Tuesday, 18 May 2010
21:51 | Posted by
Dale Darley |
Around my heart is a thick rope. Old, worn and ingrained with dirt. Its frayed from constant chaffing. The braids are as thick as my fingers. No one cares about the rope but for me its use is clear. It encases my vibrant beating heart like entwined digits, stretching as I breathe. My heart hurts, the pulsating muscle needs the tightly wrapped rope around it for protection. The bristles irritate it, but tell me I am alive. They force my heart to fight back. The rope is wrapped around 5 times and finished with a neatly tied bow. One tug of the bow and it will release my cocooned organ. When the time comes I will pull gently and allow myself to feel again. But for now the rope holds my heart in place. Inside the rope I place one small rose quartz crystal, its gentle pink energy strangely at odds with the pale dirty rope. They clash yet balance.
My mind wanders to what should be. Words cannot describe the simple pain that tears through my chest. I let my guard down. I let you in. You stayed for a brief moment and left. Stepped into my space and lifetimes whirled by. I knew you from somewhere, were you a lover in another life? I reached out, touched and felt you returned to me, I savoured the moments. My hands wandered over smooth flesh, my lips meeting yours told me it was meant to be. In times past it was a secret love cut short. In this life you may be gone, I will have you back. This time, I will catch you and not let go.
I left my mark on you, my hands poured healing energy into your heart, my kiss will linger on your lips, my smell in your nostrils and soft touch on your bare skin will constantly remind you. I gave you my blessing to leave me, it was a gift. I know you will be back.
In the lost moments of your anger what did you do? Did you reach for the blade that lay drying on the board. Feel the cold hard plastic handle comfortable in your grip. Squeeze it tightly whilst adrenaline rushes up your arm, stiffens your shoulder and wires your brain. Your thoughts clear, your intentions precise.
Will it only be one stab? Accurately placed, fatality guaranteed. Or will you stab in a frenzy, enjoying the viciousness of the attack?
Then stop as calmness returns, a small trickle of sweat running down your face, drips into your mouth, as you savour your work. The villain is down, you hear his (or her) last breath. The room bloody and splattered, his (or her) artery pumping its last drops of precious liquid.
No in that last moment you realise that the police would know it was you. You couldn't carry the lump into the garden, it would take all night to bury. After, you have to re arranged the plants, clean up the mess, burn your clothes, scrub the floors, all whilst devising a plausible story of why he (or she) was no longer with you.
In the next blink of an eye your sense returns, your grip on the knife of freedom loosens.
You turn to your tormentor and say "Yes dear, whatever you say".
Will it only be one stab? Accurately placed, fatality guaranteed. Or will you stab in a frenzy, enjoying the viciousness of the attack?
Then stop as calmness returns, a small trickle of sweat running down your face, drips into your mouth, as you savour your work. The villain is down, you hear his (or her) last breath. The room bloody and splattered, his (or her) artery pumping its last drops of precious liquid.
No in that last moment you realise that the police would know it was you. You couldn't carry the lump into the garden, it would take all night to bury. After, you have to re arranged the plants, clean up the mess, burn your clothes, scrub the floors, all whilst devising a plausible story of why he (or she) was no longer with you.
In the next blink of an eye your sense returns, your grip on the knife of freedom loosens.
You turn to your tormentor and say "Yes dear, whatever you say".
Saturday, 8 May 2010
Yesterday I was talking to the lovely Michelle Clarke on the way back from a day trip to London. The car was filled with a great energy as we gassed about all sorts and I was reminded of a person who is sadly no longer a friend and of all of the people we no longer have in our lives because of their toxic energy.
We cannot change others, we can only change ourselves and we deserve to have only the right people in our lives who value us for who we are and give us the space and the freedom to be who we are. This short piece was written a while ago after a visit from this friend, who left me wondering why for some its always grey skies and for others even when its cold and damp outside relish the cool breeze on their faces and the fresh air as it hits thier lungs and reminds us of all the beauty around.
Awaking to the sound of the birds singing, you think bugger off
You walk by the running river and see only the concrete path
Overhead the emerging skies are filled with hope, you see rain
Through your window the blossoms are wilting, leaves turning brown
The tea has no taste; it’s a hot, wet morning drink
Toast like cardboard, salty greasy butter, jam sickly and sweet
You hate today, its like every other day, nobody cares, you know it
Hiding from the knock on the door, nobody calling for you
You get through life, nothing to look forward to, frequent hot, violent tears
Meanwhile on the other side of the street
You walk by the running river and see only the concrete path
Overhead the emerging skies are filled with hope, you see rain
Through your window the blossoms are wilting, leaves turning brown
The tea has no taste; it’s a hot, wet morning drink
Toast like cardboard, salty greasy butter, jam sickly and sweet
You hate today, its like every other day, nobody cares, you know it
Hiding from the knock on the door, nobody calling for you
You get through life, nothing to look forward to, frequent hot, violent tears
Meanwhile on the other side of the street
The curtains are open the daylight streams in, a new day begins
You awake with weak warm sun on your face, cocooned in your duvet, safe
The chorus greets you, natures daily miracle, sings to you
Looking out of your window, the outside calls for your company
Light perfume tea delicate on your palette lingers in your mouth
Alive today and every day, living in the now, freedom, you can touch it
Later when walking by the sea, thundering sounds stir your soul
Conversation and laughter with friends, white wine, black beer and chocolate
Kisses and gentle touches from your lover to come
You seize the day, nothing to be feared, everything to be savoured and learned
Meanwhile on the other side of the street
Monday, 5 April 2010
Standing in the large room in my paint splattered jeans and T-shirt, I surveyed my blank canvas, 4 walls waiting for the caress of my paint brush to be coated in colours that would entice lovers to sink nightly into each others arms.
Everyone loves blue, dark, light, powder, bright, royal, mystical, exciting and calming. A colour for nights of love or sleep after the hectic torment of a day in work.
The pot in front of me was pale, fresh and new, gentle like the emerging spring morning. The label declared powder blue.
Hands on hips I smiled. The bright sun was streaming though the windows, I turned my face upwards, closed my eyes, the warmth kissed me, it was a beautiful day. Outside the tall leafy tree hid me from the passers by, alone in my world. Screw driver in hand I opened up the paint. The smell permeated my nostrils, I sniffed deep, acrid chemicals crept up my nose and lingered just a moment too long at the back of my throat. As I placed the lid on the bare floorboards I imagined how the room will look once finished, carpeted and adorned with our bed covered in new linen, selected to match the style being created.
Only this weekend this room would know my spite, no colours for sex but soft powder blue, the colour he hated, a colour that would remind him of his childhood. The lazy man that I had chosen to buy a house with had decided once again that he had better things to do. At the suggestion that our bedroom needed completing he had donned his black leathers climbed aboard his fast motorbike and sped away to friends in London.
I sighed. Paint brush in hand, I dipped it into the thick goo, coated, I was ready for the attack. A lunacy came over me as I ran at the wall, slapped the brush hard against it and watched paint being splattered everywhere. I snarled. I jabbed like a sword fight using the brush as my rapier into the wallpaper. The wallpaper that I had single handedly put up only the week before. Only to be criticised for air pockets as he strutted around the room, spitefully pointing out my mistakes. Well take that, I cried as I jabbed again. Hysterical laughter filled the air, I looked around to see where it was coming from, it was me. I stopped and took a hold of myself, deep breath I had a room to paint.
The off white wallpaper slowly disappeared and became cool calming blue pages, blank waiting for the rest of the story to unfold.
Sitting in the doorway, Jonesy, a black and white cat kept me company. I didn’t know until years later that this cat belonged to someone else, he became my permanent companion as I created a home from the mess.
My stomach rumbled it was time for tea and biscuits. I put down the loaded brush and wiped my hands down my already crusty jeans and clomped down the bare stairs to the old cream kettle. Minutes later I was back hot steaming cup in hand to survey my work. Sipping slowly as I reviewed my art. Powder blue, colour hex code #B0E0E6, just a number not a spell, nothing to symbolize and strengthen this relationship.
Slurping the dregs of the tea, I inhaled deeply, I was satisfied with my efforts. The light was now fading from the window, hours had passed in the now tranquil room and a soft shadow fell. I packed up and made for home, certain that tomorrow would bring another deluge of comments about my handy work. Who cared?
Allegedly I am an.........
Idealists, as a temperament, are passionately concerned with personal growth and development. Idealists strive to discover who they are and how they can become their best possible self -- always this quest for self-knowledge and self-improvement drives their imagination. And they want to help others make the journey. Idealists are naturally drawn to working with people, and whether in education or counseling, in social services or personnel work, in journalism or the ministry, they are gifted at helping others find their way in life, often inspiring them to grow as individuals and to fulfill their potentials.
Idealists, as a temperament, are passionately concerned with personal growth and development. Idealists strive to discover who they are and how they can become their best possible self -- always this quest for self-knowledge and self-improvement drives their imagination. And they want to help others make the journey. Idealists are naturally drawn to working with people, and whether in education or counseling, in social services or personnel work, in journalism or the ministry, they are gifted at helping others find their way in life, often inspiring them to grow as individuals and to fulfill their potentials.
Idealists are sure that friendly cooperation is the best way for people to achieve their goals. Conflict and confrontation upset them because they seem to put up angry barriers between people. Idealists dream of creating harmonious, even caring personal relations, and they have a unique talent for helping people get along with each other and work together for the good of all. Such interpersonal harmony might be a romantic ideal, but then Idealists are incurable romantics who prefer to focus on what might be, rather than what is. The real, practical world is only a starting place for Idealists; they believe that life is filled with possibilities waiting to be realized, rich with meanings calling out to be understood. This idea of a mystical or spiritual dimension to life, the "not visible" or the "not yet" that can only be known through intuition or by a leap of faith, is far more important to Idealists than the world of material things.
Highly ethical in their actions, Idealists hold themselves to a strict standard of personal integrity. They must be true to themselves and to others, and they can be quite hard on themselves when they are dishonest, or when they are false or insincere. More often, however, Idealists are the very soul of kindness. Particularly in their personal relationships, Idealists are without question filled with love and good will. They believe in giving of themselves to help others; they cherish a few warm, sensitive friendships; they strive for a special rapport with their children; and in marriage they wish to find a "soulmate," someone with whom they can bond emotionally and spiritually, sharing their deepest feelings and their complex inner worlds.
Idealists are relatively rare, making up no more than 15 to 20 percent of the population. But their ability to inspire people with their enthusiasm and their idealism has given them influence far beyond their numbers.
Idealists at Work
Idealists, as a temperament, are passionately concerned with personal growth and development. They are naturally drawn to working with people and are gifted with helping others find their way in life, often inspiring them to grow as individuals and to fulfill their potential both on, and off, the job.
Idealists, as a temperament, are passionately concerned with personal growth and development. They are naturally drawn to working with people and are gifted with helping others find their way in life, often inspiring them to grow as individuals and to fulfill their potential both on, and off, the job.
Because you live in anticipation of an exciting future, in your ideal job you will be asked to stretch your imagination on a continual basis. Existing ideas, individuals and groups of people, products, services, and the relationships between these things can trigger flashes of insight about how "what is" might unfold into "what might be." You feel rewarded where you feel free to share your insights with people who encourage your creativity and who support the unpredictable process by which you narrow down the stream of ideas into innovations that are meaningful within the scheme of your personal values. You are likely to be comfortable taking on a leadership role, so long as it doesn’t place you in an arbitrary hierarchy.
Wednesday, 3 February 2010
I awake at 3.30 to sounds of loud revellers wishing each other good night.
A word pops into my mind, it's menopause. I run the word around my mind meno pause. Meno, mens Greek for monthly. Pause, pausis cessation. The time when 'a womans monthly pauses'. Odd. Peri meno pause the time before the time it ends. Peri, around about. Nothing definate then, around about the time your monthly pauses. It all makes sense.
At 13 my mother prepared me for times to come. She gave me a mirror and suggested that I take a look at myself, I thought it strange but complied and looked into the round shaving mirror. She laughed, no down there. Down there was my vagina. She wanted me to not only look at it, but to also put my fingers in it and feel around. Her logic was sound, if you know what it looks and feels like normally, then you will know if there are any changes.
It made sense, so I did. Years later, when I ran a fertility company I was to advise women to 'put their fingers inside themselves' this was to check where the cervix was as this is one of the signs for ovulation, along with temperature and cervical mucus.
Mucus another word that you wouldn't use in polite conversations. Along with the mirror exercise I was horrified at the 'mucus' that appeared around about the time that the monthlys began. At 13 I had no idea what it was. Of course I now know that the fantastic machine that is my body, was preparing me for pregnancy.
Not only did she give me a mirror, but mum took me to one side and showed me a belt and a packet of things called sanitary towels, big thick wadges to stuff in my pants - when the time came. These were put away in my top drawer.
The top drawer day soon arrived. On coming home from school one day I discoverd it had started. I remembered mums conversation with me, so feeling confident I proceed to fit my new pink device. Sitting on the bed I pondered if they had really arrived, so I took it all off, packed it away and sat quite still to wait for her to come home. Only then when she confirmed it would I know - I was on my way to womanhood.
Years have passed, no children came and now I am slipping into the third age of woman, I am becoming a crone (thats a wise women BTW). Just when I thought that I have endured all that fertility creates, I must now face all that menopause brings.
A word pops into my mind, it's menopause. I run the word around my mind meno pause. Meno, mens Greek for monthly. Pause, pausis cessation. The time when 'a womans monthly pauses'. Odd. Peri meno pause the time before the time it ends. Peri, around about. Nothing definate then, around about the time your monthly pauses. It all makes sense.
At 13 my mother prepared me for times to come. She gave me a mirror and suggested that I take a look at myself, I thought it strange but complied and looked into the round shaving mirror. She laughed, no down there. Down there was my vagina. She wanted me to not only look at it, but to also put my fingers in it and feel around. Her logic was sound, if you know what it looks and feels like normally, then you will know if there are any changes.
It made sense, so I did. Years later, when I ran a fertility company I was to advise women to 'put their fingers inside themselves' this was to check where the cervix was as this is one of the signs for ovulation, along with temperature and cervical mucus.
Mucus another word that you wouldn't use in polite conversations. Along with the mirror exercise I was horrified at the 'mucus' that appeared around about the time that the monthlys began. At 13 I had no idea what it was. Of course I now know that the fantastic machine that is my body, was preparing me for pregnancy.
Not only did she give me a mirror, but mum took me to one side and showed me a belt and a packet of things called sanitary towels, big thick wadges to stuff in my pants - when the time came. These were put away in my top drawer.
The top drawer day soon arrived. On coming home from school one day I discoverd it had started. I remembered mums conversation with me, so feeling confident I proceed to fit my new pink device. Sitting on the bed I pondered if they had really arrived, so I took it all off, packed it away and sat quite still to wait for her to come home. Only then when she confirmed it would I know - I was on my way to womanhood.
Years have passed, no children came and now I am slipping into the third age of woman, I am becoming a crone (thats a wise women BTW). Just when I thought that I have endured all that fertility creates, I must now face all that menopause brings.
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