What Lunar did next (and where to find her)

 

Hello, hello! It has been so very long since I wrote to you all here, although I have thought of you, and your love and encouragement, many times. This interweb place can be awfully cross and shouty, but please do not imagine that your quiet kindnesses go unfelt. They are a powerful medicine.

This post is really to redirect you to the places you can find me these days.

The main place for longish form writing on my daunted but continual attempts to live a joyful, creative life is on my Patreon. It's not free, but the blog-type posts are all accessible for £1 a month and it's probably the best place to have a conversation with me.

There's more if you want it: book reviews; shortish essays on the practices, books, podcasts, thoughts, whatever which truly help me live creatively; discounts off my art and writing tuition; writing dates; editorial help; plus more if you're wildly generous.

But this isn't a sales pitch. You can find me for zero pennies on Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram.

I still have my Etsy shop for art, and I also now have a RedBubble shop too, which prints my artwork onto a world of giftable and practical things.

And for those good souls who held my virtual hand as I navigated my first years as a mother and then as a widow, I will quickly tell you that life continues to throw spanners in the works (mostly medical, and all for me - the girls are fine), but life is also very good.

We are still in beautiful Chagford, although much closer to the river now, and I am still writing and painting and hanging out with trees.

7yo is made of springs and giggles, with a surprising ferocity when crossed. She dangles off trees, loves her streetdance classes, plays endless board games, and writes stories in her special notebook.

13yo is in a lovely secondary school (after a false start in an unlovely one) where she can still do forest school. She is loving musical theatre and playing piano and draws with more skill than she will believe. I see Thomas in her sometimes, and that is a healing thing, but mostly she is her own gentle, wonderful self. Teenagehood hasn't gone beyond eyerolling and living in her bedroom yet, and only recently she came home covered in mud from rolling down hills with her friends, so I feel we're both getting off lightly.

 

Do please reach out and find me. I would be delighted to reconnect with you - or to meet you, if you are new here.

Thank you all,

Lunar

A Clutch of Small Stones

Today, happiness is

A Playmobil pirate

And no socks.

He is
Rain to my parched soil,
Good earth to harbour my seeds,
Thirsty plants to honour my rain.

Even after she landed,
She smiled,
Enjoying the fall.

Out with baggy men's jeans
In with skinny women's jeans
Is everyone looking at my bum?

'Come look at this'

Whispers my husband.

Our daughter,

For the first time,

Has surrendered to dreams

In her father's arms. 

Small Stones and Sexy Cello

A crow seesaws
On the telephone wire,
Dignity compromised,
Ducking and Rearing,
Until he is replaced
By a smug
Blue tit.


I walk in dusk
Like a shawl;
Like a cowl.


And the sexy cello I promised you is just at the other end of this link to Terri Windling's inspiring blog.

Five Small Stones

Decided to keep these separate this time. 
Do click the River of Stones widget on the right to join in - it's never too late. 
And please let me know your favourite :o).

My daughter
In my mother's arms
Is captured on a mug.
The mug, 
In my mother's hand,
Captures a tear.

I have an entire
Chocolate biscuit
In my mouth.
It makes me grin.

January dusk
Enfolds the hills
Like sleep.

One crocus
And a thousand promises
Of snowdrops.
It is coming.

I am grateful for today.
It has brought me
To you.
Yes, you.

Six Tales of Courage and How To Be Successful

Sometimes I am overwhelmed by a coalescence of happenings which all point (or shout if I try ignoring them for a while) in one direction. Today I look out over my world and am blasted by the vista of courage.

My favourite thought about courage, and I'm sorry I can't attribute this (can anyone else?), is that a fearless person has no opportunity to be courageous: courage is feeling the fear and still doing what needs to be done (slaying the monster/ removing the spider/ exhibiting the painting/ getting the haircut). So, the more scared you feel, the braver you can be. Hurrah!

I'd like to share with you some of the examples which appear on my horizon.

A friend has just met up with an old friend. Not so scary, you might think. But this woman was part of a group my friend had felt rejected by many years ago. Yes - now it's scary.

Another friend is taking on a teaching job for the first time; moving out of the student space and standing in the spotlight as the one everyone else turns to for help. She's definitely scared.

One of my best friends, who deserves a break more than anyone else I know, has been sending her children's books to publisher after publisher, despite many rejection letters (and silences). I know that one's scary.

An artist friend staggered when a commissioned piece fell on stony ground, but is working on another commission now, with fresh faith.

I have organised a local exhibition of my newest artwork (more on that in a post coming to you soon) at a time when my town will be swarming with art lovers and artists. Big scary exposure!

My daughter, Ickle Pickle, is standing, with support, despite some bumps and scares and bruises.

Which brings me to that famous Goethe quote:  

“Whatever you do, or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius and power and magic in it.” 

Maybe boldness is another form of courage. It certainly needs courage.

So, did these bold and courageous actions attract power and magic, even genius?

My first friend discovered that she had misunderstood her old circle of friends. They had not rejected her; they had actually missed her when she left. Now she is beginning to find some of them and re-weave the web of friendship with them. It is a magical and powerful process.

My second friend is still nervous about being in the teaching role, but is buoyed by all the people telling her how much they have benefited from her help over the years - a kind of genius, right?

My hopeful writer friend took me out to lunch yesterday to celebrate her first publishing deal. After all that magical dreaming, the genius won through and it actually happened.

My artist friend has been swamped by people eager to applaud the genius, power and magic in her paintings and to express delight about their commissioned works from her.

My exhibition, while still safely in the future, is also lurking in my studio, magically tempting me away from these hypnotic keys and suggesting that maybe I, too, can pour power into art.

And we know, don't we, that Ickle Pickle will one day run into my arms and climb a tree and, also that she will fall many times, but try and try and try. Her example is breathtaking; her method so simple:

Step One - Begin trying to do something that is way beyond your abilities. 

Step Two - Keep trying.

Step Three - Now you can do it.

We can all do it, whatever it is. 

Do let me know what it is you can do and where your courage lies so we can all inspire one another.

Small Stones, Queensland and the Solar System

It is a dull and dreary day.
My daughter laughs.
The clouds are beautiful.

January trees 
Dance the wind
To exhaustion

I stand, arms wide,
Contemplating
The sacred majesty
Of nature.
A labrador
Takes my legs from under me.

If one's husband
Puts his fork
In his hair
Whilst sneezing,
Is it wrong
To laugh?


Today I am full to bursting with love and, of course, that is reflected everywhere I look around the net. I have two links for you which will hopefully make you smile, although for different reasons.

The first is 100 Stories for Queensland. It does what it says on the tin. No-one's getting paid and the submission date is soon, but it's an inspiring example of heartfulness from our global village community and everyone (including you) is welcome to submit a story for inclusion. I will be. And do please pass this on to anyone else who may be interested.
[Edit: My story, 'Cake' has been selected for publication :o). Do please buy a copy if you can; 100% of profits going to the Flood Appeal].

My second link is more of a frippery, but has been making me smile all day. It is, quite literally, the song of the solar system. I recommend (when you've made it go as fast as it will so you can hear Pluto), slowing it right down and leaving it on as you work. It's like a cosmic wind chime :o). If only you could all have the pleasure of my daughter singing along.

A Path to Happiness... and small stones

January wind seeps,

Like an unwelcome hand,

Under my clothes.

Birds startle up in a plume

Like fresh-popped champagne.

The cat,

Like the cork,

Rolls lazy in the hot dust.


This practise of poetically witnessing and relaying a moment each day is working beautifully for me. I feel more creatively inspired and happier :o). It's not too late for you to join in here. And I am receiving such lovely comments, both here and on Facebook and Twitter, that when this month is over, I shall continue with one per blog post, just to keep my hand in and hopefully keep a smile on your face too.

A happy sight last month,

almost outside my door

Which brings me to the other thing I want to say today. I have just discovered Action For Happiness. It's a movement with the sole aim of increasing our happiness and decreasing misery. The beauty of getting on board now (although it doesn't officially launch until April 11th 2011) is that you can help shape how this is done; add your ideas and prioritise actions. I'm very excited, and it meshes wonderfully with the intention behind this blog and, well, my whole life really. I do hope you join up and join in.


I will be using the launch week to publish happy-making stories on my blog (true, fictional, whatever). I will write one myself, but also hope some of you will email me your stories so I can add them and generate maximum happiness. If you have a happy-making story to tell, do email it to me at: lunarsolargaia@gmail.com . Obviously I'll need to approve anything which goes into my blog, but your story is your own so please tell it how it feels truest. (This totally applies to fiction too.) Happy writing :o).

Poetic Morsels and Whimsy

Two more of these fun little poetry morsels we call small stones:

January mist

Softens the edges;

Unhurries time

January mist

Plays peep-oh

With mountains

And a longer piece of whimsy which comes courtesy of an exercise from my Life Writing class with Chris Waters :

  I 

 I come from the woods,

A creature of dark earth and lofty hidey holes.

I come from the fields,

A woman of hard work and generous bounty.

I come from the moors,

An artist of agorophobic freedom and vast ideas.

I come from the oceans,

A being of sinuous comunity and heartful predation.

I come from the mountains,

A spirit of wild wisdom and true healing.

I come to this pass,

A devoted pilgrim seeking the future. 

Hopefully I've just organised my next exhibition, so soon I'll have more paintings for you. 

8 Small Stones

If you don't know what a 'small stone' is, or you want to join in writing them, click the widget on the right, or here.

The greytone world,
Close-observed,
Is all colour.

Imagine:
Every raindrop,
A kiss.

January wind
Sheep blown into corners
Like bleating litter

Wind-sculpted trees:
Perpetual motion
Waveforms

At the summit
I shout my prayer;
Startle ramblers.

My neighbour
Is learning
To sing.
My family
Are learning
To laugh.
Quietly.

Emergent butterfly
Take refuge
In my palm

A rain-laden leaf
Nods a waterfall;
Rises polished and proud

Small Stones

If you click on the widget on the right, you'll be transported through the virtual ether to a river of stones blog. 
I'm taking part, but I'm not blogging every day, so you'll get my small stones in installments. What follows is the first three.


In the deepest pockets
Of the Earth's skirt
Snow holds on


Subtle movement
Songbird diaspora
Empty peace


Thistle seeds wait
A month.
Two.
Three.
And then
The goldfinches come.




Mostly I have accepted this challenge to inspire me and because it's fun. But there's a possibility of one/some of them being published in an anthology at the end, so I would much appreciate your help choosing which to send of for consideration (I can send up to five).


And, as always, I love to hear your responses to my work.


And it's not to late to join in! This is such a marvellous planet and we humans are so amazing. Let's pay close attention (send your brain to another dimension, etc.) as a prayer of appreciation.

Love in the Snow

Disharmony

Two days of chilly shoulders and frosty undertones. No more snow outside. It has gathered on our hearts. 

We rally round our daughter, coaxing her from tears to joy again and again. It is exhausting, but she keeps us in some kind of contact.

The Solstice fire has died. Christmas has been unwrapped. Another year looms and I am unready to meet it.

Another 365 days of nappies and hoovering and washing up and surviving from coffee with a friend until a cup of tea at playgroup.

I feel physically dis-heartened. Something has gone so wrong. I am tired, but I am always tired and I didn't feel like this last week. I don't remember feeling like this since I have been in partnership with my husband who is usually such a source of joy for me. Today he is an irritant, possibly acidic. Not even a bath of asses milk would be balm enough. I need something else.

 Feeling Rather Tense

My husband needs something else too. And though I ache to give it, I cannot name it, much less find it in myself.

He cannot stay in a space with me. He laces his boots in a silent, depressed fury, kisses our girl who sits on my lap goodbye and opens the door to leave.

My breath stops. He has never, ever, refused to kiss me like this. A desperate voice  from inside me calls,

'I love you.'

The door shuts. The tears track my cheeks and I hug the baby tight as I watch him descend our steps.

He turns around. He'll take his bike; get further from me.

But no. He has opened the door again.

He is in the room.

He says,

'I love you too.'

More tears. And we tell of the mirrored smallnesses which have sucked the heat from our lives.

We kiss. Find resolutions. Find comfort in each other again.

There is a bright flame in the dark and we gratefully warm our hands; thaw our hearts.

Later, I ponder what had led us to that place. Many things, of course, had interwoven the net which caught us, but I see one thing clearly: I had forgotten my machete. When the world is tangled and dense and catches at my hair I have a tool which never fails me if only I remember to use it: I can write.

I recall evenings too busy and sociable or too tired and miserable to write my journal and the dream-binding which followed; which always follows.

Fool

I am a fool. If I achieve nothing else this coming year, may I remember that writing is not only my passion and my talent and, newly, my job. It is also my lifeline, the lighthouse beam which sweeps an arc accros the unknown so I can catch a glimpse of my mind-corners and chase the scuttling creatures away.

And I am wise. 2 days of iciness out of 365? We're not doing so badly. I did call out. And he did turn around. He is the source of much of my joy once again.

And all those nappies? That's where the real love is. One nappy at a time, I am saying to my family,

'I love you'.

In Love; At Peace

Happiness :o).

Yesterday, I was reading The Economist. That sounds ever so intellectual, but actually I found a word I didn't know in the first few pages. Since you ask, it was 'jeremiad': a long, mournful list of complaints or woes. Quite the opposite of this post.

Anyway, one of the articles was about happiness; who has most of it? You can read it in full here. Much of it was what we would have guessed. Health, wealth, marriage and employment all bring us happiness. 

Children are more complex. When asked broad questions about general contentment, people living with children report much life satisfaction; more than those who live in ordered, quiet houses where sometimes there is a pause between loads of laundry and whole tracts of floor are visible.  But, when asked about the day before, parents are more likely to report feeling angry or anxious. I would guess they are also more likely to have tickled someone, laughed out loud and deliberately made animal noises (as opposed to my dad getting out of a low chair and unintentionally impersonating a cow in calf), and what's not to like about all of that?

From my own experience just this week, within two hours I went from almost crying with frustration at a stupid raincover which was designed not to fit any buggy (My husband put it on quite quickly, but then he may have had breakfast and I was pre-coffee; always a dangerous zone,) to almost crying with soggy mummy soppiness as my little daughter met Father Christmas for the first time (even though she cried when he tried to give her a present!).

None of the above was the point I was aiming for. The big deal with happiness, across the world, is age, in a kind of u-bend. The mid-life crisis is real and makes us more mopey than ever before... but then we cheer right up until we're as happy at 70 as we were at 18... and then we just keep getting cheerier! Hooray! So those curmudgeonly old sods who grumble at all the spangly splendour of Christmas are actually having the time of their lives. Ha! Tie that to your hat and jingle it!

"I am in no way enjoying this, you know."

And what I'm really trying to say is, that maybe this works on a smaller scale too. I have a deep faith in the fractal nature of everything (but let's not go there now.) Maybe that golden glow effect when we feel nostalgic about something is a symptom of the same cause. As we age, we become so much more skilled at finding the joy in life.

So here's my New Year's Resolution: I shall attempt to be pre-emptively nostalgic about life as I live it. I made a good start this morning. (I know it's not the New Year yet, but it would be foolish to delay a good idea for calendrical authenticity.) It was very early and I was trying to feed my daughter to sleep. She was having none of it and I was getting sore. (If you didn't just wince, be grateful.) I was wishing it would hurry up and be 7:00 so I could stop breastfeeding and continue re-reading of The Little Prince while we played. And then I remembered my resolution and realised I'll be nostalgic about such times spent snuggled in the dark, just the two of us, as soon as I stop breastfeeding. The comfort we can share together is so much greater than a little bit (well, it was quite a lot, but still) of soreness. So I pretended I was reminiscing about the present moment (a dubious past in the company of a chemistry postgrad may have helped here) and relaxed into gratitude. A much happier start to the day. She still didn't go to sleep though.

And now there is a foot and a half of perfect snow outside; I have a cup of tea and a packet of chocolate biscuits and the anthology containing my story November has come out. Just in case you're short of a Christmas present, you can buy it or download it for £4 here. 

And my final word on happiness is that if this doesn't make you laugh, please seek professional help.

Ho ho ho!

A Christmas Gift For You - 'Only a Poem'

Happy Christmas! Here's one you can open early, just because today I'm in that kind of mood.

When I told you lovely people that my flash fiction 'November' had been successful in a competition, some of you wanted, quite reasonably, to read it. Well, I still have to wait for it to be published in its anthology, so here is a different story to keep us all going. I have tried to choose one which isn't too far into any genre to alienate lots of people.


I deliberated for a while before offering this because, once it's published here, it can't be published anywhere else (for money, I mean). But then I decided to switch off that crazy poverty-mentality and have faith that I have many, many wonderful stories to tell and, anyway, it's Christmas!


I wrote the bones of it ages before I started blogging, and the central character isn't me, but you'll probably see, as you read, how it reflects the 'Blimey, If I do this, someone might take notice!' anxiety/hope adrenaline mix which has been my experience of blogging.

I hope you enjoy it and, if you feel moved to generosity in return, please leave a comment or pass on the link. Thank you.

Only a Poem

Susan understood that to hear the poem spoken by her own voice and to know that people, many people, were listening; that was the coin flipped for triumph or desolation. And yet she stood, fighting nausea and dizziness, muttering the words as a mantra, futilely inhaling, exhaling, waiting for the contestant before her to finish. She became aware that some part of her brain was reflexively praying, a habit she had thought entirely gone forty two years after leaving Our Lady’s Convent School. She was not clear what it was that she was praying for, but she knew she absolutely meant it.

          She realised the precious paper was damp and soft in her hand. In theory she had no need of it; each word, each pause, each inflection had become an indelible part of her during the weeks of intensive revision and rearrangement which followed its inception. Now, though, it seemed of literally vital importance that those written words accompany her onto the stage. She could not do it alone. To be sweating about a childish poem in this shabby, dreary town hall at the age of fifty eight seemed ridiculous, but she could not shake off the feeling that this was a momentous event in her life.

Her mind, desperate to escape the present moment, seduced her back to the night the poem came, by torchlight and against a backdrop of whispered complaints from the rest of her dorm. She had written many poems in her girlhood, but, at the furiously truthful age of fourteen, she had birthed into poetry some essence of her soul which had whispered to her all her life and would always be with her. 

This was the only poem that mattered and so was the only one she would never share, never tell the existence of. Never, because she did not have the courage. Never, because it was too exposing. Never, because they did not deserve to be told what they could see for themselves. And never, because if anyone knew the true texture of her soul and said the mildest, lightest word of criticism, she would know she had betrayed her self and the punishment would be permanent exile from her body – left to drift in purgatory while her body smiled and got on with the business of pretending it didn’t matter; it was only a poem. Heads or tails, there was no retreat from this.

Entering this competition was the last thing she expected herself to do. She had read the advert in the local paper and huffed at the very idea. Then, as she passed the paper’s office, she popped in, curious to see who had entered. Kate, the receptionist, assumed she wanted to enter and it seemed rude to refuse the form, so she took it home and completed it in the absence of a crossword with her coffee, then left it for the recycling. Her husband had helpfully posted the thing on the way to work and so sealed her fate. She twisted her wedding ring and felt a surge of anger that he had put her in this vulnerable position. 

Even now, as the compere gabbled his way to a close, she knew she could just say one of the many other poems she had memorised. None of them carried this sense of risk; some of them were good, and probably no-one would notice they did not fit the title she had given on her form, but some solid pebble of fire deep in her gut knew that she would speak the poem she had come to speak no matter what she decided or what bargains she made with herself. Already there was no return.

Another wave of nausea bent her slightly as she wondered why she had told all her family and friends that it was important they be here tonight. Earlier she had peeped through the curtain and almost fainted in horror and delight at the number of faces she knew, all waiting for her. Her husband and children were here of course, and the ladies from the allotment, but also the staff from several of the local shops, the couple who ran the Ring O’ Bells, Molly’s dog trainer, the postman, and friends she hadn’t seen for months or years. Susan wondered about running, now, to another town far away and starting again, but the knowledge that this was her only chance to share her self with the important people in her life was persistent. That thought, alone, had the power to get her onto the stage.

She imagined hearing her name announced with the title of the poem she had concealed for so long. She pictured herself stepping through the curtains, nodding thanks to the compere, folding the paper and putting it into her pocket, taking the microphone and standing solidly on the stage. The panic inside melted. She felt 14 again.

Only when her poem was halfway through being spoken by that powerful voice did she realise this was not imagination. Without a flicker of hesitation she continued, present and strong. It no longer mattered if they loved her, hated her, were indifferent to her. She was alone, her soul bared and brave.

When she finished there was a long pause and her fears pounced on her. People started clapping, but some were standing. She almost fell – she hadn’t considered they might just leave! Then more people were standing, and clapping, and not leaving. They were standing for her – some grinning, some crying, all standing for her and her poem and clapping forever.

She had no idea how she ever got off the stage or into a chair with the million babbling people and she returned to the stage to collect her prize and a shower of wonderful words and to speak her poem all over again in a barely lucid dream.

The next morning she woke with an unaccustomed champagne hangover and lay motionless, wondering how life would be as this newly revealed woman. When she finally got up and braved the world, she discovered that nothing and everything had changed.

Lunar Hine

Winter Trees

OK. You're safe today. No nudity, I promise. (If that's disappointing, check out Self Portrait). Instead, some 'proper' art (you know; a picture of a thing which has been painted many times before) that you could show to your Grandma.

Winter Trees

Acrylic on Card

9" x 6"

 Which is great. Because this little painting was a gift from me to my beloved Nana. I didn't know what she'd think of it when I sent it, but I hoped the thought would truly, in this case, count.

And it did.

In fact, it's quite amazing it got to her at all. I was pondering how to get it to her without it getting bent and thinking I'd prefer to present it to her in a frame, so in the end I just wedged the framed painting (glass and all) into a padded envelope and posted it. It dropped through my Nana's letterbox and landed on her doormat in one piece. 

This is doubly amazing because my Nana's part of London is pretty dodgy and it must have been an intriguing package. I remember (as a child) asking her why someone had drawn a chalk person in the road and getting some evasive reply about graffiti...

So, I knew it had arrived safely and of course my Nana said thank you and that she liked it very much. But it's hard to really know if a gift is genuinely appreciated, isn't it? Especially when it's art.

Unless chance steps in.

As my Nana lay dying (much sooner than we'd expected) in my parents' house, she was sad to be so far away from her own home in which she'd lived for decades with so many memories breathing from the walls.

So my uncle, who also lives in London, went round her house taking photos. It was the best we could manage at the time.

And guess what? The photo of the heart of her home; the living room mantelpiece, showed my humble little painting standing proudly amongst treasures from her long-departed husband.

Oh! 

And later I was told her visitors would be subjected to, 'My eldest granddaughter did that. Isn't it good?'

And although I know that many people have painted more impressive renditions of winter trees than I have managed here, I have a fondness for this little painting. 

And I think, yes, it is good, because when I, so foolishly it seemed, posted off that work and it thunked into my Nana's house, I sent her years of pleasure too, and a reassurance that her granddaughter, who was forever doing odd things in odd places with, frankly, some pretty odd people, thought about her and loved her enough to spend some time making a painting just for her.

And that's a grand achievement for any artwork.

Self Portrait

You may wish to look away now. Today's painting is a nude self portrait.

I did this years ago, as another part of the same Eagle's Wing shamanic course which birthed Cosmic Mother.

The assignment was to somehow create a representation of ourselves in the weeks between meetings. I had lots of lovely arty ideas with wonderful symbolism and abstract implications, but then I remembered this was not about pretty art.

This was an opportunity to dare to show myself totally honestly to a group of trusted allies.This was not a time for subtlety.

So I asked my then partner to photograph me naked and completely unposed; the full frontal if you will. No fig leaf cover-ups with my hair; not even a smile. 

The resultant photo was predictably cringe-worthy, but I painted what I saw as closely as I could.

 The chaos of emotion preceding this caused me to go a bit crazy with the background. A vibrant madness of multi-colour swirls kept me occupied for a while and delayed the painting proper.

Although I was free with my colours (I don't really have purple and yellow skin!), I stayed tonally accurate, which meant being truthful to my recently sunburned face and to those bits which had not seen the sun. Thus:

I even allowed the world to know that I have mismatched knees: one of my father's and one of my mother's:  

Interestingly, as I painted, I grew! My initial sketches gave me canvas space to move, to stretch if I needed to. But by the time I had finished, I was wedged hard between the top and the bottom.

This, I can now see, was very much what was happening in my life. I was growing, learning, finding strength and independence, even standing physically taller, and I was going to need to make big changes before that could be comfortable for anybody.

Self Portrait
Oil on Canvas
40" x 20"
 

So, although to some people I look uncomfortable here (and I was); for me this is a painting of quiet triumph. I was given a certain space to contain me and I pushed at the boundaries until I broke free.

And when I look at it now, I don't feel the cringe any more.

Sometimes, secretly, I even suspect there may be beauty here. Just maybe.

Dancers

Another painting for your appreciation, I hope. 

Dancers is lighter; easier on the heart than Cosmic Mother.

As I painted this I was enjoying the unexpected shapes we make when we dance without inhibition, or at least with our cloaks of inhibition slipped a little off one shoulder.

Dancers

Oil on Canvas

40" x 20"

I have done several kinds of exploratory and expressive dance training and synthesised these, and other learnings I have eagerly gathered, into FreeDancing  which I teach to groups and individuals. 

I always delight in the revelation of beautiful self which comes, cautiously or brazenly, through our bodies when our clever, busy minds dare pause.

First, we cling to the music, to the physical space, and get kind of groovy, kind of rhythmic, kind of sexy.

 

 Sometimes at this point we have that crazy list of thoughts: Do I like these people? Why did I pay money to feel awkward? Does my bum look big in this?

And, when we have quite finished our anxieties and preoccupations (just for today; we can always do more another time), a touch of magic sparks up our spines and all those other people don't seem so 'other', and nor do we. We begin to think that perhaps we are just fine as we are. Perhaps.

And with this sense of 'okay self' comes a new daring to reach for what we need but so rarely ask for.

We pull into our centres, from the skies, from the Earth, from each other, that missing... that missing thing which we could name if only we knew what it was called. 

And our call to the world to help us ease this... this lack, perhaps... is always, always, always answered. We just need to ask. So simple. 

And it feels... ah, yes, thank you... it feels like home.

 

And although this home is a place where we are safe to be scared and angry and full of grief for the thousand unhealed wounds we wear; although it is tough, sometimes, to stay here, when we are so used to the 'What will they think?' place; although it feels, with good reason, that we may not come out the same as we went in, there is a joy suffusing our bones and being; an ecstatic love of just being alive right now, which we can keep safe for when next the dark clouds roll over.

 

Maybe the greatest gift of this holy practise is that for every little hurt we can heal in ourselves, we have a little more energy, more love, more self, to offer out to the rest of the world. 

So as we dance and pray and heal and work wonders in our own lives, we are also sweating and crying and laughing and shouting for our friends of all kinds in all places. 

We are doing nothing more, nor less, than changing the world.

 

And that, my friends, is most definitely magic.

Cosmic Mother

OK. Brace yourselves. We're going into what may seem weird territory for some... But if you've started reading a post called 'Cosmic Mother', you're probably not scared easy.

So. Another painting by yours truly. And this one has a story, which I will tell a little tentatively because it has fronds reaching to the very core of my heart. 

Cosmic Mother

Oil on Canvas

16"x16"

I was on a course run by Eagle's Wing Centre for Contemporary Shamanism. 

Amongst other acts of crazy sanity, we buried ourselves alive. Yes. We dug our own graves and, like the free-thinking, independent warriors that we are, we followed instructions to get into them at sunset, lie down... and listen to the earth being shoveled over our wood and tarp roofs. The sound of soil hitting my roof in ever-quieter thuds and sprinkles may never leave me. I have rarely been so grateful to have recently peed. 

And then the strangest thing happened: I stopped feeling scared. In fact, I felt safer than usual; comforted, like a baby.

The Earth was holding me, I realised, not in her arms as she normally does when I walk her surface, but deeply in her womb. I felt a breadth of love I have only had sniffs of with people, even my very loving human mum.

And then... I knew. I had the most curious Russian-doll feeling that I was a baby in the womb of the Cosmic Mother and in my womb... Oh. So that's why the digging was so hard.

And the best feeling, of being able to express this booming love I was receiving, washed through me. I was a holy conduit calling into me the love of the universe and flowing it into the child I carried.   I was a mother.

All night I blissed and loved and dozed in this Russian-doll blessing. I spoke with my child; my boy. Not words; not mind; just a connection so I could sing my love into his tiny, tiny body and he could let me know how urgently he had wanted to contact me. Every time I recall his urgency I am so grateful to have had this unique experience. So grateful.

And at dawn, when others eagerly fled their graves, I was reluctant. I feared losing the love I'd felt. And, anyway, I didn't feel like breakfast. 

But, of course, the love stayed strong and is with me still.

My boy - he has a name, but I will hold that close to my chest for now - is not with me. When I was ten weeks pregnant he left. And I grieved like I had known him all my life.

And so I learned that the love of the Cosmic Mother is not pretty and easy and sweet in the way we often use the word. It is vast and powerful and sometimes terrifying. It is all truth and no mercy. And still I am grateful.

Perhaps, without the burial that night, I would have escaped the bereavement I experienced. But I would never have met my son. And what mother would choose to not know her child? Not this one.

The love I experienced that night now guides me, sometimes minute by minute, in the raising of my healthy, happy daughter.

I wish you all the luck to feel such love and the courage to withstand it.