Meet Herero, the wily lizard who lives in my ceiling. Herero loves: dinnertime in Tula Cottage, when the paraffin lamp is set to high, overseeing my gas stove. When I retreat from cooking, Herero moves in to snap up the bugs that have convened, mesmerised  by the bright flame of the lamp. Although he may appear indiscriminate, his favourite meals are: crispy beetle, lazy fly, succulent moth and delicate praying mantis.

Herero’s job description is: Guardian of high ceilings and complex thatched roof spaces.

I am yet to learn more about his family, as many of them left when I moved in to Tula Cottage, indignant at the space consuming items I installed in their home and the vigour of my broom across the varnished concrete floor.

Wasp stings and Gratitude

Last Thursday, in the midst of an intensely pressurised morning completing a grant application with our team before I drove to Jo’burg at midday, a wasp stung me just below my right eye.  It was intensely sore, and I got a terrible fright when he flew straight for my eye as I picked the kettle up. I simply didn’t see him until he was buzzing frenetically around my eye socket. 
 

At first I was wounded and pissed off – the only treatment available in the first aid kit was anti-histamine. Now why would I want to take that and interfere in my body’s process to deal with the poison? I threw a minor tantrum about how it was typical of “this place”, that the first aid kit would be under-stocked. My colleague in the office tried to help me but I was so irritated an overwhelmed that I just retreated, with a piece of grubby ice I picked from the filthy freezer in the staff kitchen.

Over the weekend my eye swelled overnight and was fairly impressive by morning; my beloved and I joked about how people would assumed that he’d bliksemed me.

On my drive back to Timbavati on Sunday I was drenched in the beauty of the Drakensberg and Blyde River Canyon area. Ohrigstad and the area leading to Hoedspruit is displaying the fullness of nature’s splendour after the big rains – the trees are voluptuous in deep greens, jacarandas in deep purple bloom, dropping their buds to carpet the roads and sidewalks; a magnificent tree whose name I don’t yet know that has a deep glowing orange bloom.  The land is magnificent.

I pondered how I had been feeling over the last few weeks – the depression, despair, overwhelm, the sense of having to get out immediately. And I wondered about the wasp sting and what the message was. 

This morning after a beautiful meditation, now on my yoga mat, it came  to me: the wasp alerted me to my sight – the first question that came to me on Thursday was, “what am I not seeing?” And on my drive back as I marvelled at the beauty of Limpopo, I became sadly aware of how unappreciative I had become of my home in Timbavati. True, sometimes the intensity and dominance of nature can be overwhelming – like the chaos, to my eyes, at the riverbed after the rains, when the new growth careens upward from the trees pushed horizontal by the floods.  When I’m feeling tender, knowing that it is the leopard’s territory and that she can attack if I am unaware or disrespectful, that I may turn a corner and meet the buffalo and have nowhere to run or hide, sends me into tense anxiety.

Yesterday morning I walked this very pilgrimage path next to the river – my boss suggested I do this as I had named one of the contributing factors of my fatigue as lack of exercise. Even though I was feeling vulnerable, I strapped my two way radio onto my belt, greeted the land and asked for permission to be there. Then I walked through the bush growing at a frenetic rate, over the fresh buffalo and hippo droppings, to the Rock Starlion, the massive crystal lion sculpture that my beloved conceived and constructed. I walked the path that called me to mark it out as the approach to the lion, and then made my way back to the office.

Driving back to the office after lunch I had the most intense encounter - a beautiful yellow and green chameleon in mortal combat with a brown house snake. The chameleon was incredible - stood his ground as the snake retreated, circled and came back and back at it. I was rooting for the chameleon, really, the snake was pretty scary pursuing his prey - he even came up to the car window (swiftly wound up) to check me out! After about five minutes the snake made his move and bit into the chameleon's belly and wrapped his body around him to complete the manoeuvre. The snake wasn't that big, but he lifted that chameleon's body about 30cm high to carry him into the bush .... I was drenched with sweat by the end of the spectacle!

Last night an electrifying lightning storm approached us – I watched it move from the northern horizon, cracking open the sky it came our way, a boisterous wind clearing its path. A magical sight, seeing the bush plains lit up by this sky fire. 

The previous night had been still – under the radiance of the full moon Gorgeous the Queenly Cat and I sat in the silver light, clearly being charged up by Lua. Gorgeous stayed out all night on a cleared patch of earth, barely moving, I imagine soaking it in and engaging in some kind of alchemy.

On coming home yesterday I spotted a large scorpion, grey body and huge black pincers on the edge of my raw concrete stoep. I tried to keep my panic low and not draw attention to him so that Gorgeous wouldn’t investigate. As I stood on the one spot where there is enough celphone reception, talking to my beloved, about three feet away from said scorpion, Gorgeous strolled out and stepped onto him. Before he could sting her she was off, unaware and regal. I decided I had to move him, so with not as much grace as I would like, I edged him onto a newspaper and then into a big blue plastic tub and took him up to the road. 

Hopefully he won’t come back.

So I have the wasp, and my beloved, and my dear friend B, my brother and his wife to thank for helping me through a very tough time here – a time of fatigue and disenchantment. I don’t know what the next plans are, but for now, I am here, in my little thatched roof cottage with Gorgeous, candles, paraffin lamp and gas stove, enjoying solitude and magnificent nature. Today I will clear the growing grass from around my house, rake the earth African style, so that I can see any approaching critters. And I shall erect my altar, so that I can share my bounty with the earth.

Move to Tula Cottage

Move to Tula Cottage - 18th September 2012

I moved into my new home a couple of weeks ago, just before the rains came. I had been sharing Tula House with two young women who work on the project, but the time came for me to move into my own space, where I could make phone calls and noise that wouldn’t disturb my housemate, and not be disturbed by her noise.

And so Tula Cottage came free. It had been renovated for the Leadership Academy, with a new concrete floor and fresh lick of cream coloured paint, a jaunty piece of dark orange sailcloth sheltering the stoep from the merciless sun. Tula Cottage has no water, gas or electricity, but it has a beautiful view of the savannah and I see animals daily – the enormous majestic eland, gaggles of busy guinea fowl, warthog, impala, nyala, many nervous wildebeest. Last night the lions roared so loudly, in a place nearby that is a bowl and creates an echo, I felt like they were in the front garden.

I was a bit nervous when I moved in – it felt a bit remote and cut off, and I was hyperalert the first few nights. Poor J, the Head of Operations – on about my fourth night I woke with a terrible start at the sound of a loud, clear voice calling out, “Hello!!” It was so distinct, I woke up with my palms in a sweat, rigid with fear that a strange man might be outside, and how would I defend myself? There are no bars on the windows, he need just break a pane and he’d be in. What would I do? I sat frozen in bed for about four minutes, and then picked up the two way radio and woke J. Poor guy – he came out straight away and searched the area for tracks, of which he found none, and surmised a while later that I had heard the death cry of a wildebeest that the lions had just killed. I felt fairly embarrassed, which continued in the morning when two of the rangers were set to scanning the area on foot for tracks and didn’t find any. L and J were very kind and assured me that it was “better to be safe than sorry.”

I realised how very highly strung I am. I honestly hadn’t thought much of my alertness, but clearly, I am quite a worrier, as my beloved points out.

My nerves somewhat calmed but the realisation of my hyperalertness, I slept deeply the next night, until I woke to the distinctive sounds of a mouse skirtching and scratching around – a plastic bag, in the books, across the grass mat. I was tired – really needed to sleep, so asked the mouse to please be quiet. This had absolutely no effect, so I lit candles and shone my torch around – to which the mouse predictably disappeared, stood still and held his breath. Lights out, head down, sleep approached. Skritch skirtch, scratch, plastic bag, paper … I jerked up profoundly irritated to be woken. Torch on, blazing into the tiny area that is my hut. “Mouse,” I called out loudly, “you and I cannot live together. You are far too noisy and I need to SLEEP!” I boomed out, unnecessary tyrant. Lights out, a call to sleep, and the mouse resumed. I realised my bad temper and loud vocalising meant nothing to the mouse, so I let him know that Gorgeous, our fine and brilliant mouse catching cat, would be coming by in the next few days so he would have to make a choice – get eaten by her or move into the garage. The four handsome lizards living in the ceiling watched on without moving, letting a few droppings fall as the time went by.

Eventually I thought “fuck it” and found my earplugs, admonishing the mouse for ruining my night and threatening him with Gorgeous one more time for good measure.

I slept fitfully, right through my alarm and had to speed up my morning coming to consciousness to get to the office.

At the end of the day I came home to the cottage, opened the door an inhaled the wonderful smell of the thatched roof, one of my favourite smells in the world, and went to collapse on the bed. There, on the bedside table, were the remains of the orange earplugs – shredded into tiny pieces and stacked into two tiny mounds – one on the table and one under my pillow. Not eaten, but nibbled to death. I burst out laughing – Mouse: 1, me: 0. What a hilarious clear message the mouse had sent me.

That night he happily scratched and scratched away, and I spoke to him more kindly, still asking him to be quiet and move out, and also reminding him about Gorgeous.

The next day I had to get Gorgeous on board. I adore her and relish any time I can spend with her. Gorgeous has spent a night with me when I absolutely needed her magnificent protection, a night when dark forces were coming my way and she stayed absolutely still right next to my head, and I had a dreamless night, whilst all around me had nightmares and did battle with opposition.  I thanked her sincerely and profusely every time I saw her, and we became close friends. So I found her in the garden on a sunny spring day and told her, thinking pictures in my mind, that I now lived in the cottage and I would love for her to visit me. Also, I told her I had a mouse that was keeping me awake, and asked her to please come and do her work and rid my sanctuary of the noisy little creature.

I called her to walk with me to the cottage, and she gingerly came halfway, at which point she spotted Max the Labrador from the next door camp and practically made herself invisible with speed back to Tula House.

But, about five nights later, I came back to the cottage and saw a figure – it was gorgeous come to visit me! She happily rolled on her back in the dirt and I poured my love all over her, and invited her inside. She strode in, tail erect and did a full patrol of the perimeter, under the bed, the stacks of books on the floor waiting for their bookshelf. She gazed intently at the lizards in the roof for a while, and then I invited her onto the bed where she melted into a session of stroking, chatting and general loving.

And now, touch wood, the mouse has moved out, I imagine he smelled Gorgeous and decided to vacate before she found him. Sorry little mouse, you are so tiny and actually very pretty, but we can’t live together, not in this little cottage.

All my relations.

15th July 2012

15^th July 2012 

The Leadership Academy is up and running, and I have now been working at the WLT for three months and 15 days. 

Today I had a day off with a few work interruptions. It started with a long waited for lie-in, the morning quiet broken by the ping of the microwave as M heated the milk for her coffee at 5.30am, and then started baking for the coffee shop. I lay  in bed for three hours, trying to get back to sleep, ear plugs in, eye mask on, my mind going on and on and on about what a shopping mall Tula House has become and how completely irritated I am by the constant passage of people and disturbance. 

I didn’t want to make M feel bad  - she’s such a little old thing, and so sensitive, and really, what would it help to be shitty or try and correct the situation by asking her to wait until 7am. Something in me switched and I decided to just drop it, and be nice. And that was the right decision. It was so much easier than “asking for my needs to be met”.

It is the time of accelerated processing. Just say the thing that needs saying and move on. Sometimes its to give an instruction, sometimes its to straighten something out, but rarely is it an emotional share out here in lion lands.

In my love life too, my beloved is an extraordinary man who moves through things quickly – so far that I have known him, he is willing to engage and move into love. What an incredible blessing. I adore him.

Today I took a slow walk down the river. The participants were in silence all day, and as I am premenstrual, things are a bit touch and go – yesterday I felt so down, today jolly, I just walk slowly. Earthwalked. Thought of getting Julia over to Earthwalk here. How she can manifest and get the money together.

I slowed in the sun next to the knot of trees uprooted and swept downstream in January’s flood – the once picturesque riverside now a wild tangle of trees, bamboo and vines, wild and impassable. I heard the snort of a hippo later today, and I’m aware the leopard is there. Lots of birdlife, someone calling the alarm as I entered the bush.

After I paid my respects the remembrance filtered though that I had wondered if Africa would spit me out or accept me back, before I came here.

The learning has been much more than that. My home and work environment populated by people I would normally only find myself working with, I have been pushed to my edge for weeks on end in a huge projection and transference on one particular woman, to whom I have a physical reaction of heightened anxiety , incessant allergy and obsessive defensive reaction to. I have experienced her betraying me, side-swiping me, constantly trying to off-load her work onto me, and this is after we started off by being friends. Oh, its been too awful … but finally today I am seeing some light, after I got it this morning that I can lighten up a bit and watch my extreme reactions and the fantasies my mind makes up There’s no doubt about it she does send me poison darts energetically, and she gets right under my skin.

Anyhow, it occurred to me today that one of my big spiritual lessons being back here in Africa is to learn how to be in the world, after 12 years retreat (in a manner of speaking) in Australia, a controlled environment. Here, all your worst nightmares can easily come true. I was concerned about being attacked by some kind of dark force and prayed for protection – but I guess I wasn’t clear enough about it or focussed enough on sealing myself off. I got my first big lesson in African spirituality recently when I got a cold that not only wouldn’t go away, but just got worse and worse and bronchial. As my mind descended into a dark place, I realised that the entities has once more attached to me, and I told L as I was worried that I was getting very ill, with a nasty malaria type headache starting up. She advised I spend time with the lions, which I did. I asked for their help and they came to find me – Matsieng – the lion I have felt connected to since Australia, and Zukhara came to the gate of Tula House one morning after I had asked for their help the night before, and checked me out for ten minutes. Bliss. The next day Princess Nebu arrested us on the road to the office, in her full glory.

I found out the full details of what happened to me this week. It was an attack, coming from an outside person with dark intentions, channelled through the most unlikely man who to me represented all that is good and upright. It was a direct attack to prevent the birthing of the sacred feminine, and I was one of three who were attacked, the other two being lions. It was very serious, but I was in good healing hands with two incredible Afrikaans women lightworkers and came through.

Tomorrow I get my chart read by M and it sounds like I have a big spiritual awakening coming my way, or elevation, growth, whatever you want to call it. As my beloved says, spiritual expansion in Africa is nowhere near as graceful as the Europeans would have it – here, its more like a rugby scrum, where you lock in with the dark lords and fight for your life.

Indeed. Lesson number 1.

Bismillah.

Rural South Africa

Its been so long since I’ve written. I have been intensely busy with my job at the Trust; a fierce transition from the northern suburbs of Melbourne to the Greater Timbavati bushland. The rains arrived two weeks ago, transforming the parched savannah into rich sprouting greens and dark red earth. 

It has by no means been a restful seven months. Apart from project managing the launch of the Leadership Academy, and working closely with founder and CEO LT on a myriad of campaigns, issues and the daily running of 1700 hectares of bushveld and the lion and animal populations within, my personal life took a wild turn into the brilliant raspberry coloured fields of love. Yes, a deep and delicious love that I have been waiting and praying for all my life finally arrived here, on my doorstep, carried by a pale blue hire car resembling a toaster, the mighty form of my beloved-to-be within.

He lives in Durban, a twelve hour drive from Timbavati, so we meet every second weekend in a town halfway between our homes. As I tear down the tar road intersecting the Timbavati bushland, my phone locates signal and I ring him, “I’ve left my darling, I’m on my way!” I let him know. “Good, my love, good, I’m driving towards you,” he replies.

We meet in Wakkerstroom, one of the few intact country towns littering the South African landscape. Unfortunately, most towns do litter the landscape, literally – they are tragic, decrepit sentinels to what was once functional; infrastructure aimed at serving the few, but now a nasty testament to the vindictiveness that pervades South Africa, which allows everything to fall, beautiful old buildings to decay or be stripped of any value. All over the South African countryside are stripped hertiage buildings – interesting that the walls and piles of brick and rubble are left, not pulled down in a gesture of an ending and a beginning, just left, almost as a careless "fuck you" to what once was. Laconic, utilitarian living surrounds us.

These sad little towns once stood proud with roads intact, pavement proudly swept and mended, streets free of litter, devoid of garish advertising in a nod to polite aesthetic or rigid order, take your pick. Towns like Volksrust where you can see the shadow of a town with history – a key strategic town in the Boer War and no doubt Afrikaner history. These towns adjacent to the townships, which are looking more miserable than ever, with the pathetic excuse of RDP housing which bears striking similarity to the housing put up by the apartheid government. Some with plots so small they can’t even plant a tree.

Driving through the coal mining belt of Carolina, Ermelo (a town deserved of a special kind of loathing, with its street signs that send you the wrong way), it's a tough job warding off the depression that sinks down from the blue skies fouled with black smoke to see the stark reality of what has become of South Africa. It is wasteland, valuable infrastructure crumbling before our eyes, whilst we busy ourselves with the Zuma/Malema circus, too distracted to acknowledge that neither has noble or good intentions – just look at the landscape around you if you haven’t quite grasped the malevolent and dark forces they embody and broadcast.The ruin that South Africa has become.

Twenty kilometers from Volksrust is Wakkerstroom, a rare haven in the rural landscape, sitting in a bowl of beautiful mountain ranges. It is one of those seachange kind of towns that well-off people retire to, and has the blessed absence of craft shops - mosaic-ed crucifixes and garden ornaments with cute or religious sentiment made of chicken wire, lace and glass beads. It has two strikingly good restaurants, one run by a chef whose brilliant cooking is accompanied by a slow sozzling no doubt through the day, so that by 8.30pm she is thoroughly shit-faced and slurring, but jolly. Her mushroom gnocchi make this instantly forgiveable. Wakkerstroom's heritage buildings are intact, the streets are clean, there is peace in the air. It is not on a main route, which would be a factor in retaining its dignity, and there are no chain stores to numb the citizens. There is nothing to do, save eat excellent food and go for a stroll or birdwatch, which suits my beloved and I just fine as we hunker down in a badly decorated cottage where he immediately removes the deeply offensive burgundy tassled lampshades, and we climb into bed to stave off the icy weather outside, to read to each other and be in the oasis of love.

The Aloneness of Christmas

Of course, this title is untrue in my world. I am entirely surrounded by humanity, being in the City of Melbourne, and have been riding the agitated river that we two leggeds embark upon Christmas-wards, forming queues in shops that sell colourful plastic rubbish destined for the garbage bin in a week. This festival wordlessly imposed on the citizenry, even though significant parts are Muslim, Hindu, Jewish, atheists. I wonder if everyone just comes along for the ride, as really, they have no choice when our whole year revolves around this holiday and the sales. “Consumer confidence is down”, or up, or whichever obtuse code the high priests of Capitalism measure the mystery of economics. I really don’t believe they have a true grasp on what is occurring.  If they did, economic crises would be averted and volatility would be an under-rated concept.

But that’s not really what I wanted to write about. It’s the festive season after all, and I’m not entirely cynical.  Two weekends ago after my morning shower, my coffee pot followed the arc my body carved as I turned quickly from the stove, as if connected by an invisible line. It dipped and tipped, and with fantastic speed and a triumphant crescendo, the white porcelain smashed into the black ceramic kitchen floor tiles. The hot black liquid covered my legs and feet, cooling surprisingly quickly; it dripped down the walls in elegant dribbles.

I’d needed that coffee. It was 11am and my head was thick, swollen with heat that my liver kicked out. An eruption of anger shot up from the base of my torso, larva, but I paused, reluctant to give it steam or space.  Could I really be bothered with another morning of extreme emotion, rage against what simply is? What occurred, objectively, I thought, was that my favourite coffee pot tipped over because I’d switched the cast iron pot supports above the gas jets when I cleaned the stove, and hadn’t noticed that the vessel wasn’t adequately supported. What happened was that the coffee pot had smashed and the floor and walls were now covered in coffee and porcelain shards.  That was all. I chose to simply clean it up, rather than falling into the torrid stream of thought where existence was punishing me, neglecting me once again.

Instead of writing, as I had planned to do, a prospect I regarded as enticing as cleaning the fridge, I decided to go to the Mediterranean Wholesalers on Sydney Road and buy a new coffee pot. I’d also buy one for my ex-boyfriend whose last girlfriend broke his, the emotional context of this breakage politely undefined.

What a fabulous exit strategy from the onerous task that writing a novel had become.

The Saturday morning traffic crawled down Sydney Road, predictably everyone and their kids out. The ring of pre-Christmas shopping thrummed in the air and I was pulled deeper into the Mediterranean Wholesaler by the sensory cacophony of this broad, bustling, purposeful community.

On top of the usual Saturday morning business, people hovered around the mountains of panettone and Christmas sweets. Beautiful tins of biscuits embossed with nostalgic pictures of little girls, delicate butterflies and misty-eyed damsels from that romantic yesteryear were on display. Plain torrone or covered in chocolate and filled with Strega, thirty varieties of bright fruit liqueurs, mountains of wafers, crackers, cookies - everything looked delectable.

Without warning my heart sent a lump of sadness to my throat to burn the back of my eyes – my family. Christmas again in this hot mad land of Australia with no family. I chose it again this time, needing a break from the financially draining transcontinental travel, needing to stabilise my health and income after a year of sizzling burnout.

But this searing, this sadness that fell over me like a useless tent emptied me out, cut off all connection to the buzzing families around me. Once more I was truly alone, relentlessly, excruciatingly alone.

Submerged under this hollow fog, I wandered down the Aisle of Pasta; I’ve always loved being in this spacious shop; the sense of it, of Europe, of an old fashioned family store. The giant pasta shells appealed to me, and I found anchovies, a pale smelly cheese, preserved artichokes, the coffee pots I wanted.  The packs of lemony crostoli were too big for one person.

Once safely out on the pavement, I considered that I could act on the sadness and buy an air ticket to Jo’burg that afternoon, mess up my finances and create more recovery work but bask in the perfection of Johannesburg's summer, or wait for the wave of sadness to pass, and plan for next year.

In the hot Aussie Saturday summer, I moved up Sydney Road through the crowds of Muslim women draped in fabric, dark moustachioed Mediterranean men and the bright pale skinned young things seeing the world through their heavy black eyeglass frames and kooky gear, into the refuge of Spotlight where the beauty of hundreds of pattered fabrics soon diverted my heart’s focus from its empty homestead to enchanting prospects of all the things that can be made, sewn together; the bliss of fabric.

So soothed, I made my way home, and the next day my dear friend’s mother announced without prompting that she was adopting me, that I would spend Christmas with their family and always be considered part of their family. How sweet, and kind, and timeous.

I feel less alone, and have been very attentive to my mother that she is taken care of for Christmas, spending time with her family in Pretoria, as her tired eighty year old heart would also be heavy.  And my brother so far away in London; well, they’re burying his wife’s mother this week, the deep sadness around and life moves on. So fast, and so intense, that I daily have to slow down, slow right down to locate my heart and assure it that it is safe, that all is ok. And today is Chanukah - which is about light, peace and those lovely donuts. Blessings to all this festive season!

Smashed

Its just as well I had the session with the Maori astrologer in June this year. In her Jungian language, she warned of rough seas from July though to October, and that it would be wise to find shelter out of the cities, far from the noise, traffic and intensity. To commune with nature.

The western cedar house in Mullumbimby was the perfect hide-out for the winter months. I had spectacular days at Brunswick Beach whilst the whales migrated south, days of sun and squalls, days of multiple rainbows and pods of dolphins surfing transparent waves in perfect unison. The days which most arrested and shocked me were clear sky days when I strolled along the breakwater, the Brunswick River flowing in to meet the sea, days when this ocean-river water ran luminously clear to magnify the different schools of fish racing along the rocks, suddenly herded by a dolphin cow with her calf, a flash of deep grey.

The two of them came back a few days in a row, swimming right up to a delighted couple lolling in the delicious water. And on my last trip to the beach where the river yet again granted me the clarity of an aquarium, a sea eagle dropped down to catch a fish and soared up and into the coastal forest.

What tremendous blessings I had for those six weeks, to be that close to nature.

The astrologer had warned that I would be faced with a choice during this time – I could either keep doing the psychotherapeutic work I did or finally turn towards and honour my creativity. Knowing that I had been avoiding writing something comprehensive for years, The Book that had been stewing away on the back-burner by now nursed a nasty burnt crust, it had waited so long, probably twenty years. So I seized the rare opportunity of time off and enrolled in a ten month online writing course.

And this has been my companion since the 25^th July, the daily ritual of following the teachings and taking chances on material that seems to want to be written. Some days the discomfort wrings me out, but I know myself well enough that I simply have to show up and write something daily, I must and I will, and I am bound by the investment I have made and am far too tight to squander the money I have paid for this course!

Some days I read what I have written and my confidence is renewed that I can actually do this. Other days, like the last few, are far too bleak, and the material feels dull and that it has a limited shelf life.

Thankfully, our course is peppered with encouragement, quotes drilling into us to simply write everyday. So I do. The last few days I have felt nauseated by the novel, and missed the spontaneity of daily observation. And I have missed my blog, and the medium it offers. So, back I am in blog-land, perhaps not daily, but certainly, I love the platform to interact with the world that it offers. A kind of scrap book of ideas.

********

I mentioned that the astrologer said there would be a choice. It came hard and fast and my fondness for earning money magnetised me. At the very last minute, I was offered a week’s work, to facilitate a workshop, which is what I do. And of course I said yes, even though I didn’t have the right clothes, nor was I in my usual crisp working frame of mind. I was somewhat woolly, but I have extensive experience and proficiency in this work, so I said yes. Not knowing that I was pulling on the cord that would ring the bell, the death knell to my career.

Dramatic sounding? Perhaps, but let me tell you that since the 8^th July, nothing has been the same. I had no idea that one could feel like this, that one could end up in the shower, something like this:

The hot water rained from the showerhead and she let the silent tears glob out and mix with the chlorinated water. “I’m all broken,” the thought nearly came out loud, but she didn’t want her mother down the hallway to hear her.

“I’m all broken and I just can’t handle anymore. I get so flooded by company, by people, how am I ever going to manage letting anyone love me, letting anyone in? My nerves are frayed after three months off and I’m shattered.” A little girl in a 43 year old body. “Restoring furniture, quiet, in a cool old shopfront or garage, now that sounds appealing, but my head hurts, my neck feels twisted and this lump, here, at the base of my skull, this lump of muscle is pulling all of my bones out of their rightful places.”

She cried and let the sadness take form in the tears and snot, felt the pain ease in the left side of her head, and a valve in her heart that had been gathering despair empty out, pour out the weight and let it wash into the water that connects all waters.

“Better. Better for letting it move and come out of the body,” she whispered, as she towelled herself down, the thick blue cotton soft on her thin skin. Able to function now, without donning a brittle surface that would crack at the first dialogue and either splinter into dangerous shards or icicle coolness, the door to her heart near frozen.

“Better.” It was just now, only now that she had to deal with. Only now.

They call it Burn Out. It’s a good term, apt. If you can picture a human form, then see the nervous system alive in it, perhaps see it in fluorescent green so that you get a sense of the phenomenal speed and variety of ceaseless activity is entertains, and then imagine all the peripheral endings singed, burnt, so that the neurological traffic hits walls, creating shortages, you may even hear a metallic voice blurting “system overload” or smell electrical burning, but that would make it funny, which sometimes it really has to be.

So one’s capacity, let me own it, my capacity for life is different. On a bad day I would say its impaired, damaged, broken. But perhaps its just different. My sense of presence in very expanded, now that I live this slow life, I see colours more intensely, I get messages from people’s bodies when I massage them, so yes, something has been broken, cracked, something has fragmented, but perhaps this is what is needed when we have constructed a concrete shelter around our being. That its needs to dissemble, so that we can feel again.

I like the tenderness I feel. I am making friends with my soul. I am listening, I take time every day to be with my soul.

In the last week my divine friend R suggested I find the original hope that I held BEFORE the shock of being human kicked in. Before the trauma, the attachment, before the story. And my original hope was that I be treasured, loved, held and protected. Which is what I would love from a man whom I am calling in.

And I am thrilled to be finding in myself, to be treasuring my own heart, making decisions that value and protect me. And I guess I would never have done this had I said no to that last minute workshop, that smashed me up against a wall I had never met before.