October 4, 2012
Retreat
Is everyone in retreat?
Meditation retreat,
Detox retreat,
Loving couples retreat,
Yoga Retreat,
Women's Retreat,
Men's retreat.
"Open your mind,
Open your heart."
(Open your wallet).
Open your eyes.
Don't retreat.
The world needs less retreating and more doing.
More sharing and less going within.
More community and less solitude.
More pull, less push.
More Courage, less fear.
More Forgiveness, less ... ... ... fear.
Now is not the time to retreat.
I nudge my self from within:
"Step forward, relax,
speak from your truth."
I encourage with firm and gentle words:
"Donate, volunteer, reciprocate.
Share, ask, communicate.
Balance, stretch, breathe.
Listen, research, read."
And together we pray:
"Let unity come.
Come unity, come.
Let Community swarm,
A rising breath of passion,
a sea-swell heaving.
Let its nature be its nourishment.
Let people be its roots,
Let community be its core,
Let it sprout ideas a-plenty,
and project its branch-like projects,
throwing out leaves of abundance and gratitude.
Let it bloom glorious flowers of completion
and radiant achievement
for all to enjoy.
And benefit. And learn. And find peace therein."
And thus our mantra,
my self and me:
"Come unity come.
Don't ever retreat."
* * *
August 1, 2012
Sing your death song...
“So live your life that the fear of death can never enter your heart. Trouble no one about their religion; respect others in their view, and demand that they respect yours. Love your life, perfect your life, beautify all things in your life. Seek to make your life long and its purpose in the service of your people. Prepare a noble death song for the day when you go over the great divide.
Always give a word or a sign of salute when meeting or passing a friend, even a stranger, when in a lonely place. Show respect to all people and grovel to none.
When you arise in the morning give thanks for the food and for the joy of living. If you see no reason for giving thanks, the fault lies only in yourself. Abuse no one and no thing, for abuse turns the wise ones to fools and robs the spirit of its vision.
When it comes your time to die, be not like those whose hearts are filled with the fear of death, so that when their time comes they weep and pray for a little more time to live their lives over again in a different way. Sing your death song and die like a hero going home.”
~ Chief Tecumseh
Always give a word or a sign of salute when meeting or passing a friend, even a stranger, when in a lonely place. Show respect to all people and grovel to none.
When you arise in the morning give thanks for the food and for the joy of living. If you see no reason for giving thanks, the fault lies only in yourself. Abuse no one and no thing, for abuse turns the wise ones to fools and robs the spirit of its vision.
When it comes your time to die, be not like those whose hearts are filled with the fear of death, so that when their time comes they weep and pray for a little more time to live their lives over again in a different way. Sing your death song and die like a hero going home.”
~ Chief Tecumseh
The G-spot
Seriously? I just hit the "next blog" button to see what juicy blog-ness this site had in store for the likes of me.
God. Jesus. God. Church. Heaven and Hell. God. God. Jesus. God. .. .. ...
I went through 15 or so, each one BAR NONE with a reference to God - including the one titled "The G-spot" which I thought was hilarious. And I don't mean the new-age spiritualist, pseudo-Christian, hippy-type God. I mean the fundamentalist American Bible-belt type God. Discussions about what there reverend had to say, what the next sermon should be, how grateful one should be to have Jesus in one's life and how fearful one should be that one might (God forbid) burn in hell for all eternity.
Granted, I didn't give them much time or even the philosophical and open mind I would hope my readers have when reading my stuff... but seriously. Where are all the hippies?
Let me give you an example. One blogger's under-title quote reads: "If any one saith, that Christ Jesus was given of God to men, as a redeemer in whom to trust, and not also as a legislator whom to obey; let him be anathema."
Its not that it offends me... I guess I just cant relate. Reading this just gave me the clear sign that I had nothing to learn there or, in fact, anything to lean into.
Click, another. Click, another. Click... and so on. That got me thinking...
Am I on the wrong bloggin' site or something?
God. Jesus. God. Church. Heaven and Hell. God. God. Jesus. God. .. .. ...
I went through 15 or so, each one BAR NONE with a reference to God - including the one titled "The G-spot" which I thought was hilarious. And I don't mean the new-age spiritualist, pseudo-Christian, hippy-type God. I mean the fundamentalist American Bible-belt type God. Discussions about what there reverend had to say, what the next sermon should be, how grateful one should be to have Jesus in one's life and how fearful one should be that one might (God forbid) burn in hell for all eternity.
Granted, I didn't give them much time or even the philosophical and open mind I would hope my readers have when reading my stuff... but seriously. Where are all the hippies?
Let me give you an example. One blogger's under-title quote reads: "If any one saith, that Christ Jesus was given of God to men, as a redeemer in whom to trust, and not also as a legislator whom to obey; let him be anathema."
Its not that it offends me... I guess I just cant relate. Reading this just gave me the clear sign that I had nothing to learn there or, in fact, anything to lean into.
Click, another. Click, another. Click... and so on. That got me thinking...
Am I on the wrong bloggin' site or something?
July 31, 2012
July 27, 2012
being like Teflon
It's an important skill, knowing how to separate yourself from what can be intense experiences of others; to be 'the empty vessel', to let it slide off, to be 'like Teflon'...
Just be careful not to distance yourself too much, become dislocated and wind up with your head in your a*se. It is important to feel, in order to deeply understand others' sufferings and help them celebrate their joy and bliss. It's important to maintain the ability to connect deeply with others so that others may feel connected to and understood.
To understand and share the joy and pain of others keeps us cautious and maintains our drive to fight for what we deem our truth. we are reminded to search for and move towards peace in the world (where others may not be able to), being a beacon for peace in others, which is, the peace within ourselves .
The need for separation comes when we find ourselves carrying the heaviness, when we let it stick and it accumulates within us and becomes our own personal baggage. This is definitely NOT cool.
So this is the goal; to appreciate and maintain our genuine nature - our humanity and our softness, to allow ourselves to be vulnerable in the face of suffering, to allow ourselves to feel, to get uncomfortable... and then, to master the art of allowing it to pass, of giving thanks for the experience and letting it go. In this way we remain grounded, connected and full of gratitude and compassion.
... i reckon.
Just be careful not to distance yourself too much, become dislocated and wind up with your head in your a*se. It is important to feel, in order to deeply understand others' sufferings and help them celebrate their joy and bliss. It's important to maintain the ability to connect deeply with others so that others may feel connected to and understood.
To understand and share the joy and pain of others keeps us cautious and maintains our drive to fight for what we deem our truth. we are reminded to search for and move towards peace in the world (where others may not be able to), being a beacon for peace in others, which is, the peace within ourselves .
The need for separation comes when we find ourselves carrying the heaviness, when we let it stick and it accumulates within us and becomes our own personal baggage. This is definitely NOT cool.
So this is the goal; to appreciate and maintain our genuine nature - our humanity and our softness, to allow ourselves to be vulnerable in the face of suffering, to allow ourselves to feel, to get uncomfortable... and then, to master the art of allowing it to pass, of giving thanks for the experience and letting it go. In this way we remain grounded, connected and full of gratitude and compassion.
... i reckon.
April 26, 2012
April 13, 2012
5 strings and a bag of oats
This is a story of my very own, self-proclaimed moment of true ecstasy. Cool huh?
I'll tell you time and again it was in 2000. After a whirl-wind three months backpacking around NZ with nothing to my name except a five-stringed guitar and a bag of oats, dates and pumpkin seeds, I arrived in Sydney off an 8 hour bus-ride.
All too soon, my clad-in-rainbow-fairy-skirt self knew all too well I had barely enough to get from the bus station to the city. But with my remaining coinage and a gasp of hope I made it to the big smoke. Sydney Town. Sydney. The biggest city I'd seen in many a month. So, there I was. Dressed like a Byron Bay feral with a half-shaved head and from my nose septum hanging a bulbous silver bull-ring, I carried my freshly 21 years into the busy CBD streets and the morning peak-hour crawl. Checking my pockets I had all but 20 cents to my name. Not enough in my account to withdraw, even if I bothered to go inside. Not even enough for a phone call...
It hit me. Like a wave of silence, it hit me: "I have no where to go. Nowhere to be. No one is expecting me, or anything of me. I have nothing to buy and nothing to choose. I have nothing to do, but sit. And wait."
So I did.
I sat. I watched the morning CBD busy-ness of business. I watched the sly glances and the hurried steps. I watched the frantic phonecalls and the thrumbing thumbing text messages. And through the barrage of suits and blouses I watched. I watched a man dive a grubby hand into a rubbish bin and examine the contents for usefulness or a couple of calories. I watched a vacant-eyed woman feed the crumbs of her crumpled bag to any pigeons who seemed to care. I sat. I watched, and I waited.
Then I got thirsty.
So I walked. I walked around those busy streets, noticing the people who curved their bodies as to not touch mine. As if I was an infection. I watched my grubby, sandled feet pave those steps around the perfect concrete slabs until, I found a simple water fountain - old and cold. This forgotten friend of Sydney and I became acquainted as I drank from her and wondered how long she had been there; if she had been placed there just for me. In this moment. Now.
The hours passed. Nothing to choose. Nothing to do. Nowhere to go. I had never been more free. I sat, mind vacant. Nothing to choose, nowhere to be. Nothing to be. Nowhere to choose. The silence seemed to open me. Like a moment of pure detachment, pure freedom, pure bliss. Nothing to do, nothing to buy. Nowhere to be, nowhere to go. I was forced, like a willing slave, to simply sit and BE STILL.
I had never been more free, nor have I been as free since.
***
12 years later I find myself losing sleep over choosing what kind of sink this 'we' are going to buy. I find myself in a nightmare - a giant cascading waterfall of choices which I feel threatens to drown me, to flood my insides and squish my 21 year old self under a barrage of glossy magazines and junk mail.
How did we get this way? As a species I mean? How did I get this way? Well... that's another story.
I'll tell you time and again it was in 2000. After a whirl-wind three months backpacking around NZ with nothing to my name except a five-stringed guitar and a bag of oats, dates and pumpkin seeds, I arrived in Sydney off an 8 hour bus-ride.
All too soon, my clad-in-rainbow-fairy-skirt self knew all too well I had barely enough to get from the bus station to the city. But with my remaining coinage and a gasp of hope I made it to the big smoke. Sydney Town. Sydney. The biggest city I'd seen in many a month. So, there I was. Dressed like a Byron Bay feral with a half-shaved head and from my nose septum hanging a bulbous silver bull-ring, I carried my freshly 21 years into the busy CBD streets and the morning peak-hour crawl. Checking my pockets I had all but 20 cents to my name. Not enough in my account to withdraw, even if I bothered to go inside. Not even enough for a phone call...
It hit me. Like a wave of silence, it hit me: "I have no where to go. Nowhere to be. No one is expecting me, or anything of me. I have nothing to buy and nothing to choose. I have nothing to do, but sit. And wait."
So I did.
I sat. I watched the morning CBD busy-ness of business. I watched the sly glances and the hurried steps. I watched the frantic phonecalls and the thrumbing thumbing text messages. And through the barrage of suits and blouses I watched. I watched a man dive a grubby hand into a rubbish bin and examine the contents for usefulness or a couple of calories. I watched a vacant-eyed woman feed the crumbs of her crumpled bag to any pigeons who seemed to care. I sat. I watched, and I waited.
Then I got thirsty.
So I walked. I walked around those busy streets, noticing the people who curved their bodies as to not touch mine. As if I was an infection. I watched my grubby, sandled feet pave those steps around the perfect concrete slabs until, I found a simple water fountain - old and cold. This forgotten friend of Sydney and I became acquainted as I drank from her and wondered how long she had been there; if she had been placed there just for me. In this moment. Now.
The hours passed. Nothing to choose. Nothing to do. Nowhere to go. I had never been more free. I sat, mind vacant. Nothing to choose, nowhere to be. Nothing to be. Nowhere to choose. The silence seemed to open me. Like a moment of pure detachment, pure freedom, pure bliss. Nothing to do, nothing to buy. Nowhere to be, nowhere to go. I was forced, like a willing slave, to simply sit and BE STILL.
I had never been more free, nor have I been as free since.
***
12 years later I find myself losing sleep over choosing what kind of sink this 'we' are going to buy. I find myself in a nightmare - a giant cascading waterfall of choices which I feel threatens to drown me, to flood my insides and squish my 21 year old self under a barrage of glossy magazines and junk mail.
How did we get this way? As a species I mean? How did I get this way? Well... that's another story.
February 1, 2012
Home
Home.
The sky above my home
is as familiar to me
as my skin
as the scent
of the eucalypt tree.
Everything is exactly where
it is meant to be.
January 2, 2012
December 27, 2011
there's a brain in the freezer
As reality comes to land in the paddock of "facts of farm living", I am faced with challenges both expected and unexpected.
We lost a rabbit today. Went down to feed them and one of the cages was open with only one smug-looking brown hare inside. His mate, the more adventurous black rabbit had escaped through the open gate and had done a-runner-and-a-hopper! As we searched, I couldnt help but make a half assed attempt at looking around, all the time grinning to myself. Images of this giant black rabbit (european hares are massive) gorging himself on the neighbours raddishes, free in the wild, the wind in his tail-muff. Of course, in my imagination I gave him a little blue jacket and called him Peter and as we searched, the little blue jacket gained some black horizntal stripes to honor his time imprisoned.
Neroni, the black farm dog with the million dollar grin and not a lot of IQ was onto the case, unfortunately, and poor ol' Peter was captured beneath some farm machinery soon after his absence was discovered. Oh well. I hope he ate radishes in the mean time.
We bought 8 new chickens yesterday. Im not sure why because we already have 12 that dont lay, so I assume they are for eating (sorry Heath). I am happy to report that I have been told that chicken farming in Europe is only free range. No-one uses cages any more. The chicken farm stunk to high heaven and had I been the Italian RSPCA I would have demanded adequate ventilation but I suspect that pleasentries between neighbours is probably more important here than fresh air for the chookies.
These people eat meat. Their parents still remember the depression and all this fresh air and Mediterranean diet has kept most of them alive well into their 80s and 90s. They throw nothing away, they waste nothing. It seems like the "Rethink, Reuse, Recycle" message is second nature - common sense!! Their health and the health of their families and friends is far more important than fashion and coolness. These people have drawers of new clothes that are unused because they wear the "house" clothes they have to shreds and have the new clothes there for going out.
Sure, they dont compost, but they honestly dont need to - they live on clay, rich in organic matter. Sure they vaccinate their Rabbits, but if they didnt mixamitosis would spread like wild fire. They spend next to nothing on non pershable goods, they hardly go anywhere. I imagine their ecological foot print is next to nothing. They breed, feed, tend to and kill their meat and if you're going to be a meat eater, I'm not sure how you could be any more rightous about it.
I would probably do it a little different, but in caring for the animals, I am seriously in danger of caring ABOUT them. Not cool if their going to end up on the stove and on your plate. Having said that, we are looking forward to the arrival of a flock (?) of baby rabbits. I think rabbit will be off my menu for some time after that.
And yes, there IS a brain in the freezer. Very nutritious, very gross. Maybe they just wont tell me.
Berries and Sunday Lunch
Today I went berry picking at "La casa dei nonni" (the house of the grandparents). Tra-la-la-la-laaaaaa....
I felt like little red riding hood in reverse - that I was taking berries from the grandfolks, not bringing. The berry bush I was to violate was precariously perched on the side of an eight foot drop... on the neighbour's side of the fence! And the big bad wolf? Well there were two, locked inside the vacant warehouse on the same property. Nonna told me to not jump the fence on account of the shoulder high stinging nettles. "Fair enough" I thought, but when our backs were turned, Nonno - grandfather, great-grandfather of 85 years jumps the chest-high spiky edged fence and he's in there picking berries amongst the nettles. Same 85 year old who climbed a tree only several months ago only to fall out of it and fracture a vertebrae. I joined him soon after (it is Red Riding Hood's pleasure to tackle the wild forest after all) and pretty soon we had the berries in hand and the bush berry-less. There must be something in the water...
The berries... I can't remember what they're called... Andrea asked me to pick them to give to Maria Pia - the Rosy and buxom Mother-of-Andrea's-best-mate (and didge player extraordinaire) Manuel. Maria Pia, as well as dealing out Moncalvo's best pastries and cakes (and mum-sized hugs when required) from the family patisserie, she is now turning her expertise to the making of some kind of liqueur with these berries. Good for digesting your meal for you when you've eaten so much your body cant keep up the digestive-acid supply, and I bet it tastes alright too.
That aside, I did nearly pass out onto my lunch-time plate on Sunday - only partly from my usual pasta-related coma. I had no idea that most favoured portion of the chicken among some carnivores is the head and neck. Marilena, after showing me the chook in pan (with head) generously gave it up for Antonello. I felt myself go pale as I glanced at the plate in front of me and the nice portion of white meat, in my mind's eye, took the full, vital and very much alive form of the whole chicken. It was like in a cartoon mind bubble when the roast on the plate comes to life and says "don't eat me. please dont eat me".Home-grown or not, needless to say, I couldnt finish it and I barely looked in Antonello's direction as he dissected the head and neck with surgical precision and crunched down on the beak.
There is a whole procedure that comes with Sunday lunch with the family. Im sure they dont even notice it, but there is a flow, a routine, a pecking-order so-to-speak, although the pecking can really happen between anyone (and it does) but I will write about that another time.
Sissi (the little grey kitten) is fine - she has recently discovered the pleasure of sleeping on beds (a far cry from the ironing table) and has learnt how to climb me like a tree to sneek a peek at whatever I might be up to. She has grown into her "adult" fur and her "big-cat" meow but has a firm addiction to suckling, which I find endearing and annoying at the same time. I have to admit that I am reluctant to stop her in case I cause some irreparable kitty-hood trauma and scar her for life - she might become a vengeful teenager. Or worse... like Cesere.
I dont know how he is still alive. He's limping, bleeding - the wound on the side of his head is bigger and weeping gunk. He's skinny and mournful. He seriously looks like he's just had the sh*t beaten out of him and wants to curl up and RIP.
CESERE
I felt like little red riding hood in reverse - that I was taking berries from the grandfolks, not bringing. The berry bush I was to violate was precariously perched on the side of an eight foot drop... on the neighbour's side of the fence! And the big bad wolf? Well there were two, locked inside the vacant warehouse on the same property. Nonna told me to not jump the fence on account of the shoulder high stinging nettles. "Fair enough" I thought, but when our backs were turned, Nonno - grandfather, great-grandfather of 85 years jumps the chest-high spiky edged fence and he's in there picking berries amongst the nettles. Same 85 year old who climbed a tree only several months ago only to fall out of it and fracture a vertebrae. I joined him soon after (it is Red Riding Hood's pleasure to tackle the wild forest after all) and pretty soon we had the berries in hand and the bush berry-less. There must be something in the water...
The berries... I can't remember what they're called... Andrea asked me to pick them to give to Maria Pia - the Rosy and buxom Mother-of-Andrea's-best-mate (and didge player extraordinaire) Manuel. Maria Pia, as well as dealing out Moncalvo's best pastries and cakes (and mum-sized hugs when required) from the family patisserie, she is now turning her expertise to the making of some kind of liqueur with these berries. Good for digesting your meal for you when you've eaten so much your body cant keep up the digestive-acid supply, and I bet it tastes alright too.
That aside, I did nearly pass out onto my lunch-time plate on Sunday - only partly from my usual pasta-related coma. I had no idea that most favoured portion of the chicken among some carnivores is the head and neck. Marilena, after showing me the chook in pan (with head) generously gave it up for Antonello. I felt myself go pale as I glanced at the plate in front of me and the nice portion of white meat, in my mind's eye, took the full, vital and very much alive form of the whole chicken. It was like in a cartoon mind bubble when the roast on the plate comes to life and says "don't eat me. please dont eat me".Home-grown or not, needless to say, I couldnt finish it and I barely looked in Antonello's direction as he dissected the head and neck with surgical precision and crunched down on the beak.
There is a whole procedure that comes with Sunday lunch with the family. Im sure they dont even notice it, but there is a flow, a routine, a pecking-order so-to-speak, although the pecking can really happen between anyone (and it does) but I will write about that another time.
Sissi (the little grey kitten) is fine - she has recently discovered the pleasure of sleeping on beds (a far cry from the ironing table) and has learnt how to climb me like a tree to sneek a peek at whatever I might be up to. She has grown into her "adult" fur and her "big-cat" meow but has a firm addiction to suckling, which I find endearing and annoying at the same time. I have to admit that I am reluctant to stop her in case I cause some irreparable kitty-hood trauma and scar her for life - she might become a vengeful teenager. Or worse... like Cesere.
I dont know how he is still alive. He's limping, bleeding - the wound on the side of his head is bigger and weeping gunk. He's skinny and mournful. He seriously looks like he's just had the sh*t beaten out of him and wants to curl up and RIP.
CESERE
Oh sheet
My dear, respected and trusted friend told me this week that I have been exposed to what, we are sure, is listed in the Geneva convention as a basic abuse of human rights. Thats right. I have done the unthinkable, the unbelieveable. The one thing I swore blind that I would never EVER do.
I just ironed my first set of sheets.
And I could feel every busy modern woman, every lover of free time, everyone I know (except one) in Australia raise up their hands and gasp in disbelief. Why oh WHY would anyone subject themselves to such torture? Why would you actually lengthen the time you have to spend ironing by ironing the only thing that a) is fitted to a flat surface and b) gets all mussed up anyway - and at a time when we dont even notice it - WHEN WE'RE ASLEEP! Or even better... we muss it up when we DO notice it (and why would you be checking if the sheets had been ironed anyway? ;)
Marilena may as well have been dancing circles around me clapping and cheering as I took my first blow (nice Aussie term there) of the blue demonic cotton. The tool, largely foreign to my sweaty grasp sighed a steamy moan. And so did I. I felt like I was betraying my gender, my generation, my COUNTRY! Surely its Un-Australian to iron your sheets! Surely the aussie "way of life" states that it is more beneficial to humanity, to keeping our culture alive, to nurturing relationships and our economy to be sitting out in the sun reading a book or having a glass of Margaret River red with friends? Surely this is the most stupid waste of time... EVER?
But no. Im reassured by both mother and son that one gets a better nights sleep on an ironed set of sheets. My guess is that they both work so bloody hard, they dont give the damn sheets a second thought before they crash into slumber after a days hard slog.
New sheets? Sure I get it - they have that starchy feel about them if you use them before cleaning out the formaldehyde and chemicals they use to make them look pristine when you buy them. Clean sun-dried sheets on a freshly made bed? One of my favourite things ever. But seriously - who gives a damn if they've been ironed. Really. And if you do, you need to get out and dig a hole. Wear yourself out to the point of death-like slumber and quit blaming the sheets for your restlessness.
So Australia, Im sorry. Please dont strip me of my passport or citizenship. It only happened once... I promise. UN - Im ok, just slightly shell shocked and hoping that PTSD doesnt set in and make me do it again. To all the women who fought to vote, who fight to this day - Im sorry. To those who LOVE their sheets ironed - get a grip!
So there!
I just ironed my first set of sheets.
And I could feel every busy modern woman, every lover of free time, everyone I know (except one) in Australia raise up their hands and gasp in disbelief. Why oh WHY would anyone subject themselves to such torture? Why would you actually lengthen the time you have to spend ironing by ironing the only thing that a) is fitted to a flat surface and b) gets all mussed up anyway - and at a time when we dont even notice it - WHEN WE'RE ASLEEP! Or even better... we muss it up when we DO notice it (and why would you be checking if the sheets had been ironed anyway? ;)
Marilena may as well have been dancing circles around me clapping and cheering as I took my first blow (nice Aussie term there) of the blue demonic cotton. The tool, largely foreign to my sweaty grasp sighed a steamy moan. And so did I. I felt like I was betraying my gender, my generation, my COUNTRY! Surely its Un-Australian to iron your sheets! Surely the aussie "way of life" states that it is more beneficial to humanity, to keeping our culture alive, to nurturing relationships and our economy to be sitting out in the sun reading a book or having a glass of Margaret River red with friends? Surely this is the most stupid waste of time... EVER?
But no. Im reassured by both mother and son that one gets a better nights sleep on an ironed set of sheets. My guess is that they both work so bloody hard, they dont give the damn sheets a second thought before they crash into slumber after a days hard slog.
New sheets? Sure I get it - they have that starchy feel about them if you use them before cleaning out the formaldehyde and chemicals they use to make them look pristine when you buy them. Clean sun-dried sheets on a freshly made bed? One of my favourite things ever. But seriously - who gives a damn if they've been ironed. Really. And if you do, you need to get out and dig a hole. Wear yourself out to the point of death-like slumber and quit blaming the sheets for your restlessness.
So Australia, Im sorry. Please dont strip me of my passport or citizenship. It only happened once... I promise. UN - Im ok, just slightly shell shocked and hoping that PTSD doesnt set in and make me do it again. To all the women who fought to vote, who fight to this day - Im sorry. To those who LOVE their sheets ironed - get a grip!
So there!
December 21, 2011
September 9, 2011
I see me
Ok. So I told you a lie today. It wasnt a lie, as such, it just kinda came out all wrong. And in retrospect, I understand now that it wasnt what I meant.
So I told you that I am waiting for that being to emerge. The one that you were able to so easily access when you were on the essences. Thats not true. I was honoured to see her and delighted for you to be able to have that experience, but she is not who you are, nor is she who I think you want to be.
What I meant to say was... was something I havent said before... Im not sure what it is or what it might sound like. Its something like... I am excited by who you are becoming. Watching you face your physicality is a powerful and difficult journey, I just hope you dont miss the rest of the picture... your other dimensions.
You are damaged. Yes, ok, we all are. But the difference is, I care about YOU... not everyone else. I know your history, some of your past experiences... and I cant help but let you know that I hope you really get to the nuts and bolts of you.
So much of what we do is based in fear, sadness and grief. Today I understood how completely pissed off at the world you are - its people. I saw your grief at a dying planet and your resentment at being human. ...
I have that too. It is only recently that I have really recognised it as a very real fear of the future, hatered of mankind and resentment that I was born into this body, at this time, feeling angry and ohh so very helpless. Put simply - it sucks.
I wasnt wrong when I said that I want peace for you. I see underneath your rage a glimpse of the potential for peace that you had all those years ago, in that moment, at that time.
Its OK to be sad at whats happening, to be enraged, to feel helpless. Its OK to recognise it, feel it and allow it to pass. Letting it pass won't mean its gone, just that your experience of it has.
The grief is part of who you are, as it is me. Its the part that says "I want a better world. I want people to get along and respect eachother, I am part of the earth and she is me. Yes, I AM sensitive. And yes, I am a Warrior. I stand in the face of all those things and I will feel, and let go. But I will NOT hide anymore".
The grief and rage will come back. Its what you do with it that matters. What you put it into - like composting newspaper - turning bad news into good news. :)
Action is the most important thing. It's the ONLY thing.
Do-ing is where peace lives.
I can feel your rage. I can feel your fear and your sadness. And it doesnt frighten me. It gives me hope. Fuck BEing peaceful. Lets be enraged and put that into PEACEful action. Loving ruthlessly, Releasing old shit, taking out the garbage... and above everything FORGIVING. Fuck it! Lets slosh forgiveness around like wine.
You are an extraordinary being. The intensity of your love for your planet and the people in your life is incredibile. Its time to use that love to cut old ties, to forgive. The being using that love as her tool, as her power... the woman who is fighting to get through the mess of the world which is the mess within herself. That is who I saw today. That is who I am excited about getting to know all over again.
That is the part of you who is in my heart. And, finally, she is the part of you who will NEVER leave you. x
The End. :)
So I told you that I am waiting for that being to emerge. The one that you were able to so easily access when you were on the essences. Thats not true. I was honoured to see her and delighted for you to be able to have that experience, but she is not who you are, nor is she who I think you want to be.
What I meant to say was... was something I havent said before... Im not sure what it is or what it might sound like. Its something like... I am excited by who you are becoming. Watching you face your physicality is a powerful and difficult journey, I just hope you dont miss the rest of the picture... your other dimensions.
You are damaged. Yes, ok, we all are. But the difference is, I care about YOU... not everyone else. I know your history, some of your past experiences... and I cant help but let you know that I hope you really get to the nuts and bolts of you.
So much of what we do is based in fear, sadness and grief. Today I understood how completely pissed off at the world you are - its people. I saw your grief at a dying planet and your resentment at being human. ...
I have that too. It is only recently that I have really recognised it as a very real fear of the future, hatered of mankind and resentment that I was born into this body, at this time, feeling angry and ohh so very helpless. Put simply - it sucks.
I wasnt wrong when I said that I want peace for you. I see underneath your rage a glimpse of the potential for peace that you had all those years ago, in that moment, at that time.
Its OK to be sad at whats happening, to be enraged, to feel helpless. Its OK to recognise it, feel it and allow it to pass. Letting it pass won't mean its gone, just that your experience of it has.
The grief is part of who you are, as it is me. Its the part that says "I want a better world. I want people to get along and respect eachother, I am part of the earth and she is me. Yes, I AM sensitive. And yes, I am a Warrior. I stand in the face of all those things and I will feel, and let go. But I will NOT hide anymore".
The grief and rage will come back. Its what you do with it that matters. What you put it into - like composting newspaper - turning bad news into good news. :)
Action is the most important thing. It's the ONLY thing.
Do-ing is where peace lives.
I can feel your rage. I can feel your fear and your sadness. And it doesnt frighten me. It gives me hope. Fuck BEing peaceful. Lets be enraged and put that into PEACEful action. Loving ruthlessly, Releasing old shit, taking out the garbage... and above everything FORGIVING. Fuck it! Lets slosh forgiveness around like wine.
You are an extraordinary being. The intensity of your love for your planet and the people in your life is incredibile. Its time to use that love to cut old ties, to forgive. The being using that love as her tool, as her power... the woman who is fighting to get through the mess of the world which is the mess within herself. That is who I saw today. That is who I am excited about getting to know all over again.
That is the part of you who is in my heart. And, finally, she is the part of you who will NEVER leave you. x
The End. :)
September 8, 2011
Adele
Its absolutely no secret that Italians have, shall we say, a certain way of speaking.
To someone who doesnt understand the language, it sounds like they spend their time trying to bite eachothers heads off, or taking the piss with long drawn out cries of "Ma, Noooooooo!" (But nooooo!) "Ma cosa dici?" (What the hell are you saying?).
Gesticulating madly, flailing hands and purposeful fingers, as if communication was for the deaf. Comfortably talking over, not stopping to listen, this way of communicating is designed for the deaf.
Lovers, seemingly busting up through my anglo-eyes, she explains to me that she just gave him a defiant no after he asks her to go to town (again) to buy a single blank CD. A group throwing blankets of words over eachother to suffocate opinion and win arguement. A thunderous storm of words and chatter - that surely someone will storm out of the room at any second - but no, they're discussing the football or the price of petrol. And they'll do it again at dinner next week. "Telling you something for nothing" a friend once called it.
They are rarely softly spoken. That is, apart from Adele.
Adele is a woman scripted carefully, it would seem, by Edin Blyton. Ageless, but I'm guessing around 60 years of age with high cheekbones, soft honey-coloured skin, wide pale blue eyes and blonde whisps of fine curly hair; she moves slowly and purposefully, with a smile and a knowing glance.
And her occupation is also her passion and is no less whimiscal. Adele is an artist and, in particular, a Weaver. As a Weaver, she combines materials out of wool, cotton and silken thread, binding and threading, stitching. Her angled digits work quickly to bind and sew. Carefully colouring them by hand, she uses naturals dyes from herbs and spices she collects herself from her jungle-like garden or the rolling miles of forrest which surround her home in the hills of Monferrato.Her home, brightly coloured in pastel pink, blue and yellow sits among ancient trees and patches of forgotten herbs is filled with rooms of carefully placed ornaments, seemingly haphazardly thrown together but incredibly creative or gifts from children - they display their simple beauty unpretentiously. Large windows light up cuttings of cloth and reams of recently stained wool.
Her studio holds a giant loom - a wooden machine from a time before automated machinery holding in its stringy fingers the beginnings or endings of a work in progress. A seamstress' model is draped with colourful patches of hand-crafted felt and a giant wooden desk cradles prints and patches, drawings and plans and the promises and dreams of things to come.She is a softly spoken woman who speaks with gentle tones, gasps and awes and often,a hand which clasps your knee or hand in emapthy or enthusiasm - an understated delight. She leans into you; perhaps to hear, perhaps to be
heard and you can almost feel her eyes searching your face for every twitch of expression, reading your lines, searching for your truth, for your meaning.It is incredible to think that I have met her only twice. And although difficult to understand, I feel that she knows me. She has left we with an example for my life, of how I would like to be - creative, expressive, gentle and eager to look behind the person and see the meaning.
That's Adele.
June 6, 2011
Thanks for your email.
and youre right. Its time I spent some time nurturing myself.
and trying to understand
Funny thing is, Annette picked it. "Ah... you've got a death wish. We'd better clear that."
So I know my base thoughts. They sit insdie me like lead - too terrible to even write.
The mantra that keeps these energies in place. And I ask myself "What next"?
I can hear the thoughts, Im listening... but I want them to move, to change.
And I hear my wisdom say... "look deeper".
Me: so I dig.
and youre right. Its time I spent some time nurturing myself.
and trying to understand
Funny thing is, Annette picked it. "Ah... you've got a death wish. We'd better clear that."
So I know my base thoughts. They sit insdie me like lead - too terrible to even write.
The mantra that keeps these energies in place. And I ask myself "What next"?
I can hear the thoughts, Im listening... but I want them to move, to change.
And I hear my wisdom say... "look deeper".
Me: so I dig.
April 29, 2011
April 15, 2011
A Hard Nut
The romance of nut cracking is lost on those who are hungry. Or in a rush.
But on a slow Friday afternoon with your friends, it’s a lovely, communal thing to do.
The art of cracking was never really a matter of interest until a bag of hazelnuts was plonked on the kitchen table in front of me. My mission was to de-hull 750 grams in preparation of making Bruti ma buoni (ugly but delicious) - a simple and delicious biscuit made from thrashed egg whites, half a ton of sugar and 750grams of our troublesome hazelnuts. I should mention that a hazelnut is small, smooth and as hard as hell. They're also a bit ... well... disappointing - once you have opened the foresaid nut, what’s inside is a withered looking, slug-shaped morsel. So it hardly seems worth it.
Nevertheless, there I sat, in Marilena's kitchen as she buzzed around preparing this and that. I sat, focused, nut-cracker in hand, on a mission to nudify these nuts with perseverance as payment for several long months of boarding at their home. It was the least I could do!
Then there's the Walnut. Noce, theyre called in Italiano. At the markets, in the F&V area, you’ll find barrels of them and little men, gloved and ready to fill a bag for you at €5 a kilo. And they're happy to get rid of them it seems. And why not - again, they're a bit fiddley, but I have had several important lessons on getting their gear off from the likes of Nonna, Nonno, Eugenio and, of course, Marliena. It seems to make sense.
I mean, when it’s snowing outside and you're having a long lunch, or dinner, or mirenda, generations of nut-munchers have had the time and the need to discuss the varied methods of cracking. To use a tool, o not use a tool? What kind of too does one use - a knife? a hammer? a specifically designed nutcracker seems to be the weaker man's method, and not often at hand in centuries past. So what to do? Old style. Hard core nut cracking territory.
Ok. Technique 1: lay the nut on its side on the table. Rest a single, straight finger over it and then give your finger a good hard whack! Yes, I tried it. Yes, it hurt. But there must be SOME technique to it - its the nut-seller's preferred method. And Marilena's. She's hard core.
Number 2: Take two nuts in one hand. Press your closed hand to your chest and use the other hand to crush the nuts together and break either one or both open. Makes you look really tough this one - very masculine, very grrrrr! It's Andrea's favourite method - obliterate and conquer. And I can imagine that its rather satisfying.
Number 3: My preferred method. Take a knife (yeah, I’m soft) and find the not-pointed end of the Walnut. There's a margin there where the two halves of the nut meet and it's surprisingly soft. Slide the knife in about 5mm and twist! Crack! 8 times out of 10, its split nicley into two little brains and quite often will show you the shape of a heart... awwwww.
How you clean out the halves is up to you, but it is useful to know that there is a kind of soft woody sheath which separates the four quarters.
Come to mention it... Ever heard of the Doctrine of Signatures? Well it states that food matter frequently shows us a physical representation of its medicinal qualities. With all the omega-3 oils that nuts provide us, it’s no wonder that the humble, now LESS indestructible Walnut has shown to be good for your heart and mind. That brain-shaped nut inside its hard cranial shell – it’s one of the more obvious.
The learning, sharing and trying provided by the members of my extended Italian family well, it’s just one of life pleasures. Next – how to crack them open without shattering them into a zillion pieces!
But on a slow Friday afternoon with your friends, it’s a lovely, communal thing to do.
The art of cracking was never really a matter of interest until a bag of hazelnuts was plonked on the kitchen table in front of me. My mission was to de-hull 750 grams in preparation of making Bruti ma buoni (ugly but delicious) - a simple and delicious biscuit made from thrashed egg whites, half a ton of sugar and 750grams of our troublesome hazelnuts. I should mention that a hazelnut is small, smooth and as hard as hell. They're also a bit ... well... disappointing - once you have opened the foresaid nut, what’s inside is a withered looking, slug-shaped morsel. So it hardly seems worth it.
Nevertheless, there I sat, in Marilena's kitchen as she buzzed around preparing this and that. I sat, focused, nut-cracker in hand, on a mission to nudify these nuts with perseverance as payment for several long months of boarding at their home. It was the least I could do!
Then there's the Walnut. Noce, theyre called in Italiano. At the markets, in the F&V area, you’ll find barrels of them and little men, gloved and ready to fill a bag for you at €5 a kilo. And they're happy to get rid of them it seems. And why not - again, they're a bit fiddley, but I have had several important lessons on getting their gear off from the likes of Nonna, Nonno, Eugenio and, of course, Marliena. It seems to make sense.
I mean, when it’s snowing outside and you're having a long lunch, or dinner, or mirenda, generations of nut-munchers have had the time and the need to discuss the varied methods of cracking. To use a tool, o not use a tool? What kind of too does one use - a knife? a hammer? a specifically designed nutcracker seems to be the weaker man's method, and not often at hand in centuries past. So what to do? Old style. Hard core nut cracking territory.
Ok. Technique 1: lay the nut on its side on the table. Rest a single, straight finger over it and then give your finger a good hard whack! Yes, I tried it. Yes, it hurt. But there must be SOME technique to it - its the nut-seller's preferred method. And Marilena's. She's hard core.
Number 2: Take two nuts in one hand. Press your closed hand to your chest and use the other hand to crush the nuts together and break either one or both open. Makes you look really tough this one - very masculine, very grrrrr! It's Andrea's favourite method - obliterate and conquer. And I can imagine that its rather satisfying.
Number 3: My preferred method. Take a knife (yeah, I’m soft) and find the not-pointed end of the Walnut. There's a margin there where the two halves of the nut meet and it's surprisingly soft. Slide the knife in about 5mm and twist! Crack! 8 times out of 10, its split nicley into two little brains and quite often will show you the shape of a heart... awwwww.
How you clean out the halves is up to you, but it is useful to know that there is a kind of soft woody sheath which separates the four quarters.
Come to mention it... Ever heard of the Doctrine of Signatures? Well it states that food matter frequently shows us a physical representation of its medicinal qualities. With all the omega-3 oils that nuts provide us, it’s no wonder that the humble, now LESS indestructible Walnut has shown to be good for your heart and mind. That brain-shaped nut inside its hard cranial shell – it’s one of the more obvious.
The learning, sharing and trying provided by the members of my extended Italian family well, it’s just one of life pleasures. Next – how to crack them open without shattering them into a zillion pieces!
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