acknowledge a failure or shortcoming of any kind, you have a choice, you can decide to hide it, to ignore it or to talk your way out of it, or you can decide to challenge it – head on. You can choose to work through it, recognise your part in it, take ownership for your part in it and then give back responsibility to others. This is how we heal ourselves it is the most generous gift we can give ourselves and the highest honour we can gift others by holding the space for them.
My husband had fallen under the spell of alcohol, lulled by its promise of ecstasy and tormented by its ravenous appetite and over the years, denial and anger have disturbed the quiet and raged a storm that threatens expulsion.
Holding onto yourself in a quiet storm is deafening, trying to tether the leash on someone else who simply wants let go is impossible. Letting go is the hardest thing I have ever done, it is the greatest gift I have ever given myself. It is a leap of faith. It does not reside in his ability to overcome the influence of alcohol in his life but rather in accepting that I cannot hold the space for him and hold on to him, tethered against a storm. He has to find the quiet in himself and I have no more control over his success or failure than I do the changing of the seasons.
Every day is a challenge.
Every day holds possibility.
Every day holds choice – may we each honour our own power.
It is okay to be quiet. However, when the deafening silence no longer honours your journey, may you find the voice to raise it and the space to hold it.
We are currently – under reconstruction and it is a messy process. We have shifted some walls, discovered some rot, recognised the makeshift MacGyverisms in our design and even contemplated abandoning the project altogether and dismantling the remains.
Here is the thing, once you acknowledge a failure or shortcoming of any kind, you have a choice, you can decide to hide it, to ignore it or to talk your way out of it, or you can decide to challenge it – head on. You can choose to work through it, recognise your part in it, take ownership for your part in it and then give back responsibility to others. This is how we heal ourselves it is the most generous gift we can give ourselves and the highest honour we can gift others by holding the space for them.
My husband had fallen under the spell of alcohol, lulled by its promise of ecstasy and tormented by its ravenous appetite and over the years, denial and anger have disturbed the quiet and raged a storm that threatens expulsion.
Holding onto yourself in a quiet storm is deafening, trying to tether the leash on someone else who simply wants let go is impossible. Letting go is the hardest thing I have ever done, it is the greatest gift I have ever given myself. It is a leap of faith. It does not reside in his ability to overcome the influence of alcohol in his life but rather in accepting that I cannot hold the space for him and hold on to him, tethered against a storm. He has to find the quiet in himself and I have no more control over his success or failure than I do the changing of the seasons.
Every day is a challenge.
Every day holds possibility.
Every day holds choice – may we each honour our own power.
It is okay to be quiet. However, when the deafening silence no longer honours your journey, may you find the voice to raise it and the space to hold it.
Write it Down
Write it down and let it go. Write it down and make it happen
It is a funny thing, each year around the end of December we start to look back, think and reflect on the past year – and what a year it was. Around the same time, we renew promises made and set goals for a better new year. Sometimes we set ourselves up for failure with lofty ideas and impossible goals and before we know it, we run out of steam before making it to the starting blocks, defeated and deflated – a whole year ahead of us and no energy to complete the task.
The year that was, has passed, its scattered remnants however, are seen and felt everywhere. It reached beyond the veil of that New Year’s Eve, a shadow creature begging for scraps. As the after-effects of our doomed decree begin to dissolve and we settle into our new routines, resolute and resigned we must now - acknowledge or deny this uninvited guest and more importantly, choose – to feed or starve it.
I do believe there are magic moments, seasoned with a culmination of intent and purpose, an alignment of powerful energy wherein we can spell change, but I do not believe we should give so much power to an annual scheduled event within which we hold so much guarantee and such little promise.
Write it down and let it go. Write it down and make it happen
It is a funny thing, each year around the end of December we start to look back, think and reflect on the past year – and what a year it was. Around the same time, we renew promises made and set goals for a better new year. Sometimes we set ourselves up for failure with lofty ideas and impossible goals and before we know it, we run out of steam before making it to the starting blocks, defeated and deflated – a whole year ahead of us and no energy to complete the task.
The year that was, has passed, its scattered remnants however, are seen and felt everywhere. It reached beyond the veil of that New Year’s Eve, a shadow creature begging for scraps. As the after-effects of our doomed decree begin to dissolve and we settle into our new routines, resolute and resigned we must now - acknowledge or deny this uninvited guest and more importantly, choose – to feed or starve it.
I do believe there are magic moments, seasoned with a culmination of intent and purpose, an alignment of powerful energy wherein we can spell change, but I do not believe we should give so much power to an annual scheduled event within which we hold so much guarantee and such little promise.
A small ritual we practice at this time is to write down all the lessons we have learnt, all the trials we have overcome. We write these on small pieces of paper – these matters, the issues, devices or fixations and we thank them for the part they have played in our lives, placing them in fire to be consumed in flame and discharged. We then consider the life we want to live and write down the blessings and consent to invite these aspirations into our lives, placing them in fire to be burnt and set free. There is no schedule, no deadline for achievement, no lofty and impossible goals. A simple recognition of things to come. In this way, you are the creator, the purveyor of your reality – as you always have been.
It may not be New Year’s eve and the new year may have already set its parameters around you, but there is never a better moment than the one in which you recognise and hold your own power. That moment is not due at a particular time, or scheduled to take place – it is in every moment, at any point in time – it is now. It is every day, the moment we choose what to make of each day, how we show up each day, who we invite in and how we reflect what we have embraced as our true purpose.
May this be a rewarding season.
It may not be New Year’s eve and the new year may have already set its parameters around you, but there is never a better moment than the one in which you recognise and hold your own power. That moment is not due at a particular time, or scheduled to take place – it is in every moment, at any point in time – it is now. It is every day, the moment we choose what to make of each day, how we show up each day, who we invite in and how we reflect what we have embraced as our true purpose.
May this be a rewarding season.
Ebb and Flow of Life
In the beginning we were connected, rooted within communities in which every member of that society had a purpose, a place and a gift it honoured its collective membership with. There were the protectors, the teachers, the gatherers and the collectors of truth and all were welcomed at the feast and each had their story to share, the old and the young alike and those who wove words threaded a fabric that clothed their past and guided the path to come.
There were deep roots to source through the healers, the medicine men and women ordained through insight to help others recognise the light in themselves. There was a knowing, a trusting in the accounts that were to follow as well as those had had passed, an understanding of the role that each had to play and all of this had us firmly rooted, connected and within reach of each other, an interdependent web of creation that ebbed and flowed in a thriving symbiosis.
In the beginning we were connected, rooted within communities in which every member of that society had a purpose, a place and a gift it honoured its collective membership with. There were the protectors, the teachers, the gatherers and the collectors of truth and all were welcomed at the feast and each had their story to share, the old and the young alike and those who wove words threaded a fabric that clothed their past and guided the path to come.
There were deep roots to source through the healers, the medicine men and women ordained through insight to help others recognise the light in themselves. There was a knowing, a trusting in the accounts that were to follow as well as those had had passed, an understanding of the role that each had to play and all of this had us firmly rooted, connected and within reach of each other, an interdependent web of creation that ebbed and flowed in a thriving symbiosis.
Over the eons that stretched from the beginning, the threads grew taut, some held, some snapped and recoiled, spiralling helixes in the network of time and we were left with memories held only in the flight of our dreamtimes.
Over this time that we all now find ourselves, the implausible peculiarity that has catapulted our already fragile connection to source - I find myself in a foreign place, longing for that familial embrace. It is that dread of finding yourself in the centre of a room, it is grand with high ceilings and gilded mouldings and everywhere people in conversation both gaudy and muted, familiar in faces and frequent embraces, I should feel acquainted, a consort, included. Instead I am found to be alone in a room full of people.
Over this time that we all now find ourselves, the implausible peculiarity that has catapulted our already fragile connection to source - I find myself in a foreign place, longing for that familial embrace. It is that dread of finding yourself in the centre of a room, it is grand with high ceilings and gilded mouldings and everywhere people in conversation both gaudy and muted, familiar in faces and frequent embraces, I should feel acquainted, a consort, included. Instead I am found to be alone in a room full of people.
I flit and I flutter from one to another, my voice is as soft as the skirt on a flower but inside my head it’s a thundering bellow. A stumble of words over numbers and matters that matter in truth neither value nor substance, we dance and we flirt around what really matters and discount our senses and truth on the matters.
So far from the ebb and the flow we have travelled that the stars that once lit our night sky have faded from memory. In my dreamtime I sit beneath those distant stars, held warm by the fabric of our story tellers, the teachers, the healers and the warriors. I smell the fires, see the flames and dance with the wisdoms of the ancients.
I long to meet you there, where you and I do not need to feel alone in a room full of people, where I see you, and you see me, to connect with the familial that is who we really are, for you and I are not alone under the stars, we are the stars, a twinkling pin hole in a dark sky, a gathering light in a darkness whose time has come to pass.
Come, sit with me and let us talk - free of ego, an unrevised, unedited and unapologetic conference of truth and if words do not come, let us sit together in silence, in the quiet that recognises the ‘us’ in each other. Let’s start a conversation under the night sky, let us be the spark in each other.
So far from the ebb and the flow we have travelled that the stars that once lit our night sky have faded from memory. In my dreamtime I sit beneath those distant stars, held warm by the fabric of our story tellers, the teachers, the healers and the warriors. I smell the fires, see the flames and dance with the wisdoms of the ancients.
I long to meet you there, where you and I do not need to feel alone in a room full of people, where I see you, and you see me, to connect with the familial that is who we really are, for you and I are not alone under the stars, we are the stars, a twinkling pin hole in a dark sky, a gathering light in a darkness whose time has come to pass.
Come, sit with me and let us talk - free of ego, an unrevised, unedited and unapologetic conference of truth and if words do not come, let us sit together in silence, in the quiet that recognises the ‘us’ in each other. Let’s start a conversation under the night sky, let us be the spark in each other.
Handmade
I recently read something that piqued my interest. It was posted on a social media platform and it spoke of a challenge that is facing many people at this time, a direct result of attempts by government, not just ours but across the world - to flatten the COVID-19 curve that has left many individuals and families divest of economic opportunity, or to put it more bluntly, the ability to put food on the table and shelter at our backs.
The post spoke of a trade in services, a bartering of skills, not a you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours, scenario but an honest, stripped bare and exposed, this is what I can create, grow, fix, build vs this is what I need, that I cannot build, fix, grow or create myself – how can we help each other thrive during this time when we can no longer earn what we need to survive.
Money, well that’s a topic for another day, but let me just leave this thought here because it speaks to the point. We live in a world where our value has become something determined by certain skill sets and some of the highest valued skills sets having nothing to do with the ability to create, fix or build things with our own hands but more to do with managing or controlling those who can.
I recently read something that piqued my interest. It was posted on a social media platform and it spoke of a challenge that is facing many people at this time, a direct result of attempts by government, not just ours but across the world - to flatten the COVID-19 curve that has left many individuals and families divest of economic opportunity, or to put it more bluntly, the ability to put food on the table and shelter at our backs.
The post spoke of a trade in services, a bartering of skills, not a you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours, scenario but an honest, stripped bare and exposed, this is what I can create, grow, fix, build vs this is what I need, that I cannot build, fix, grow or create myself – how can we help each other thrive during this time when we can no longer earn what we need to survive.
Money, well that’s a topic for another day, but let me just leave this thought here because it speaks to the point. We live in a world where our value has become something determined by certain skill sets and some of the highest valued skills sets having nothing to do with the ability to create, fix or build things with our own hands but more to do with managing or controlling those who can.
But here we are in 2020 living in world where for the moment, industry has ground to a halt, food production is at risk, companies are closing and people are losing their jobs, their income and their freedoms. Some of those high value skills are scrambling for footholds in the cobwebs of yesterday as we are stripped back to the bare essentials.
And let us be brutally honest with ourselves here, because if we aren’t, we are fooling no one but ourselves. Most of us have forgotten how to weave a fabric of existence that does not rely on money, forgotten the feel of soil under our nails, how steady a root holds its ground or the pleasure of nurturing a food source from seed to harvest. Our fingertips caress tiled letters on a keyboard, fashioning reality from the microchips and fragments of quartz embedded in technology instead of connecting to the tangible textiles of our existence. We have forgotten how to be self-sufficient, we have become the soft underbelly of complacency. It is these thoughts that have sat and debated with me over the past few days, days I too have spent tapping tiled letters, grappling problems and searching for solutions, all the while feeling the cold numb my fingers.
There is scientific evidence linking the use of our hands to cognitive ability, a reason why we spend the formative years of our development using our hands, experimenting with touch, textures and the feeling of our environment, why crawling is so important and why we learn to write in cursive. We have spent an inordinate amount of time getting to know our hands. They are unique, the fingertips that sense, that touch and feel are embedded with nerves that send messages to our heart, soul and to the brain, they interpret the world and send us signals. It is our heart and soul that uses the same hands to hold, caress and heal, to create, grow, fix and build.
So, despite the cold weather, why are my hands so cold? My brain is using them to send messages, typed on tiled letters, embedding my thoughts into the microchips and fragments of quartz inside my computer. My heart is open, my thoughts are pure, but the chill persists and it is only in the malleable fabric of creating something with my own hands that they find relief.
And let us be brutally honest with ourselves here, because if we aren’t, we are fooling no one but ourselves. Most of us have forgotten how to weave a fabric of existence that does not rely on money, forgotten the feel of soil under our nails, how steady a root holds its ground or the pleasure of nurturing a food source from seed to harvest. Our fingertips caress tiled letters on a keyboard, fashioning reality from the microchips and fragments of quartz embedded in technology instead of connecting to the tangible textiles of our existence. We have forgotten how to be self-sufficient, we have become the soft underbelly of complacency. It is these thoughts that have sat and debated with me over the past few days, days I too have spent tapping tiled letters, grappling problems and searching for solutions, all the while feeling the cold numb my fingers.
There is scientific evidence linking the use of our hands to cognitive ability, a reason why we spend the formative years of our development using our hands, experimenting with touch, textures and the feeling of our environment, why crawling is so important and why we learn to write in cursive. We have spent an inordinate amount of time getting to know our hands. They are unique, the fingertips that sense, that touch and feel are embedded with nerves that send messages to our heart, soul and to the brain, they interpret the world and send us signals. It is our heart and soul that uses the same hands to hold, caress and heal, to create, grow, fix and build.
So, despite the cold weather, why are my hands so cold? My brain is using them to send messages, typed on tiled letters, embedding my thoughts into the microchips and fragments of quartz inside my computer. My heart is open, my thoughts are pure, but the chill persists and it is only in the malleable fabric of creating something with my own hands that they find relief.
My hands have fixed and they have built and they have had seasons to grow where the harvest has been good, but it is in creating, through knitting and more recently crocheting that they make sense of things, where the pieces fit and where I have found a quiet akin to meditation.
I have been knitting since I was a child, in fact when I was old enough to start learning needlework and knitting, as was expected at school, I opted to rather learn woodwork - much to the horror of my teachers and peers. It wasn’t a snub to the art, I simply wanted to use the opportunity to learn something new.
Knitting has always been my staple, amongst the many new skills I have learnt over the years out of necessity, such as learning how to decorate cakes – because that is an expensive service to pay for – or simply curiosity, such as engraving – because everything deserves to be decorated. Yes, knitting has always been the staple and I have whiskey tins full of needles (plastic, bamboo, round, straight) and yarn (baskets and project bags) and even scrap cuttings here and there to prove it, but crocheting has always alluded me – until now.
COVID-19 has caused some major upheavals in our lives, but I always try to look for the positives and time to learn new things must be included on that list. I have always admired the intricate weave of knots and twists that fuse colours and bend shapes like only crochet can. I have marveled at the skill and mused at ways to fund the purchasing of those luxurious crochet blankets that I have desired, understanding the costs involved, the prices have never shocked me as they do others. It is an art and as I have read, you are not paying simply for the time it takes to create the object but also the years of dedication to the skill. Something that is made by hand embodies the energy and intent of the creator, it can be made for purpose but it is most assuredly also made with meaning and that is priceless.
I have been knitting since I was a child, in fact when I was old enough to start learning needlework and knitting, as was expected at school, I opted to rather learn woodwork - much to the horror of my teachers and peers. It wasn’t a snub to the art, I simply wanted to use the opportunity to learn something new.
Knitting has always been my staple, amongst the many new skills I have learnt over the years out of necessity, such as learning how to decorate cakes – because that is an expensive service to pay for – or simply curiosity, such as engraving – because everything deserves to be decorated. Yes, knitting has always been the staple and I have whiskey tins full of needles (plastic, bamboo, round, straight) and yarn (baskets and project bags) and even scrap cuttings here and there to prove it, but crocheting has always alluded me – until now.
COVID-19 has caused some major upheavals in our lives, but I always try to look for the positives and time to learn new things must be included on that list. I have always admired the intricate weave of knots and twists that fuse colours and bend shapes like only crochet can. I have marveled at the skill and mused at ways to fund the purchasing of those luxurious crochet blankets that I have desired, understanding the costs involved, the prices have never shocked me as they do others. It is an art and as I have read, you are not paying simply for the time it takes to create the object but also the years of dedication to the skill. Something that is made by hand embodies the energy and intent of the creator, it can be made for purpose but it is most assuredly also made with meaning and that is priceless.
So when I hear talk about people wanting to share their time and skills not for money but for something of equal and desired necessity, it gets my attention. It starts to feel to me like another item to put on the positive list, it fits most resoundingly with a return to self, an acknowledgement of the power we have within our own hands, to fix, to build, to grow and create and I can’t help but wonder how differently we would start to value ourselves if the experience and skills we listed on our CV’s had less to do with the building empirical economies and more to do with our ability to craft by hand the world we deserve to live in.
Yesterday is an experience lived, today is not too late and tomorrow is not a given, if we have learnt, as we should have from this experience, should we not start gifting ourselves the opportunity to learn new skills, to stop resting the value of our worth on the mechanics of industry and instead remember what it meant to make our own clothes, grow our own food and start carving the value of our place back into our existence.
Yesterday is an experience lived, today is not too late and tomorrow is not a given, if we have learnt, as we should have from this experience, should we not start gifting ourselves the opportunity to learn new skills, to stop resting the value of our worth on the mechanics of industry and instead remember what it meant to make our own clothes, grow our own food and start carving the value of our place back into our existence.
Finding Voices in Sunlight
When I was a child I spent a great deal of time alone, thinking, it was definitely a time when I was more mindful, less rushed by the expectations of life and the noise around me. It was certainly a different time, things appeared more black and white, complex issues seemed more easily digestible, those that weren’t were not a problem because I had more time to apply my mind to it.
Then we went into lock down and the hustle and bustle of normal life ground to a halt, suddenly I have more time to sit and think. It reminds me that I have always said I would love to be a cat, stretched out in the sun - a cozy warmth of sunlight blanketing me from the elements and life outside the window. As I sit here at my desk, a space that I have more suitably settled into now that my position on working from home seems more probable into the near and distant future – it occurs to me how cat like I have become. Seeking solace and finding my strength as I stretch my toes against the sun-drenched window pane.
When I was a child I spent a great deal of time alone, thinking, it was definitely a time when I was more mindful, less rushed by the expectations of life and the noise around me. It was certainly a different time, things appeared more black and white, complex issues seemed more easily digestible, those that weren’t were not a problem because I had more time to apply my mind to it.
Then we went into lock down and the hustle and bustle of normal life ground to a halt, suddenly I have more time to sit and think. It reminds me that I have always said I would love to be a cat, stretched out in the sun - a cozy warmth of sunlight blanketing me from the elements and life outside the window. As I sit here at my desk, a space that I have more suitably settled into now that my position on working from home seems more probable into the near and distant future – it occurs to me how cat like I have become. Seeking solace and finding my strength as I stretch my toes against the sun-drenched window pane.
It feels comforting to feel the silence creep across my thoughts and I wonder if this is what meditation feels like, something I cannot do very well as I tend to fall asleep. It is as if the constructed time and purpose of meditation renders itself moot unless I stumble across it when I least expect it – at least that is how it is for me. But give me sunshine and a warm spot to sit and my mind does a wondrous thing, it makes sense of it all, everything.
I remember lying cold against the paving in our backyard, a pre-teen, soaking in the sun, spending time alone, eyes closed but aware of the blue skies above and the clouds above my head. I remember reaching up, stretching as high as I could to reach the sky, I remember the feel of the clouds on my fingers, the subtle change of sensation in the atmosphere. I believed I could touch the clouds, I believed I was touching the clouds and I remember asking if this is real?
The answer, if that is what you would call it was an overwhelming sense of life, that this was what everything felt like, how it was all made up, time and space colliding, this was the meaning of it all, like some mathematical precision that I knew would never make sense if I opened my eyes, but for just that moment, at that precise time, it made sense. It could not be captured, or explained and even if it could - it would not make sense to anyone else because that translation was for me.
I have missed those moments, they have not happened often enough, definitely not since forever in my recent recollections. The world I live in is now ruled by time, deadlines and expectations and it has felt like my purpose has been in composing the chords of each of these elements, just right so that the song remains. But that balance depends on a constant, me, and if I can no longer feel safe and warm and have a sense of it all, then those chords will never stay on key.
I know this observation has flaws, I am not responsible for all the notes or all the chords and if I don’t take the time to hear, to really listen, then what am I really achieving. Everything else if white noise, meant to drown out the beating of your own soul, its meant to distract and refract our truth.
I have learnt something recently about music, something that upsets me and my analogy to ‘beating of your soul’, to the rhythm of life and to really listening are not a simple embellishment to help you walk the path I have paved, it is a link to this think about music that I have learnt.
I remember lying cold against the paving in our backyard, a pre-teen, soaking in the sun, spending time alone, eyes closed but aware of the blue skies above and the clouds above my head. I remember reaching up, stretching as high as I could to reach the sky, I remember the feel of the clouds on my fingers, the subtle change of sensation in the atmosphere. I believed I could touch the clouds, I believed I was touching the clouds and I remember asking if this is real?
The answer, if that is what you would call it was an overwhelming sense of life, that this was what everything felt like, how it was all made up, time and space colliding, this was the meaning of it all, like some mathematical precision that I knew would never make sense if I opened my eyes, but for just that moment, at that precise time, it made sense. It could not be captured, or explained and even if it could - it would not make sense to anyone else because that translation was for me.
I have missed those moments, they have not happened often enough, definitely not since forever in my recent recollections. The world I live in is now ruled by time, deadlines and expectations and it has felt like my purpose has been in composing the chords of each of these elements, just right so that the song remains. But that balance depends on a constant, me, and if I can no longer feel safe and warm and have a sense of it all, then those chords will never stay on key.
I know this observation has flaws, I am not responsible for all the notes or all the chords and if I don’t take the time to hear, to really listen, then what am I really achieving. Everything else if white noise, meant to drown out the beating of your own soul, its meant to distract and refract our truth.
I have learnt something recently about music, something that upsets me and my analogy to ‘beating of your soul’, to the rhythm of life and to really listening are not a simple embellishment to help you walk the path I have paved, it is a link to this think about music that I have learnt.
In popular music, there is a tool that is used to enhance the listener’s acceptance of the song, to grab their attention, it is called ‘the hook’. You don’t have acknowledge it, you even like it that much, it is just there, lulling and coddling and you find yourself tapping your feet, singling along. It does not ask your opinion and it does not anticipate further exploration, in fact it doesn’t expect anything from you. That can be comforting in a demanding world, it can be downright welcoming, but it serves only to add to our own disenfranchisement.
I am hearing the same hook in many other places and it becomes more and more evident to me the more time I spend reading commentary on social media, that is lives there too. There are more and more people looking for that comfort in the validation of others, not taking the time taken research and read information themselves (I too have stopped myself from doing this time and again), looking for their answers in the opinion of others, using what other people think and feel to draft their own narrative and my question is, if we are all doing this - then who is writing the original narrative and why have we become so complacent in our acceptance of other voices?
We trusted our own voices once, maybe not so long ago for some as it was for me, but we did listen and we debated and reasoned and decided on a stance and we lived it or lived with it, without fear of public criticism or personal vindication. We embraced our own voices and kept our own council, honoring it amongst others. I can’t say I have never succumbed to the hook, be it in popular music or in the opinions of others but I am learning to sit back, stretch my toes in the sun and listen.
If it’s been a while, and this resonates with you, grab a pillow, make yourself comfortable and join me in the sunlight.
I am hearing the same hook in many other places and it becomes more and more evident to me the more time I spend reading commentary on social media, that is lives there too. There are more and more people looking for that comfort in the validation of others, not taking the time taken research and read information themselves (I too have stopped myself from doing this time and again), looking for their answers in the opinion of others, using what other people think and feel to draft their own narrative and my question is, if we are all doing this - then who is writing the original narrative and why have we become so complacent in our acceptance of other voices?
We trusted our own voices once, maybe not so long ago for some as it was for me, but we did listen and we debated and reasoned and decided on a stance and we lived it or lived with it, without fear of public criticism or personal vindication. We embraced our own voices and kept our own council, honoring it amongst others. I can’t say I have never succumbed to the hook, be it in popular music or in the opinions of others but I am learning to sit back, stretch my toes in the sun and listen.
If it’s been a while, and this resonates with you, grab a pillow, make yourself comfortable and join me in the sunlight.
Connection Lost ... Reboot
Time, the one thing we surely did not need to stockpile, yet unlike the dwindling ingredients in my grocery cupboard rendering me dumbstruck come supper time, the minutes, hours and days are abundant. We are all starting to feel a little frazzled by the confines of our four walls and even our animals are starting to wonder just when they will be able to claim back the daylight hours of our home for themselves. The honeymoon phase of endlessly trailing us to the kitchen for titbits and sharing sunny slumber spots is wearing thin with the increase in tummy tickles and shrieking laughter from those youthful inmates trying to amuse themselves.
As we enter the second week of lockdown I am sure that we are all suffering from some lack of connectivity, whether it is the faces of our friends and family, or our colleagues or even the teacher at our children’s school. Those encounters, once trivial in their frequency now a distant shimmering oasis in this desert of human connectivity we find ourselves wandering in.
The very thing that shall save us, being the one thing we have evolved to depend on – being connected. I mused at the beginning of it all about how distance was the global savior of those who lost their lives to pandemics throughout history. Distance because exposure was limited by trade routes, and relatively easy to contain geographically.
The world we live in today is so very different, with its high speed internet access and satellite images that have made the world we live in that much smaller, that much more accessible. I am not going to knock the connectedness of our electronic age. It is the same creature that will help us to connect to our loved ones across continents and oceans during this time, help us to continue working so that we can ease the economic recession, help us share information and uplift others who are finding negativity in these dark spaces. It has a purpose and for that we should be grateful.
Time, the one thing we surely did not need to stockpile, yet unlike the dwindling ingredients in my grocery cupboard rendering me dumbstruck come supper time, the minutes, hours and days are abundant. We are all starting to feel a little frazzled by the confines of our four walls and even our animals are starting to wonder just when they will be able to claim back the daylight hours of our home for themselves. The honeymoon phase of endlessly trailing us to the kitchen for titbits and sharing sunny slumber spots is wearing thin with the increase in tummy tickles and shrieking laughter from those youthful inmates trying to amuse themselves.
As we enter the second week of lockdown I am sure that we are all suffering from some lack of connectivity, whether it is the faces of our friends and family, or our colleagues or even the teacher at our children’s school. Those encounters, once trivial in their frequency now a distant shimmering oasis in this desert of human connectivity we find ourselves wandering in.
The very thing that shall save us, being the one thing we have evolved to depend on – being connected. I mused at the beginning of it all about how distance was the global savior of those who lost their lives to pandemics throughout history. Distance because exposure was limited by trade routes, and relatively easy to contain geographically.
The world we live in today is so very different, with its high speed internet access and satellite images that have made the world we live in that much smaller, that much more accessible. I am not going to knock the connectedness of our electronic age. It is the same creature that will help us to connect to our loved ones across continents and oceans during this time, help us to continue working so that we can ease the economic recession, help us share information and uplift others who are finding negativity in these dark spaces. It has a purpose and for that we should be grateful.
No, time was certainly not on my shopping list as I prepared for this lockdown, but you know what has crept onto it – data, connection to source. Those first few days spent anxiously watching the data donut dolefully drudge across my screen, then disappear as I lost connection. I needed to work you see, I needed to share information with people for work – it was important and I was letting the team down and the more anxious and angry I got the slower the donut drudged.
You see there is something you should know about me - I don’t get along well with electronics. I don’t wear a watch – they tend to lose time, or stop working altogether. I can literally feel the IT technicians cringe when they have to hear me out as I describe some weird thing my computer just did. I have an auto electrician on speed dial because my car’s radio, battery, lights….the list goes on, tends to act up regularly. I try to stay away from electronics but I also have a job to do.
You see there is something you should know about me - I don’t get along well with electronics. I don’t wear a watch – they tend to lose time, or stop working altogether. I can literally feel the IT technicians cringe when they have to hear me out as I describe some weird thing my computer just did. I have an auto electrician on speed dial because my car’s radio, battery, lights….the list goes on, tends to act up regularly. I try to stay away from electronics but I also have a job to do.
So here’s what I have only just learnt.
When the connection was lost, I shut down the computer, switched off the wifi and went outside, I sat in the garden with my cats and talked to my children, I took out my paints and finished my artwork, I watered my seedlings. I acknowledged the connection with self, the connection with source and rewired.
It’s a funny thing, even though we have come so far, spread across continents, traversed oceans… evolved. There is one connection we have never lost, even though we lost sight of if, even if the donut was dwindling on its edge about to tip over, we never lost connection to source and time, even though it was not on my shopping list is the one thing I never want to be without again.
When the connection was lost, I shut down the computer, switched off the wifi and went outside, I sat in the garden with my cats and talked to my children, I took out my paints and finished my artwork, I watered my seedlings. I acknowledged the connection with self, the connection with source and rewired.
It’s a funny thing, even though we have come so far, spread across continents, traversed oceans… evolved. There is one connection we have never lost, even though we lost sight of if, even if the donut was dwindling on its edge about to tip over, we never lost connection to source and time, even though it was not on my shopping list is the one thing I never want to be without again.
Work
I have often read of inspiration as a nagging persistent presence lingering, even haunting, scarcely contained below consciousness. Able to pause and hold its breath yet equally inclined to rupture the conscious bubble containing it, spilling out in messy, colourful, incoherent and often insomnia-induced fragments of data. Knowledge that fades as the morning sun renders our dreamlike state inappropriate and we are left with scraps, like torn out images from a magazine, plucked, stuck and shut away, memories to unpack another day.
Every now and then, a word, a remnant of inspiration, refuses to be plucked, stuck and shut away. It signs its mark across every surface, inside every thought and demands attention. Recently I have been plagued by the word WORK. Not the cost of living, metered monetary worth that consents our way of life - work, but the soul inspiring, light and life giving work that serves our true purpose. Make no mistake it is there, in everything we do, and maybe it is just me that is waking to its presence, but just maybe the reason it has been persistently knocking on my door is because I needed to voice it, put it down in writing and share it - because maybe it’s a message that is not meant to be hoarded but one to be celebrated.
Don’t get me wrong, I love my work – the one that pays the bills, admittedly it is not my childhood dream of painstakingly sending brushstrokes across a dusty strata to reveal fragments of bone, artefact, remnant of the past, unravelling history one layer at a time. The irony of that dream does not escape me within this story, because this word – WORK – has made it clear that in reality we are all archaeologists excavating our own true purpose, so while I may not be living my dream, my work does allow me plenty of opportunities to excavate my purpose.
I have often read of inspiration as a nagging persistent presence lingering, even haunting, scarcely contained below consciousness. Able to pause and hold its breath yet equally inclined to rupture the conscious bubble containing it, spilling out in messy, colourful, incoherent and often insomnia-induced fragments of data. Knowledge that fades as the morning sun renders our dreamlike state inappropriate and we are left with scraps, like torn out images from a magazine, plucked, stuck and shut away, memories to unpack another day.
Every now and then, a word, a remnant of inspiration, refuses to be plucked, stuck and shut away. It signs its mark across every surface, inside every thought and demands attention. Recently I have been plagued by the word WORK. Not the cost of living, metered monetary worth that consents our way of life - work, but the soul inspiring, light and life giving work that serves our true purpose. Make no mistake it is there, in everything we do, and maybe it is just me that is waking to its presence, but just maybe the reason it has been persistently knocking on my door is because I needed to voice it, put it down in writing and share it - because maybe it’s a message that is not meant to be hoarded but one to be celebrated.
Don’t get me wrong, I love my work – the one that pays the bills, admittedly it is not my childhood dream of painstakingly sending brushstrokes across a dusty strata to reveal fragments of bone, artefact, remnant of the past, unravelling history one layer at a time. The irony of that dream does not escape me within this story, because this word – WORK – has made it clear that in reality we are all archaeologists excavating our own true purpose, so while I may not be living my dream, my work does allow me plenty of opportunities to excavate my purpose.
I used to think that products of industry, the something we have to show at the end of the day are the things by which we measure a good days work, but as I am learning (or is it unlearning and revealing?) it is in fact the work we do on ourselves, for our best purpose - that is THE most important, if not only work that is worth doing. And slowly that word – WORK – has been morphed (because words are magic, that’s why it’s called spelling) into magic – because that is what it is.
Our most important work should be weaving threads of inherent knowledge, recognising, acknowledging, embracing, letting go, rethreading and rebuilding. It is the stretching of our self-perception beyond obstructions of fear to finding the truth of who we are and what we are capable of so that we can reconnect. Perhaps it is because I have become aware of this within myself that I am finding it so apparent everywhere else and why I am compelled to remind whoever will hear it to become aware of it within you.
We live in a season of hurried existence, stumbling over each other. We seem to have forgotten a great many things, not the least of which is our human experience. In a world that thrives on deadlines, profits, balances and checks, the most important check-in we need is with ourselves – in our energy, our breath and the realities we create for ourselves and those closest to us with our words and actions. This is where the work becomes magic, because we have the power to react differently, to be more mindful of the realities we create, to know that this is the work we should be focussing our energies on, because in doing so we naturally remind ourselves of the world we want to live in.
If it resonates with you – it is time to stop judging your worth by the results of your industry. Recognise that the real produce of your work is the light you brought to someone else when you offered a smile. It is the connection you felt when you freed yourself from a recurring negative pattern. It is the inner work we do, in the quiet between moments where definitive results resonate loudest.
Our most important work should be weaving threads of inherent knowledge, recognising, acknowledging, embracing, letting go, rethreading and rebuilding. It is the stretching of our self-perception beyond obstructions of fear to finding the truth of who we are and what we are capable of so that we can reconnect. Perhaps it is because I have become aware of this within myself that I am finding it so apparent everywhere else and why I am compelled to remind whoever will hear it to become aware of it within you.
We live in a season of hurried existence, stumbling over each other. We seem to have forgotten a great many things, not the least of which is our human experience. In a world that thrives on deadlines, profits, balances and checks, the most important check-in we need is with ourselves – in our energy, our breath and the realities we create for ourselves and those closest to us with our words and actions. This is where the work becomes magic, because we have the power to react differently, to be more mindful of the realities we create, to know that this is the work we should be focussing our energies on, because in doing so we naturally remind ourselves of the world we want to live in.
If it resonates with you – it is time to stop judging your worth by the results of your industry. Recognise that the real produce of your work is the light you brought to someone else when you offered a smile. It is the connection you felt when you freed yourself from a recurring negative pattern. It is the inner work we do, in the quiet between moments where definitive results resonate loudest.
Remember
We have all watched those movies, you know the one where disaster strikes and the world as we know it changes overnight. We’ve watched in disbelief as people carry on their daily routine, catching the bus, eating the ice cream while behind them a wall of water is crashing into the city, wiping out buildings and sweeping cars aside like dust balls from beneath the sofa. We sat and silently wondered how they could not see that coming. But the truth of it is, we know what’s coming because the movie title gave it away.
As I walk through the streets of town on my way back to the office after getting my morning coffee, it struck me, the irony of the scene playing in my head – I was the ‘seemingly’ nonchalant thespian staggering across this global stage we all are now reluctantly finding ourselves in.
Don’t get me wrong, there is a quiet that is unsettling, there is a stillness that does not compute on what should be a bustling cityscape. People are distancing themselves from work, from friends, from each other on the streets and ‘normal’ social behaviour is being reshaped, redefined. An invisible wall of water is closing in around us and we are all trying desperately not to let it envelop our psyche.
Here is the thing, and it’s a big one so hear me out.
We have all watched those movies, you know the one where disaster strikes and the world as we know it changes overnight. We’ve watched in disbelief as people carry on their daily routine, catching the bus, eating the ice cream while behind them a wall of water is crashing into the city, wiping out buildings and sweeping cars aside like dust balls from beneath the sofa. We sat and silently wondered how they could not see that coming. But the truth of it is, we know what’s coming because the movie title gave it away.
As I walk through the streets of town on my way back to the office after getting my morning coffee, it struck me, the irony of the scene playing in my head – I was the ‘seemingly’ nonchalant thespian staggering across this global stage we all are now reluctantly finding ourselves in.
Don’t get me wrong, there is a quiet that is unsettling, there is a stillness that does not compute on what should be a bustling cityscape. People are distancing themselves from work, from friends, from each other on the streets and ‘normal’ social behaviour is being reshaped, redefined. An invisible wall of water is closing in around us and we are all trying desperately not to let it envelop our psyche.
Here is the thing, and it’s a big one so hear me out.
The nature of the human experience in its essence is to put a face to an experience, a visual impact that drives home the message or the lesson to be learnt. Poverty has a face, HIV Aids, has a face, greed has a face, we are all familiar with what these things look like. The coronavirus, COVID-19 does not! Those that are being shown to people are all seemingly healthy looking individuals. Despite testing positive, they look just like you and me, like your neighbour, like your colleagues – and therein, I believe is the greatest danger of all.
I have started to see it creep across the face of the person standing next to me in the lift, or when the lovely lady who normally greets me at the bus station looked for another seat instead of sitting next to me. I sense that as many of you read this you may feel the same sense of foreboding that I did when this came to me. But here is the thing, and it is equally, if not greater than the last thing.
I am, you are, your neighbour is, and so is your colleague – the face of COVID-19. Not because we fear it, or have it or may have been exposed to it, but because the image that will drive home the greatest message, or lesson learnt during this, and I will use the term on everyone’s lips – unprecedented – time we find ourselves in should be one that reveals our truest capability as humanity. It is our ability to care about the well-being others. It is our ability to look past the possible, the probable and even the likely and still reach out to the next person, because when someone looks at me in fear, I don’t want to be their mirror.
Within these, the deepest depths of foreboding I am convinced that time has slowed down, not the proverbial tic-toking of the clock, but in the quietness within. It feels as if the earth has held its breath and we are all waiting to exhale. We are being gifted time, to reconnect to self and others and to remember. It is when we remember that we will recognise that the facelessness of this experience was not there to create fear, but was meant to reconnect us.
I have started to see it creep across the face of the person standing next to me in the lift, or when the lovely lady who normally greets me at the bus station looked for another seat instead of sitting next to me. I sense that as many of you read this you may feel the same sense of foreboding that I did when this came to me. But here is the thing, and it is equally, if not greater than the last thing.
I am, you are, your neighbour is, and so is your colleague – the face of COVID-19. Not because we fear it, or have it or may have been exposed to it, but because the image that will drive home the greatest message, or lesson learnt during this, and I will use the term on everyone’s lips – unprecedented – time we find ourselves in should be one that reveals our truest capability as humanity. It is our ability to care about the well-being others. It is our ability to look past the possible, the probable and even the likely and still reach out to the next person, because when someone looks at me in fear, I don’t want to be their mirror.
Within these, the deepest depths of foreboding I am convinced that time has slowed down, not the proverbial tic-toking of the clock, but in the quietness within. It feels as if the earth has held its breath and we are all waiting to exhale. We are being gifted time, to reconnect to self and others and to remember. It is when we remember that we will recognise that the facelessness of this experience was not there to create fear, but was meant to reconnect us.
