Nimue Brown's Blog, page 392

Clay metaphors

When I lost my way with the writing earlier this year, I kept this blog going because so many people told me they had a use for it. I also kept going with the poetry, in part because it is the least commercially orientated thing I do. I’ve written poetry since childhood, and since before the age when I could confidently manage a narrative. I’ve written it to unravel things, to cope and make sense of life – as a teenager it’s a cheaper, and more private option than therapy. In more recent years it’s become less about the navel gazing, more about the desire to share.

Yesterday I finished typing up a set of poems that I might venture out into the world with. I read them out loud, start to end because I wanted a sense of the piece as a whole. At this point it became apparent that there were some themes. The hill and the barrow are regular presences – not a great surprise there. That’s a place I go to seek inspiration and to connect with land, sky and ancestors. There are a startling number of clay references and metaphors, doubly surprising because they were all in the mix before I even thought about becoming a studio assistant for a ceramicist. Something was in the air, perhaps.

I like clay as a metaphor. Fundamentally earthy, clay comes to you in wet lumps, but with love, skill and effort can be transformed into incredible things – the useful, the beautiful, the ornamental. Tending to see myself as a lumpy wet clay sort of person, physically and spiritually, that scope to be more elegantly shaped appeals to me. Then there’s the firing process, that entirely changes the material substance of the clay.

There was a potter in my childhood – one Pete Brown – who round here is now rather collectable. I’ve recently been gifted with four beautiful mugs of his making. I get excited about pottery. It’s a very old technology, and a critical one for human civilisation, allowing the storage of water, food, oil, medicines, enabling us to eat grains. Although my insight is minimal, I know that ceramics are incredible materials, and that we are just scraping the surface of what it might be possible to do with what is, essentially, baked earth.

Little wonder, then, that I keep coming back to clay as a metaphor. I haven’t worked with clay in a hands-on way since my late teens. It was something I used to love doing. I do not know if there is something in the nature of clay that craves the opportunity to be shaped, but there’s something in the nature of me that most certainly does.

Neither use nor ornament

I don’t know when the phrase ‘neither use nor ornament’ entered my awareness, but it was early on, and applied to me. The first sense of my appearance I had, was the description that I am ‘funny looking’ and I have understood for most of my life that as I am not ornamental, I had better throw everything I have into being useful. It’s been a life defining sort of phrase.

The idea that things should either be useful to us, or visually pleasing, not only informs many human interactions, but is central to the relationship we westerners have with the natural world. We prioritise the pretty things, the charming and the lovely, and we ask what the point of wasps is. Thus to be neither use nor ornament, is by this measure, to be nothing at all.

I wonder sometimes, how different my life would have been if I’d grown up feeling good enough, innately worthy of love, and confident of my place in the world. I would have been an entirely different person, I would have made different choices, expected better treatment, walked away from things that did me no good, I suspect. I would have been much happier, and maybe defaulted to thinking that mattered.

What happens to our relationship with the world when we let go over the narrow constraints we so often have around valuing? When we stop demanding to know the utility and the cost, and start thinking about a much broader kind of worth. When simply existing becomes a valid form of worth, to be respected and taken seriously. The environmental implications of that would be huge. So would the political consequences, because this whole language around who is undeserving would simply go away.

Speaking as something that has understood itself to be neither use nor ornament, doing away with those measures would make the world a kinder place, and, I think, a better one.

Druid expectations

In my working life, I’m dealing with a vast array of people from different backgrounds. I notice I have a very interesting double-standard, depending on whether or not I’m dealing with someone who self-identifies as a Bard or Druid.

I don’t expect much in the way of personal honesty from most people. It’s not our culture, often it’s not needed, and people put brave faces on things, or over-egg, or pretend that they can, and bullshit me in assorted ways, some more well-meaning than others. In normal circumstances I can and do just get on with that. Give me a Bard or a Druid, and I expect Truth and Honour (definitely with capital letters). Someone taking those titles and not trying their best to be straight with me, I do not respond well to.

There are paralleles. Share a story with me, and I’ll make warm, encouraging noises. Tell me you want to be an author, and you’ll get a different kind of feedback. Tell me you are a professional author and I will be looking at your work to make a professional judgement about it.

Druid and Bard are not unlike professional titles. What they denote, for me, is a commitment to having certain standards around how you live and behave. What those standards are will be personal, but Truth and Honour, as you understand them will be a part of that mix. Adopt those titles, and I will see you in a different light. I am much less tolerant of bullshit from Druids than I am from other folk, in much the same way that I’m much more tolerant of forced rhymes and dodgy scanning from people who do not claim the title of poet.

Blossom on the branches

The fruit trees have been in flower for more than a week now. On the common, the incredible array of cowslips are now laced through with more vibrant purple orchids than I’ve ever seen before. It was incredible up on the hill yesterday, and all the green margins have their flowers. And so there is a song in my head…

“There’s blossom on the branches,

It grows to heal the heart

Fresh and new the world seems now

And ancient as the stars”

from “Timeless Land” by Vicki Williams. I couldn’t find it online in a way I could share, but it’s on the Timeless Land CD which is on amazon – http://www.amazon.co.uk/Timeless-Land/dp/B00GN6WOZE/ref=sr_1_3?s=music&ie=UTF8&qid=1399272802&sr=1-3&keywords=timeless+land

The tree outside my window is decked out with chestnut spikes. There is something about seeing the blossom every day. Something hopeful, healing, inspiring. I’ve not sung much in the last four years – no folk club to focus me, after a decade of running one. I’ve not been sharing music with anyone much – I’ve played for Tom sometimes, but it’s not the same as having a dedicated sharing with other musicians. My heart has not really been in it, and I stopped singing ‘Timeless Land’ because after Vicki died in 2010, I just couldn’t get through it without crying. She was a brilliant songwriter with a beautiful voice, and a truly lovely person and I regret the time I did not spend with her.

Blossom on the branches…

I used to be someone who sang, and sang with people and for people. I sang to cope, to express, to share and to make sense of life. I sang to share stories and inspiration. Over the last few weeks, I’ve been trying to find my voice again, and the open heart to sing, and the means to get through that one song without weeping.

Art, skin and adventures

On the 11th of May, I am going to be painted on. If you’re in Stroud, do come along, if not, be patient, there will be photographs. There are two weeks of Open Studios, in which many local artists are opening their doors, and one of them is Andrew Wood. https://www.facebook.com/events/1437565313157913/?fref=ts

About a month ago I replied to an advert looking for a studio assistant. My doing so was a direct consequence of having lost my way with the writing, and that has turned out incredibly well for me, and led to a really inspiring process that has challenged and stretched me a lot already. It looks like this is going to be part of my life for the foreseeable future, which I’m really happy about. I love Andrew’s work,  www.andrew-wood.com and doing practical, useful things to support him feels like a very good use of my time.

As part of this, I am going to spend Sunday the 11th of May being something of an art instillation. Normally, Andrew paints in oils onto ceramic pieces he creates, but for the purposes of the open studio stuff happening in Stroud, he will be painting on me, instead!

This will be happening at 2, Fromedale Stroud, GL5 2AA from 10.30am, but I suspect the afternoon will be better as by then I should be more colourful. (ends 5pm)

This is a very big deal for me. It’s part of my skin reclamation process, part of my learning how to give trust, and pushing my boundaries there. I’m not comfortable about how I look, I don’t massively like being looked at or photographed, so to deliberately put myself in a situation where I am going to be visible, and there will be cameras… that’s huge. I’m trying to change how I think and feel, and I know I can do so by changing what I do, so in to the deep end I dive.

A lot of things are in flux with me in terms of my sense of self, my creative identity, my working life. Those things are so deeply intertwined, and all of them seem open to shifting. Who am I? What am I for? What am I called to do? I’m not sure, but for a few hours next week I shall try my best to be a good structure on which art can happen, and then the following week I have some other, differently wild and boundry-poking possibilities to explore. I’ve committed to going back and trying again with the fiction writing. Just a small thing, and no requirement to make a story that works, but a huge will to try.

I’ve had a few weeks surrounded by art, in a very physical sense. I’ve had a lot of thinking time. I have come to see very clearly that I am happiest when I’m doing things for love, and when doing things for love is valued by those on whose behalf it is undertaken. That works really well for cleaning floors, but perhaps I can also take it back to the writing. Things to explore.

Druid starter kit

What do you need when you’re starting out as a Druid? Robes? Tomes of archaic wisdom? A really good wand? A golden sickle? Here’s my suggested essential kit list.

1)      Clothes and footwear that allow you to be outside comfortably. If you are able to walk, then good walking shoes should probably be your priority investment as this will do most to help you get out and engage with the world.

2)      A detailed local map, for the not getting lost, and for finding sites of possible interest to visit.

3)      A notebook and pencil, a camera or whatever else you might use for your moments of insight, inspiration and bardic creativity.

4)      Something waterproof to sit on – this will help considerably if you get the urge to sit out and contemplate.

5)      A torch – if you are out at twilight it is very easy to get this wrong and being lost in the dark is not funny.

6)      Nibbles and something to drink – if you get carried away and are out longer than you meant to be, top-ups can be very useful indeed.

7)      A staff can be useful as a walking aid, for fending off enthusiastic cows/dogs/brambles.

8)      A useful bag to put things in – feathers, stones and whatever else occurs to you, and another useful bag for bringing other people’s detritus away in.

9)      A pocket nature identification book – just the one, don’t weigh yourself down. Pick an area you aren’t strong in and carry a little information to help you learn.

10)   An open mind, and open heart, ears that are ready to listen and eyes that are keen to see, skin alert to sensation, nose alert to scents. (Insofar as these work for you, we don’t all get the same options, but use what senses you have as far as you are able to.)

This starter kit works as well for the urban Druid as for someone wandering the woods. All the other tools you really need are in your head – tools of thinking and feeling, of being, of taking interest, asking questions, making creative responses. You can leave the golden sickle at home, they’re heavy, and of no discernible use whatsoever. It can be tempting to acquire kit that helps us feel special, magical and glamorous, but that’s often just about the surface, and is nothing compared to how you’ll feel watching the sun come up in some wilder place, finding an orchid or knowing which bird just called and which berries you can eat.

This is just my list, other priorities will suggest different gear, so if you have an essential Druid kit item I’ve not named, please do add it in the comments.

Will under love

I don’t do much of the kind of magic that involves spells. What I do is often quieter, more understated, and more about deploying myself as the force for change even when things look impossible, or insane, or are too big an ask. I am, in essence, the kind of pixie that turns up in the night to spin your straw into gold, but with none of the weird shit about stealing babies.

Yes, I will write you a thousand words in the next couple of hours because someone dropped out and your magazine is supposed to go to print today. Yes, I’ll show up unpaid over a month and paint all your fences because you’re demoralised and the space in which you do your awesome work is adding to that. Yes, I’ll do your press release because your work is beautiful and you deserve a bigger audience. Yes, I’ll show up the day before your event, clean all your floors and accept that I’m too much of a house elf to be invited on the night.

I don’t have much glamour magic. I do not have the kind of captivating presence that leads to other people wanting to sit at my feet. There’s a lot of that around in the Pagan community, but without elves to come in and respond to that, the glamour alone doesn’t get a great deal done. But without the glamour magic and the inspiration of amazing people, there wouldn’t be the same motivation to elf.

I’m a fairly selective sort of elf these days. It’s not enough that a person seem shiny and alluring – it has to be about the work or the need. I’d walk barefoot over hot coals for Molly Scott Cato if she asked me to (Green EU candidate, inspirational economist.) She’s not an overtly glamorous person, but I believe in her work and her vision, and I would do anything that I could turn my hand to, if it would serve.

If someone needs me, I’ll show up. All it takes is being able to ask, and if it’s possible, I’ll do it. I’ll throw everything I have, body and mind, heart and soul into getting the job done, if I believe in the person I’m doing that for, if they need me, if I am asked. I will push mind and body to breaking point and beyond, because I have a great deal of will power, and where there is love, there is the magic to pull the impossible out of the ether.

If that’s welcome, wanted, valued… the response feeds the magic, enabling me to go further, to draw more out of myself. If it makes a difference. If someone is able to say “this helps,” I can get rabbits out of hats. Having my elf-magic taken for granted makes it much harder, and having it not really valued can reduce me to an unviable, whimpering heap. Of course there are, now and then, people who notice how hard I will work and what I’m prepared to do, and take an approach of being ungrateful and demanding to see if they can get that bit more out of me. I will give everything I have, for love of the people, the project, the cause. I can’t give you more than that, and I do not hold anything back, so the people who undertake never to be satisfied, can leave me really messed up. I’m learning to move away from that and to focus on spaces where I get to feel good enough, valued and useful – it seems like the better way to go as I can’t do everything.

Today I am so sore from what I’ve done this week, that it hurts my hands and arms to type. I’m going to be typing all day. To serve. To do what is needed. To see if I can pull off a little magic this time, and make things a little better for a few people. I remember being told as a child that ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ are magic words. They are. They ease pain, soothe exhaustion, and make elf-magic possible.

Healing the heart

Wounds to the heart and mind are an all too normal consequence of being alive. Mostly they do not show, and far less time and attention is given to fixing them. If you aren’t too broken to work, the odds are no support will be available. All too often, what the heart-wounded get are basically just pain killers; anti-depressants, to blot it out and keep you going. Sometimes time off from the distress can be a great help, but it isn’t reliable.

Wounds to the heart and mind can be made slowly, over years. You don’t see them happening necessarily, but each day a little bit more can be sandpapered off you. Too small an injury to be worth protesting. Just a slap. Just an unkind word. Years of small wounds can take a tremendous toll.

I don’t really inhabit my own body. I don’t feel my own pain unless I make a point of paying attention to it. I do not notice my own skin, again unless I bother to concentrate. That’s not about skin damage, but heart-wounding that made me retreat from the surfaces of myself in order to cope. I learned not to feel anything at all. It spared me from being both hurt, and manipulated, and that was helpful. Now it means that most of the time I am rock and ice, and very few people who touch me actually register with me as any kind of sensual experience. That sucks. It’s not who I want to be any more.

These are things I have only noticed in the last few weeks, a kind of waking up to how closed and dead I have been. I get sudden, brief flashes of being aware of all my skin. There’s so much of it, and all of it is capable of feeling, all the time. Temperature, texture, pressure, comfort, discomfort… a whole universe of possibility to explore.

This waking up in not an accident, nor is it of anyone else’s making. It comes after years of my working to rebuild myself, and it has been triggered in earnest by choices I’ve made lately, pushing out of my comfort zone. I cannot, however, do this on my own. Now begins the interesting process of figuring out who might be able to help me take a few baby steps forward. Who do I trust, to quite literally hold my hand while I try to figure out how to climb back into this skin? How do I have those conversations?

I’m starting.

Flows of inspiration

As a Druid, I consider inspiration to be sacred, and as an author I find it to be utterly essential. As a consequence, low inspiration periods are really awful, and undermine my whole sense of who I am. Inspiration is not hard to find – the world is full of possibilities. And yet at the same time, too often lately for me, inspiration has been in painfully short supply. The quest for inspiration has been an integral part of my spiritual path for a long time, but to seek effectively, I have to understand what inspires me.

I know what destroys my inspiration: Exhaustion, feelings of futility and failure, lack of input. Inspiration absolutely has to be a flow, or it doesn’t work, and isn’t sustainable. When I get into most trouble is when I am not able to sustain that flow.

Creating has to go somewhere. I’ve sung to the skies before now (I was doing that yesterday) and that’s fine, if the weather is good and I’m feeling upbeat. Much of my flow involves a need for human interaction, though. I need to create things that resonate for other people. I’m not unusual in this regard. The need to be liked, appreciated, loved even, impacts on a lot of creative people and few of us are sufficiently self-absorbed to keep creating without affirmation that someone loves our stuff. Periods of not being able to find an audience, can be hard. I write best when I have a few very specific people I am writing for. People willing and able to be both muse and audience, who actually want words from me, and can cope with the emotional intensity this inevitably involves. That kind of relationship enables me, and it helps if there are a few (Tom does a sterling job) because I range more widely if I’m writing for more than one person.

The person who can be both muse and audience for me, is by definition someone I find innately inspiring. (Tom again!) That can be about their creative work, and often is. However, anyone who lives with passion and integrity, pouring soul into what they do, is likely to inspire me. Brilliant, wonderful, dedicated people do not reliably have time on their hands to be messing about reading my scribblings.

The flow of inspiration depends very much on my human relationships. I am inspired by nature, by landscapes and skies, but these things do not need a poem from me. They need my words dedicated to political activism, and might benefit from how my words impact on other people. I do that as best I can, but they do not need my poetry in any way I have ever been able to discern.

The answer to block, and lost direction and an absence of inspiration, is relationship. Where am I needed? Who can I offer my words to? Who feeds my mind? Can I find people who inspire me but who can also spare the time to interact with me? Sometimes those answers are bound to be negative, and perhaps the only thing to do is quietly weather those fallow periods, and keep looking for places where there might be flow.

Seasonal soundscapes

One of the things I find hard about the winter is that, needing to have the windows shut most of the time, I can’t hear much of what’s outside. I suspect that for any of our ancestors not living in a castle, this was less of an issue. Single glazing is much more permeable for sound. Modern building is far more deliberately soundproofed than ever before. In part this is because we create such noisy environments. We need to shut out the sounds of our traffic and shut in the private noise of our entertainment.

One of my delights in moving into the warmer part of the year, is having the windows open. We’re lucky in that we have a lot of owls, and could hear their piercing cries even with everything shut. Now however, I go to sleep listening to the murmur of gently flowing water. Apparently this closeness to running water is something I’d craved my whole life without really knowing it! I wake up to the dawn chorus. Actually, I wake before the dawn, as the first birds do. The singing starts well before it gets light.

This is a daily reminder of the glorious beauties of nature, and the wonder of human ignorance. We do not really know why birds sing at dawn. Some birds also sing at dusk – blackbirds sing the sun down as well as up, and the owls all have a good sing when they’re getting started of an evening. We don’t know why. Maybe it’s about territory. Maybe some other kind of information is being shared. Perhaps it is a warm up in a more literal sense.

My personal suspicion, is that they sing because they can.