Bubbles and what not…

When I am tired I feel like possibly the smallest person on this planet ever… (I am quite tired now…)

 

It leads to all sorts of things in trying to deal with it:

 

  • Sadness. Always sadness. In the small places there seems to be loneliness in me and I think this makes me feel sad. And lonely.
  • Defensiveness. Because I am so small I must be a tiger. Tired tiger…. Rah!
  • Confusion. Why? Why? Why me? Why now? What’s going on? Oh… tired.
  • Grumpgrumpalump. Everything is wrong. EVERYTHING I tell you!
  • General NAFI – I am not arsed or f*cking interested…. Also known as “Meh”
  • General indecision, ineffectiveness and unhealthy footling causing further tiredness. Often caused by avoidance of the sad and lonely feelings and accompanied by madly trying to get in touch with someone to stave off the woe. Woe, oh woe.
  • Great quantities of back ache. Ow.

     

What I would love when I am tired:

 

  • Cuddles and cwtching.
  • Stretching maybe to help my poor back after it has put up with my posture all day. Easing out the kinks. If this is too much that is fine too. The bath will go some distance to helping that out too.
  • Tea. Preferably brought to me.
  • Creativity. Of some sort, although cooking is generally too physical in times of extreme tiredness. It brings me back to myself.
  • Always this. Creating brings me back to myself.
  • A bath –a lovely, hot, essential oil scented bath of gorgeousness. Possibly with bubbles. Rosemary and Rose Geranium… Clary Sage and Lavender… Bergamot and some more bergamot…. Ahhhhhh.
  • A gentle, loving, care filled reminder that I am tired –rest is allowed as much as it is necessary. Being Superwoman can continue tomorrow.
  • Stillness and quiet. Breath.
  • Reiki? Yes, I like that idea of some Reiki in the quiet moments. Perhaps after a bath when I’m pink and relaxed.
  • Permission. I think this might be quite important.

 

Many monsters raise their heads when I am tired. My defences are down and their voices clamour for attention and most of the time this leads to me trying to shut their voices out. Except tonight I just stopped for a millisecond and thought, “Oh I am just tired.”

 

I think it has taken me just under thirty years to recognise this and I am rather pleased that it now gives me a chance to sit back and take care of myself!

 

Now I am off for a bath.

 

Holding the light

I am so late with this that you could have run around the world and lapped me twice. Or whatever. It goes something like that.

 

This year – it’s about carrying my light. I know – how cheesy. But it doesn’t stop it being what it is about.

 

Last year was a tidal wash out of overwhelm that started in April 2009. In its wake I have been left bobbing about wondering what the hell happened and who the hell I am.

 

Writing about it has slowly led to me realising that the essence of who I am is something that I see as a light and that often, when overwhelmed I let it get smothered and forget who I am.

 

So holding my light or carrying my light is about learning to hold those things apart from me. It’s a glorified form of my shit or their shit.

 

More will follow.

A Question

The bizarre, the awkward and the downright different charm me.

 

They lack convention and I find this truly refreshing.

 

There is nothing wrong with convention. It is convenient, clean and possibly even elegant in its understatement and ease of understanding of what is “acceptable”.

 

However, to me it lacks the depth of character that truly bucking the trend requires and depth of character is interesting.

 

I would say this, for this is me of the yellow trousers in the past talking. The me who has stood at the fringes for a lifetime and felt truly “otherwise” to society. Where “the” way seemed truly incongruent and illogical to me so when I find somewhere that seems to hum with resonance, I fall in love.

 

So the coffee shop that has the grumpy waitress and the appalling service but also has comfy sofas and an old school feel to it – that is a special place.

The poem that so obviously has no meaning to anyone but the writer has a beauty of its own.

The mishmash jangle of colour in a loud print or garish painting.

The tiny cinema that seems stuck in time.

 

The hint of contrariness, and the stubborn refusal to be assimilated into the norm, the tiny hint of difference and I stand there, drawn in and itching to give into it.

 

But I do stand on the edges – I am one thing and the other. Assuming convention and craving the opposite. Afraid that to openly swim against the current will drown me in opinion and yet finding myself unconsciously paddling desperately that way anyway.

 

I want to wear the yellow trousers and like myself when I am.

I want to wear the yellow trousers and still be accepted by convention.

To walk the middle way.

“Who am I to wish for this integration?” I hear myself ask as I write.

 

“Who am I?” – the eternal question which begs to be answered every day, which proves elusive, as slippery as a fish.

 

Or is it more like, “Who am I today?” and do I have the courage to answer truthfully?

The You-ness of You.

The You-ness of You

 

Sing Hi! Sing Ho!

To the You-ness of You.

To the You-ness of You

Shout out Kazoo!

KAZOO!

For the You-ness of You

Is a big whop bam boom!

Dad’s Poem

A while ago I wrote a poem from my Dad to me.

They were words I really needed to hear at the time, from my Dad, so I wrote them in a way that I could hear.

A little weird I know, perhaps even binkers but now whenever I read the poem I am comforted.

I wanted to share…

DAD’S POEM

You are Beautiful

You are Amazing

I see stars in You

You Gorgeous, gorgeous child of mine.

 

Take my love and let it lift You up.

Use it to realise Your dreams,

Your true, priceless worth.

 

Take this father’s love and let it

give You wings, to stretch

Yourself until You know no bounds.

 

Because You are more amazing than

anything I have ever seen.

 

You are my child, more precious than You will ever know.

You are my child, beloved with all my heart.

 

You are of the goddess

Powerful, Mysterious, beyond my measure

A mystery from the stars, sent to fill me with wonder and amazement.

 

You are my child

My Child made of the stars – I love you.

With all my heart.

The Tale of the Silver Ring

There are many rings in my jewellery box and each has a story. My rings are sentimental it seems. Or rather, I am sentimental about my rings.

 

One belonged first to my grandmother as her engagement ring, then to my mum and finally to me, as my engagement ring too.

One was found on a walk, it is kept as a reminder of how random treasure turns up in unexpected places.

Two were gifts from my mum – wonderful expressions of who she thinks I am (she is right you know!)

One is a treasure found in Portobello market – a 1930’s marvel of romance.

 

There is one which is battered and tarnished.

 

A wee silver heart built into its band. The heart is inscribed – W C.

Yes – you can laugh – I did.

This wee heart – it is the memory of my first real love.

 

I recognised him instantly.

Previously I had been curious about him. A friend of my best friend’s boyfriend, discussed in passing, I was sure I would like him when eventually I met him.

Then one evening he walked past, jumped up, slapping a rafter as he did, and in that instance I knew him and was simultaneously smitten with the silliest school girl crush EVER.

 

I plotted and schemed.

My friend and I hatched plan after plan to bring us together in a way that was not completely obvious and therefore hideously embarrassing.

Those plans were never to be – I was going to ask him to teach me the guitar, then my guitar was stolen. Her boyfriend would bring him around and I’d conveniently be there, but then another friend would come instead… and so on.

All the while, when we were in public situations I would avoid him like the plague, no doubt blushing furiously if/ when he spoke to me.

 

Then one night, a movie night at another friend’s house, somehow we were sitting together. I was probably going blue from holding my breath with nerves.

At some point he simply reached over and took my hand.

That was it – we were a couple.

 

I already knew, from hanging out with him that he was a good man, but being his girlfriend taught me just how much.

I was welcomed into his family, made to feel much loved.

He listened to me and truly took care to show that he cared.

 

That ring was the first birthday present I received from him.

 

All too soon he was away to another country to study chiropractic at university.

The distance and the fickleness of youth did their thing, whispering that really it should no longer be, and we broke up deciding that it was for the best.

You know… considering…

 

I will never forget that love, with its passion and its care. It had its ups and downs of course and its fair share of humdingers, but always I knew that I loved him and that he loved me.

 

The purpose of this story tonight however, is not a chug chug down memory lane to reminisce about lost love, but to remind me that I did once have that love that I search for now.

You know – the one with passion, care and the secure knowledge that this is one I can and want to give my heart to 100%.

 

If I have had it once already then there is no good reason why I shan’t have it again, and that I am not so foolish after all, for looking for it.

Scared Bean

 

In a two weeks time I become self employed.

I cut my hours down at my current job to a fraction of what they are now.

I earn peanuts as it is there so….

Shit.

The thing is though, that even though I am not prepared for this in any way really (unless the obsessive thinking counts as preparation) and even though I am terrified, this is my thing (you know – the thing) and I truly believe I have to give myself a chance to do it.

I am a scared bean.

A jelly bean in the most quivering sense of the word.

There is no bravado here, no “Rah Rah! I’m doing this so help me god.”

Unhelpful help…

I discovered today that when you’re terrified and quivering like a jelly bean over your chosen way, it really doesn’t help to have other ways suggested to you.

Even when they come from the most loving and helpful place imaginable.

It has taken enormous amounts of courage to reach this stage where I trust myself enough to do this and to do this in my own way.

Suggestions to do it any other way sound like criticisms, even though they are not and I know they are not.

Trusting yourself is a most tentative process.

When starting out in new things people are most forthcoming with their helpful suggestions about how to do it, or what your options are.

I find myself picturing myself holding a large spear with which to wield madly at the encroaching circle of “helpfulness”

Wanted: A band of outlaws

To stand in the centre of the circle with me and to have my back.

Who are with me, because it’s me and so why wouldn’t they stand with me?

Family.

Soul Family. (Permission granted to throw up now)