Sue Vincent's Blog: Echoes of Life, page 1060
January 30, 2013
Chicken Soup
Chicken Soup for the Soul…?
Great title! I’ve never read them I have to say, but the books are based on the old premise that chicken soup is a cure all.
It is a fallacy.
Sitting there yesterday attached to a variety of machines and monitors, prodded, poked and pestered, I refute the efficacy of chicken soup and consign it to Hades.
You wouldn’t think it could cause so much ruddy trouble.
It can’t all be blamed on the soup of course. The half slice of toast and the sliver of smoked fish must take part of the blame. But I refuse to hear a word against the coffee….
The medics, of course, can’t seem to agree to lay the blame on the soup, even though it is about the only thing I’ve been able to eat for the past week.
They have, it is true, been debating this for a while. Months and months on and off. But the soup, put the final nail in the... erm, let me rephrase that… was the final straw. Pain relief would be nice... but it does make me sleepy. Though that’s good too sometimes. There hasn’t been a lot of sleep, just tiredness and a few tears, but only when no-one is looking... so keep that to yourself.
So now they mutter about scans and needles, cameras and scalpels , bits of my innards I don’t want to contemplate, bone marrow and other details that make me wish I’d never studied biology, dissected rats in school or worked for a hospice charity. Imagination can occasionally be the very devil.
And that’s the problem, isn’t it?
Imagination. We can’t help it sometimes in the wee small hours, when sleep eludes us yet again. I tend to get up and write. It is more productive than playing a cat and mouse game with Morpheus, though the obligatory coffee probably isn’t wise.
But otherwise I’d lay there and wonder, trying to plan for scenarios my waking mind flatly refuses to dwell upon. It’s this optimism thing. My ex-partner could never understand it, how I could remain full of hope in the face of impossible odds, like my son’s story. My son is just as ‘bad’. He refuses to contemplate defeat either. And there seems to be a common misconception about optimists, that we close our eyes to the darker possibilities.
I find it with a lot of people, especially those who take the view that if we accept the worst then anything better is a bonus. Bugger that, if you’ll excuse the expression.
Now I cannot say that I am right here, only that I am right for me. But I would rather examine all scenarios, including the very worst, acknowledge their existence as possibilities, then dismiss them. They cannot ALL happen. Or only one at once. And, as there is no way of predicting which of a number of equally possible possibilities will finally manifest, I see little point in wasting energy worrying about them. I’d rather employ those energies working towards the outcome I want to see.
It works for me. I get to carry on with life in my usual optimistic fashion, not failing to see, but choosing to ignore, the worst case scenarios. I can put a safety net of plans in place to cover any problems that arise, tie up potential loose ends, but that is as far as I am prepared to go down the path of pessimism.
Meanwhile all my energies, actions and attention are aiming for the possibility I prefer as an outcome. The gods help those who help themselves, it is said, but I do believe that the Powers That Be expect us to do our bit too. My energies are better employed Living than worrying. And if I aim for the moon and miss, there are plenty of stars to hit instead.
So, business as usual, walks, fresh air, communication, laughter…but if anyone mentions chicken soup, there’s trouble.
Great title! I’ve never read them I have to say, but the books are based on the old premise that chicken soup is a cure all.
It is a fallacy.
Sitting there yesterday attached to a variety of machines and monitors, prodded, poked and pestered, I refute the efficacy of chicken soup and consign it to Hades.
You wouldn’t think it could cause so much ruddy trouble.
It can’t all be blamed on the soup of course. The half slice of toast and the sliver of smoked fish must take part of the blame. But I refuse to hear a word against the coffee….
The medics, of course, can’t seem to agree to lay the blame on the soup, even though it is about the only thing I’ve been able to eat for the past week.
They have, it is true, been debating this for a while. Months and months on and off. But the soup, put the final nail in the... erm, let me rephrase that… was the final straw. Pain relief would be nice... but it does make me sleepy. Though that’s good too sometimes. There hasn’t been a lot of sleep, just tiredness and a few tears, but only when no-one is looking... so keep that to yourself.
So now they mutter about scans and needles, cameras and scalpels , bits of my innards I don’t want to contemplate, bone marrow and other details that make me wish I’d never studied biology, dissected rats in school or worked for a hospice charity. Imagination can occasionally be the very devil.
And that’s the problem, isn’t it?
Imagination. We can’t help it sometimes in the wee small hours, when sleep eludes us yet again. I tend to get up and write. It is more productive than playing a cat and mouse game with Morpheus, though the obligatory coffee probably isn’t wise.
But otherwise I’d lay there and wonder, trying to plan for scenarios my waking mind flatly refuses to dwell upon. It’s this optimism thing. My ex-partner could never understand it, how I could remain full of hope in the face of impossible odds, like my son’s story. My son is just as ‘bad’. He refuses to contemplate defeat either. And there seems to be a common misconception about optimists, that we close our eyes to the darker possibilities.
I find it with a lot of people, especially those who take the view that if we accept the worst then anything better is a bonus. Bugger that, if you’ll excuse the expression.
Now I cannot say that I am right here, only that I am right for me. But I would rather examine all scenarios, including the very worst, acknowledge their existence as possibilities, then dismiss them. They cannot ALL happen. Or only one at once. And, as there is no way of predicting which of a number of equally possible possibilities will finally manifest, I see little point in wasting energy worrying about them. I’d rather employ those energies working towards the outcome I want to see.
It works for me. I get to carry on with life in my usual optimistic fashion, not failing to see, but choosing to ignore, the worst case scenarios. I can put a safety net of plans in place to cover any problems that arise, tie up potential loose ends, but that is as far as I am prepared to go down the path of pessimism.
Meanwhile all my energies, actions and attention are aiming for the possibility I prefer as an outcome. The gods help those who help themselves, it is said, but I do believe that the Powers That Be expect us to do our bit too. My energies are better employed Living than worrying. And if I aim for the moon and miss, there are plenty of stars to hit instead.
So, business as usual, walks, fresh air, communication, laughter…but if anyone mentions chicken soup, there’s trouble.
January 29, 2013
How to write wrinkles
This morning was one of those where an inadvertent glance in the mirror on the way downstairs tells you that you need a comb. And coffee. Lots of coffee. Annoying really as I had slept fairly well for a change. But the morning likes to throw these things at you and knowing I had a tough day and a hospital appointment I wasn’t looking forward to, life, it seemed, wasn’t going to make things easy.
I had a conversation about life with my son over lunch today. We have some good ones. He was speaking about how he views the past three years of constant hard work as an investment in life. In his view, he could have accepted the minimal recovery he had, learned to cope with it and enjoyed himself as much as possible. But instead he chose to invest time and hard work in his recovery, spending almost every waking hour working body and mind in any and every therapeutic way possible.
The analogy he gave was that of a two bottles. One full of cordial, diluted with water, the other half full of pure cordial. The first seems like more but the contents are weak, the second, less in volume, is concentrated, pure flavour. He has chosen to invest the time now and even though they are years he will never see again he chooses to live his future equipped for a concentrated life full of the richest experience he can.
Which, as you may expect, set me thinking. If you read my meanderings you’ll have noticed by now that it doesn’t take a lot to set me off.
I remember as a very little girl being fascinated by people’s faces. It wasn’t so much the features as the textures of their skin. There was the paternal Great Grandmother. I have a very early memory of her home, dark and quiet, all red velvet and mahogany with stuffed animals and birds under glass domes and the heavy curtains closed against the light. There was a coal fire in an ornate black grate, the mantle fringed with velvet bobbles. Something straight out of the Victorian era, which, of course, she was. I had been taken along as the family said their goodbyes and remember pristine linen sheets on what seemed a huge carved bed, draped with heavy curtains and Great Grandmother propped on the pillows, hushed voices all around.
Kissing her cheek, her skin was dry and thin, folded like tissue paper, fragile as a winter leaf. She smelled faintly of roses though. Her hands fluttered as if to speak and her lips with pale, the skin almost transparent. I don’t suppose I was much more than three.
I remember the maternal grandparents with greater clarity. Grandma with her round, rosy cheeks and crinkly eyes. She was always smiling and laughing and the naughtiness and joy just shone from her. Great Granddad with waxy smooth skin, crackled with spider veins over his cheeks that fascinated the small child. I still remember sitting on his knee and tracing them with my finger while he explained that they were the kiss of the wind and rain on his face. And then there was Great Grandma, in the chair in the corner. She had been an invalid for many years, suffering a degenerative physical illness that must have left her in great pain much of the time.
Her skin was a beautiful texture, still creamy and velvety to touch. Yet the wrinkles wrote the story of the pain and a certain bitterness on her face. As the years passed and gravity began to win, her face drooped into folds that wrote of decades of discomfort.
By the time I was in my teens it had been noted that I bear a strong resemblance to my Great Grandmother. I had no problem with that, she was accounted a beauty in her youth…though I, of course, fragile teenager that I was, never saw that reflected… only the family features. But I resolved then and there that I would write my own wrinkles. And they would reflect not pain but laughter.
It was probably the best decision I ever made.
I have smiled through some pretty rough times. It is useful as a mask to hide behind when we don’t want the world to intrude or to see. It can hide the loudest cry of the heart sometimes. It allowed me to smile for my sons when I felt I was being rent asunder. But most of all, it allowed me to find joy in living.
It is, of course physically easier to smile than to frown. The chemical and emotional benefits are well documented. But there has to be something to smile at if you are going to make a habit of it. So it opened my eyes to the world in a new way. I began to see the small beauties, noticed the sheen on a pigeon’s breast, the powdery softness of a butterfly’s wing, the sheer exuberance of a bank of dandelions in the sunshine and the way a bumblebee looks as if it should be stroked. I became aware of the world, and as I did so it became alive to me in a way it had not been before. And in turn, I became alive to it.
The more I smiled, the more I saw to smile at… in nature, in people, in myself. Writing my wrinkles is a daily adventure I shall never tire of. Each one tells a story and I wear them with ease and no regrets. I simply wonder what the next chapter holds…..
I had a conversation about life with my son over lunch today. We have some good ones. He was speaking about how he views the past three years of constant hard work as an investment in life. In his view, he could have accepted the minimal recovery he had, learned to cope with it and enjoyed himself as much as possible. But instead he chose to invest time and hard work in his recovery, spending almost every waking hour working body and mind in any and every therapeutic way possible.
The analogy he gave was that of a two bottles. One full of cordial, diluted with water, the other half full of pure cordial. The first seems like more but the contents are weak, the second, less in volume, is concentrated, pure flavour. He has chosen to invest the time now and even though they are years he will never see again he chooses to live his future equipped for a concentrated life full of the richest experience he can.
Which, as you may expect, set me thinking. If you read my meanderings you’ll have noticed by now that it doesn’t take a lot to set me off.
I remember as a very little girl being fascinated by people’s faces. It wasn’t so much the features as the textures of their skin. There was the paternal Great Grandmother. I have a very early memory of her home, dark and quiet, all red velvet and mahogany with stuffed animals and birds under glass domes and the heavy curtains closed against the light. There was a coal fire in an ornate black grate, the mantle fringed with velvet bobbles. Something straight out of the Victorian era, which, of course, she was. I had been taken along as the family said their goodbyes and remember pristine linen sheets on what seemed a huge carved bed, draped with heavy curtains and Great Grandmother propped on the pillows, hushed voices all around.
Kissing her cheek, her skin was dry and thin, folded like tissue paper, fragile as a winter leaf. She smelled faintly of roses though. Her hands fluttered as if to speak and her lips with pale, the skin almost transparent. I don’t suppose I was much more than three.
I remember the maternal grandparents with greater clarity. Grandma with her round, rosy cheeks and crinkly eyes. She was always smiling and laughing and the naughtiness and joy just shone from her. Great Granddad with waxy smooth skin, crackled with spider veins over his cheeks that fascinated the small child. I still remember sitting on his knee and tracing them with my finger while he explained that they were the kiss of the wind and rain on his face. And then there was Great Grandma, in the chair in the corner. She had been an invalid for many years, suffering a degenerative physical illness that must have left her in great pain much of the time.
Her skin was a beautiful texture, still creamy and velvety to touch. Yet the wrinkles wrote the story of the pain and a certain bitterness on her face. As the years passed and gravity began to win, her face drooped into folds that wrote of decades of discomfort.
By the time I was in my teens it had been noted that I bear a strong resemblance to my Great Grandmother. I had no problem with that, she was accounted a beauty in her youth…though I, of course, fragile teenager that I was, never saw that reflected… only the family features. But I resolved then and there that I would write my own wrinkles. And they would reflect not pain but laughter.
It was probably the best decision I ever made.
I have smiled through some pretty rough times. It is useful as a mask to hide behind when we don’t want the world to intrude or to see. It can hide the loudest cry of the heart sometimes. It allowed me to smile for my sons when I felt I was being rent asunder. But most of all, it allowed me to find joy in living.
It is, of course physically easier to smile than to frown. The chemical and emotional benefits are well documented. But there has to be something to smile at if you are going to make a habit of it. So it opened my eyes to the world in a new way. I began to see the small beauties, noticed the sheen on a pigeon’s breast, the powdery softness of a butterfly’s wing, the sheer exuberance of a bank of dandelions in the sunshine and the way a bumblebee looks as if it should be stroked. I became aware of the world, and as I did so it became alive to me in a way it had not been before. And in turn, I became alive to it.
The more I smiled, the more I saw to smile at… in nature, in people, in myself. Writing my wrinkles is a daily adventure I shall never tire of. Each one tells a story and I wear them with ease and no regrets. I simply wonder what the next chapter holds…..
January 28, 2013
Nightmares
I woke sobbing this morning after a fitful sleep filled with nightmares. Not the kind where the monster with dripping fangs chases you like a scared rabbit through the set of a Hammer horror movie. Those would be easily dealt with… wake, smile and turn over. Possibly a quick glance under the bed, just in case… No, these were the nightmares of ‘what ifs’, the hidden fears and worries that seethe deviously below the surface of the mind until they find an outlet in dream.
I seldom have bad dreams these days. There was a time, not so very long ago when the nightmare persisted in sleep and in the light of day, when reality itself was a nightmare with no waking to relieve it and the daily terror of opening my eyes brought worse fears than the night. It was a time followed by hope and worry, punctuated by flashbacks and questions to which each answer seemed more painful than the last. But those days have slipped into the realm of memory and the rich well of experienced life, exorcised by achievement and laughter.
I could say I have no idea what caused the nightmares last night but I would be lying to you and to myself. The trigger, of course, was pride in my son. That he could, physically, intellectually and emotionally write yesterday’s blog post, so coherently and with such depth is an astounding achievement in the face of the past three years and yet another predicted impossibility smashed into shards. Yet in spite of this and the wonderful response the post was given, it opened the door of memory and resurrected old fears long dismissed and disproven, but which left their scars on my heart and which, every so often, remind me of their presence.
Of course, once the nightmare is in full gallop the vulnerability creeps in and all the other doubts and worries surface. All those what ifs that everyday reality holds. From the most mundane financial niggles, through the emotional fragilities, to a meeting I have coming up today and a visit to see the surgeons tomorrow…. all the possibilities and unlikelihoods decided to play themselves out in a facsimile of reality on the cinema screen of dream.
It is the very plausibility of these nightmares that make them so heartrending and terrifying. In sleep we do not have the clarity of choice that we do when awake, nor do we have access to the strengths and experience that make us who we are. We are simply the victim of our own oft unspoken and unexamined fears and we wake in a fragile solitude, crying like a child in need of comfort.
So in the cold light of day and over the third coffee, I take out the nightmares and examine them. With my whole being awake and aware I can see the flaws and inconsistencies in the dreams. I can turn and face those fears which have a foundation in reality and deal with them, admitting their presence and validity, admitting my own vulnerability, yet choosing to face them straight on, looking them in the eye so to speak, armed with a lifetime of experience and an arsenal of learned strength.
After all, what use is being awake if we choose to let the terrors of sleep rule our lives? The freedom of clarity can shine into the darkest corner of our fears and show that the monster lurking there was merely a shadow in the moonlight.
I seldom have bad dreams these days. There was a time, not so very long ago when the nightmare persisted in sleep and in the light of day, when reality itself was a nightmare with no waking to relieve it and the daily terror of opening my eyes brought worse fears than the night. It was a time followed by hope and worry, punctuated by flashbacks and questions to which each answer seemed more painful than the last. But those days have slipped into the realm of memory and the rich well of experienced life, exorcised by achievement and laughter.
I could say I have no idea what caused the nightmares last night but I would be lying to you and to myself. The trigger, of course, was pride in my son. That he could, physically, intellectually and emotionally write yesterday’s blog post, so coherently and with such depth is an astounding achievement in the face of the past three years and yet another predicted impossibility smashed into shards. Yet in spite of this and the wonderful response the post was given, it opened the door of memory and resurrected old fears long dismissed and disproven, but which left their scars on my heart and which, every so often, remind me of their presence.
Of course, once the nightmare is in full gallop the vulnerability creeps in and all the other doubts and worries surface. All those what ifs that everyday reality holds. From the most mundane financial niggles, through the emotional fragilities, to a meeting I have coming up today and a visit to see the surgeons tomorrow…. all the possibilities and unlikelihoods decided to play themselves out in a facsimile of reality on the cinema screen of dream.
It is the very plausibility of these nightmares that make them so heartrending and terrifying. In sleep we do not have the clarity of choice that we do when awake, nor do we have access to the strengths and experience that make us who we are. We are simply the victim of our own oft unspoken and unexamined fears and we wake in a fragile solitude, crying like a child in need of comfort.
So in the cold light of day and over the third coffee, I take out the nightmares and examine them. With my whole being awake and aware I can see the flaws and inconsistencies in the dreams. I can turn and face those fears which have a foundation in reality and deal with them, admitting their presence and validity, admitting my own vulnerability, yet choosing to face them straight on, looking them in the eye so to speak, armed with a lifetime of experience and an arsenal of learned strength.
After all, what use is being awake if we choose to let the terrors of sleep rule our lives? The freedom of clarity can shine into the darkest corner of our fears and show that the monster lurking there was merely a shadow in the moonlight.
January 27, 2013
Possum ergo facit - I can therefore I do
Today, as I watched my son walk a few steps unsupported down the hallway of the home in which he lives independently, preparing to walk his bride to be down the aisle in a few months’ time, I was struck by an inspiration... not difficult when you are watching a miracle walking.
I asked him to write an article for the blog. He agreed. I merely cut and paste.
Some who follow this blog will already know that on July 4th 2009 my son was left for dead in an alley, a screwdriver rammed through his skull and deep into his brain. He was not expected to survive, and when, remarkably, he did not die, the prognosis held no hope given the extent of the brain damage.
His decision making capacity, intellect, behaviour, language centres and memory were the areas that took the direct damage. Secondary damage hit him physically as well. He woke paralysed down his right side top to toe, unable at that point to speak, move or swallow. His co-ordination and balance were non-existent and he could not even sit up straight propped on pillows. Hi face had dropped, his eyes were crossed, his sight was impaired and we were told at one point that hopes of any kind of recovery were unrealistic.
Let me introduce you to my son, Nick Verron………………
Hello.
I've never written anything like these so apologies if I gabble. My Mum seems to think that people might want to hear what I have to say so here goes…
Where to start? My goal is to help even just one person with these ramblings. I guess the first thing I'd say is even when facing a real life nightmare is to do so with a smile. Experience has shown me that when you think things can't get any worse, the next day those problems could seem trivial. I've teetered on the edge of a pit of despair many a time. A smile has kept me from falling. When life does knock you down (normally for me due to my arch nemesis gravity) climb back up. It is very easy at this point to focus on what you've lost.
To give you insight into what I'm about to say (probably not very well) I recommend reading “The Flipside” by Adam J Jackson, a truly motivational book I was urged to read by a good friend who was on the next ward from me following a car crash. She is now walking, working and looking at moving in with her boyfriend to their own place after a very shaky prognosis. My point being that she knows what she's talking about. Anyway, I digress. You WERE warned about the rambling!
It is very easy to focus on what you've lost. I could say that I lost a highly paid job which I excelled in, a nice flat, nice car and was able bodied. Instead, I focus on what I've gained. This ordeal has completely realigned my priorities in life. Before I took everything for granted, so what I had I didn't appreciate. They say "you don't know what you've got until it's gone". How true that is. I kick myself for wasting the things that I had. So I urge you, go out for a walk and breathe in the air outside, appreciate the fact that you can. My ramblings will still be here when you get back, but tomorrow you may not physically be able to. Like my tattoo says, “possum ergo facit", Latin for "I can therefore I do". Please heed these words, I learned them the hard way.
This brings me onto my next piece of advice. Don't live in the past. You learn from your mistakes. I believe life to be comprised of lots of lessons, each one when learned enabling you to pass a slightly harder one. I think that everything in my life had been enabling me to tackle the current lesson which started 4th July 2009. I'm hoping I'm near graduation… Hindsight's shown me that these lessons at the time I would've done ANYTHING to escape, but realised later they're responsible for who I am today.
I found another recent shift in my priorities for recently I found love. If you'd have asked me a year ago my number one priority I'd have said learning to walk. Now that had been knocked off its pedestal by my Faith. Brave Faith has come to another country to study, battling bipolar on a daily basis. I guess that's something we have in common - we were both told we were attempting something impossible but did it anyway. Not many people would understand this, but I'm actually thankful for everything that's happened since the attack. Amongst other things, it's allowed me to meet Faith. More importantly it's allowed me, by having to overcome private daily trials, to better understand problems she faces and how brilliant and strong she is to have got this far.
I must say that to appreciate how good some things in my life are, I've had to experience things at the opposite end of the scale to contrast them to. As Faith said (probably more eloquently) “you only see stars in the sky when it's dark enough".
One thing that put my mind at rest I will share. I was so scared every day waking up thinking "is this as far as it is possible for me to recover?” Well I read that the brain doesn't stop learning unless you stop teaching it! I read that an old man lost 98% of his brain function in a stroke but went back to teaching! People can regain mobility 20 years after being paralysed! I found this out from a book on neuroplasticity called “The Brain That Changes Itself” by Norman Doidge. This was recommended to me by a guy called Andrew Parr, a professional hypnotherapist who decided to help me merely out of the goodness of his heart. Anyone with / who knows / is interested in neurological problems should definitely read this. It completely changed the way I think about brains.
Why was it instilled in me that there was no hope of further recovery? I was discharged from physiotherapy in 2010 because "there was nothing more they could do for me". Since that point I have made solid progress. Because I believed in myself. Oh, and countless hours of hard work. I do not think that I'm the only one with the determination needed to get this far. I do however think that if it were not for a fiery little Yorkshire hobbit, the medical profession would've sapped it from me (and worryingly probably have from many before me!) as for whatever reason they quash hope? What worries me more is people who have yet to be robbed of their determination! After all, isn't hope one of Man's strongest qualities? Contrary to what they'd have you believe, no matter how dire things may look, you can live, not just exist.
I asked him to write an article for the blog. He agreed. I merely cut and paste.
Some who follow this blog will already know that on July 4th 2009 my son was left for dead in an alley, a screwdriver rammed through his skull and deep into his brain. He was not expected to survive, and when, remarkably, he did not die, the prognosis held no hope given the extent of the brain damage.
His decision making capacity, intellect, behaviour, language centres and memory were the areas that took the direct damage. Secondary damage hit him physically as well. He woke paralysed down his right side top to toe, unable at that point to speak, move or swallow. His co-ordination and balance were non-existent and he could not even sit up straight propped on pillows. Hi face had dropped, his eyes were crossed, his sight was impaired and we were told at one point that hopes of any kind of recovery were unrealistic.
Let me introduce you to my son, Nick Verron………………
Hello.
I've never written anything like these so apologies if I gabble. My Mum seems to think that people might want to hear what I have to say so here goes…
Where to start? My goal is to help even just one person with these ramblings. I guess the first thing I'd say is even when facing a real life nightmare is to do so with a smile. Experience has shown me that when you think things can't get any worse, the next day those problems could seem trivial. I've teetered on the edge of a pit of despair many a time. A smile has kept me from falling. When life does knock you down (normally for me due to my arch nemesis gravity) climb back up. It is very easy at this point to focus on what you've lost.
To give you insight into what I'm about to say (probably not very well) I recommend reading “The Flipside” by Adam J Jackson, a truly motivational book I was urged to read by a good friend who was on the next ward from me following a car crash. She is now walking, working and looking at moving in with her boyfriend to their own place after a very shaky prognosis. My point being that she knows what she's talking about. Anyway, I digress. You WERE warned about the rambling!
It is very easy to focus on what you've lost. I could say that I lost a highly paid job which I excelled in, a nice flat, nice car and was able bodied. Instead, I focus on what I've gained. This ordeal has completely realigned my priorities in life. Before I took everything for granted, so what I had I didn't appreciate. They say "you don't know what you've got until it's gone". How true that is. I kick myself for wasting the things that I had. So I urge you, go out for a walk and breathe in the air outside, appreciate the fact that you can. My ramblings will still be here when you get back, but tomorrow you may not physically be able to. Like my tattoo says, “possum ergo facit", Latin for "I can therefore I do". Please heed these words, I learned them the hard way.
This brings me onto my next piece of advice. Don't live in the past. You learn from your mistakes. I believe life to be comprised of lots of lessons, each one when learned enabling you to pass a slightly harder one. I think that everything in my life had been enabling me to tackle the current lesson which started 4th July 2009. I'm hoping I'm near graduation… Hindsight's shown me that these lessons at the time I would've done ANYTHING to escape, but realised later they're responsible for who I am today.
I found another recent shift in my priorities for recently I found love. If you'd have asked me a year ago my number one priority I'd have said learning to walk. Now that had been knocked off its pedestal by my Faith. Brave Faith has come to another country to study, battling bipolar on a daily basis. I guess that's something we have in common - we were both told we were attempting something impossible but did it anyway. Not many people would understand this, but I'm actually thankful for everything that's happened since the attack. Amongst other things, it's allowed me to meet Faith. More importantly it's allowed me, by having to overcome private daily trials, to better understand problems she faces and how brilliant and strong she is to have got this far.
I must say that to appreciate how good some things in my life are, I've had to experience things at the opposite end of the scale to contrast them to. As Faith said (probably more eloquently) “you only see stars in the sky when it's dark enough".
One thing that put my mind at rest I will share. I was so scared every day waking up thinking "is this as far as it is possible for me to recover?” Well I read that the brain doesn't stop learning unless you stop teaching it! I read that an old man lost 98% of his brain function in a stroke but went back to teaching! People can regain mobility 20 years after being paralysed! I found this out from a book on neuroplasticity called “The Brain That Changes Itself” by Norman Doidge. This was recommended to me by a guy called Andrew Parr, a professional hypnotherapist who decided to help me merely out of the goodness of his heart. Anyone with / who knows / is interested in neurological problems should definitely read this. It completely changed the way I think about brains.
Why was it instilled in me that there was no hope of further recovery? I was discharged from physiotherapy in 2010 because "there was nothing more they could do for me". Since that point I have made solid progress. Because I believed in myself. Oh, and countless hours of hard work. I do not think that I'm the only one with the determination needed to get this far. I do however think that if it were not for a fiery little Yorkshire hobbit, the medical profession would've sapped it from me (and worryingly probably have from many before me!) as for whatever reason they quash hope? What worries me more is people who have yet to be robbed of their determination! After all, isn't hope one of Man's strongest qualities? Contrary to what they'd have you believe, no matter how dire things may look, you can live, not just exist.
January 26, 2013
First Workshop?
With the Silent Eye’s launch weekend coming up in April, a point was made that these things can be daunting for anyone who has never attended an esoteric workshop and who may have absolutely no idea what to expect. So I thought it might be an idea to write about it from a more subjective viewpoint than the School presents in the brochure.
It is all very well knowing the type of subjects that will be covered, the fact that we will be using ritual drama and will run presentation and meditation sessions... but really, if you have never been to one of these workshops you are still none the wiser.
As a friend wrote in the forum: “Daunting beyond words, that first time. But after a couple of hours you realise that they're all mad (in the good way), and that nobody appears to know any more than you do (not really) and that if it weren't for the interruptions caused by the scheduled events, you'd all be sitting around drinking tea and chatting "interesting stuff" for the entire 3 days...”
The weekend begins on the Friday evening. You are greeted and allowed to settle into your room. There will be time to meet old friends perhaps and begin to make new ones in a relaxed atmosphere. An informal welcome and introduction to the weekend precedes a buffet dinner, after which we talk you through the first of a series of ritual dramas that will begin the thread that continually weaves through the weekend.
Everyone takes part in these ritual dramas. They are fully scripted...you don’t have to learn your lines, know how to act, what to do or where to be. Everyone begins together on an emotional journey that simply requires you to be part of it.
The ritual dramas are scripted down to the last detail… and mistakes still happen. Even experienced ritualists can be found snoring through their ‘cue’ after a long flight. It doesn’t matter. Someone will always either nudge or cover for them. One experienced ritualist of my all-too-intimate acquaintance has been known to sob and sniff her way through half a particularly moving ritual, using her robe sleeve as a handkerchief. (Makes note to self to take tissues this time….).
In the evenings half the companions retire to the village pub, the others chat in the comfortable lounge or walk in the beautiful landscape and grounds and the evenings pass in a relaxed and friendly manner.
The mornings begin with a guided meditation, where you are simply asked to relax and take an emotive journey in the imagination. These are followed by Knowledge Lectures and group work… where you will be presented with a variety of subjects and invited to share your thoughts and participate in discussion. You are not expected to be familiar with the concepts presented and there is no expected degree of knowledge or learning required, just the openness to listen to new ideas and old, to think and feel and see what comes.
Mealtimes are wonderful for talk. The food is incredibly good at the Nightingale Centre and they cater for all diets beautifully. The rooms are comfortable, the staff impeccable and the centre itself beautifully presented, in glorious countryside.
We intend the weekend to be comfortable, fun, challenging and informative. We hope to have you laughing, thinking, moving and feeling... possibly shedding an odd tear. We want those who attend to leave their mark on the birth of our school and hope we can leave a gentle mark on their lives too.
You do not have to be a member of the School to attend. You do not even have to be thinking about joining. We just want to share this unique moment with a group of people who are there because they wish to be. All are warmly welcome.
There will be other workshops. We intend to run them regularly. We know there are few esoteric workshops of this calibre that are open to all in the UK at this time. The vast majority of the good ones are tied to Schools or particular groups and so are generally fully subscribed fairly rapidly.
It is worth stressing that we do not seek to make money from these workshops or from the School. It will operate on a strictly not for profit basis.
Full details of the workshop can be found on the Silent Eye website Events page. We still have places available and it would be wonderful to fill them.
An account of my nervousness at my very first esoteric ‘event’ can be found on our forum too. Like the workshop, you are welcome to join the forum without expectation of joining the school. It is an infant forum and would be glad of new members to help me build a community for discussion of spiritual and esoteric subjects from all viewpoints. And hopefully a little laughter too. All we need is a name and email address on the form to make sure you are a real person, we can then register you with the website and you can jump right in and join what I hope to build into a comfortable and interesting place to be.
In Light,
Sue Vincent
It is all very well knowing the type of subjects that will be covered, the fact that we will be using ritual drama and will run presentation and meditation sessions... but really, if you have never been to one of these workshops you are still none the wiser.
As a friend wrote in the forum: “Daunting beyond words, that first time. But after a couple of hours you realise that they're all mad (in the good way), and that nobody appears to know any more than you do (not really) and that if it weren't for the interruptions caused by the scheduled events, you'd all be sitting around drinking tea and chatting "interesting stuff" for the entire 3 days...”
The weekend begins on the Friday evening. You are greeted and allowed to settle into your room. There will be time to meet old friends perhaps and begin to make new ones in a relaxed atmosphere. An informal welcome and introduction to the weekend precedes a buffet dinner, after which we talk you through the first of a series of ritual dramas that will begin the thread that continually weaves through the weekend.
Everyone takes part in these ritual dramas. They are fully scripted...you don’t have to learn your lines, know how to act, what to do or where to be. Everyone begins together on an emotional journey that simply requires you to be part of it.
The ritual dramas are scripted down to the last detail… and mistakes still happen. Even experienced ritualists can be found snoring through their ‘cue’ after a long flight. It doesn’t matter. Someone will always either nudge or cover for them. One experienced ritualist of my all-too-intimate acquaintance has been known to sob and sniff her way through half a particularly moving ritual, using her robe sleeve as a handkerchief. (Makes note to self to take tissues this time….).
In the evenings half the companions retire to the village pub, the others chat in the comfortable lounge or walk in the beautiful landscape and grounds and the evenings pass in a relaxed and friendly manner.
The mornings begin with a guided meditation, where you are simply asked to relax and take an emotive journey in the imagination. These are followed by Knowledge Lectures and group work… where you will be presented with a variety of subjects and invited to share your thoughts and participate in discussion. You are not expected to be familiar with the concepts presented and there is no expected degree of knowledge or learning required, just the openness to listen to new ideas and old, to think and feel and see what comes.
Mealtimes are wonderful for talk. The food is incredibly good at the Nightingale Centre and they cater for all diets beautifully. The rooms are comfortable, the staff impeccable and the centre itself beautifully presented, in glorious countryside.
We intend the weekend to be comfortable, fun, challenging and informative. We hope to have you laughing, thinking, moving and feeling... possibly shedding an odd tear. We want those who attend to leave their mark on the birth of our school and hope we can leave a gentle mark on their lives too.
You do not have to be a member of the School to attend. You do not even have to be thinking about joining. We just want to share this unique moment with a group of people who are there because they wish to be. All are warmly welcome.
There will be other workshops. We intend to run them regularly. We know there are few esoteric workshops of this calibre that are open to all in the UK at this time. The vast majority of the good ones are tied to Schools or particular groups and so are generally fully subscribed fairly rapidly.
It is worth stressing that we do not seek to make money from these workshops or from the School. It will operate on a strictly not for profit basis.
Full details of the workshop can be found on the Silent Eye website Events page. We still have places available and it would be wonderful to fill them.
An account of my nervousness at my very first esoteric ‘event’ can be found on our forum too. Like the workshop, you are welcome to join the forum without expectation of joining the school. It is an infant forum and would be glad of new members to help me build a community for discussion of spiritual and esoteric subjects from all viewpoints. And hopefully a little laughter too. All we need is a name and email address on the form to make sure you are a real person, we can then register you with the website and you can jump right in and join what I hope to build into a comfortable and interesting place to be.
In Light,
Sue Vincent
January 24, 2013
Cold rice pudding
I’m not really very good at this living alone business. Not on a practical level anyway. I have no problem wielding a screwdriver or drill, brandishing a paintbrush or whizzing around with the lawnmower. The house is clean and tidy, apart from when the dog has emptied her toy box and wrestled the cushions to the ground. Or killed the rug. It falls apart at the supermarket.
I am a good cook. I love baking. I can whip up a meal for ten with no qualms, a family lunch or a classy dinner. So why, when I went to the cupboard tonight was it bare, again?
I’d done the supermarket run this morning, bought food for the dog, collected the ingredients and cooked dinner for my son and friends. Yet me? No.
I forget, you see. It’s no fun cooking just for myself.
The only thing left in the cupboard tonight was a tin of rice pudding. And that made me smile with fond memory.
When I was a very little girl I remember my grandmother telling me that cold rice pudding was an infallible cure for a broken heart. I cannot remember why my heart was broken at that early age, but it obviously was, because she served me a bowl of the stuff. It made me giggle. So as a cure it was, at that point in time, pretty effective.
It had to be the tinned version, of course. Real rice pudding, baked with cream and butter and freshly grated nutmeg was serious and the thought takes me back a further generation to my great grandparents’ home, with the square, Deco crockery painted with daffodils. As an even littler girl I had to clear my plate enough to see those daffodils… which was one way of getting a child to eat her greens.
Memories of food, the smells and tastes that come back, visual memories of scenes and rooms, tiny details almost forgotten, intricately linked with those moments in time shared with loved ones. Remembering the daffodil plates I can see my great grandfather sitting opposite, his hair white as snow, cheeks traced with tiny spider veins. Behind me is grandma’s treadle sewing machine with the drawers stuffed with treasures and the brass inkstand shaped like one of the setters.
Most of the small room was taken up with the great carved mahogany dresser with grandad’s treasures from India. Opposite was the big, black-leaded Yorkist range with the bread oven, where the fire burned always and sometimes we made toast in front of the flames or watched strange landscapes in the embers of the coals. And always there were the three red setters, Bonnie, Rory and Meg and great grandma, seated in her chair in the corner with her beautiful long hair bound around her head in a coronet of plaits.
They taught me to cook. All of them, one after another. A simple, homely thread of loving that even now can take me back to their hearths and homes. I was luckier than many and remember most of my great grandparents. There were photographs of five generations together. The threads of learning went back in time for me in a very vivid way.
So the child that grew learned much first hand that in many families she would have missed. I sat at my great grandmother’s knee as she told me of her own childhood in the 1800′s and of her courtship with her husband to be. And she taught me to pray. Not the written prayers we learned in school, but as she did. Simply and from the heart.
Until her death in her very late nineties, she chatted with her God every night, shared the day’s joys with Him, because, she said, they were His and He should know how glad they made her. She took Him her sorrows and fears and laid them in His lap. She taught me never to ask for anything for myself because He knew best and would give what was needed. But to ask instead for blessings on everyone else.
Her relationship with God was a very personal one. She spoke to Him like a friend and that memory stayed with me. My own journey has been convoluted perhaps, my image of Divinity has shifted somewhat from that childhood vision, but the simplicity of those prayers remained. So did something she told me when I asked her where God lived. She smiled at me very gently and said, ‘In your heart.’
Smiling at that memory, it seems the cold rice pudding has worked magic again tonight.
I am a good cook. I love baking. I can whip up a meal for ten with no qualms, a family lunch or a classy dinner. So why, when I went to the cupboard tonight was it bare, again?
I’d done the supermarket run this morning, bought food for the dog, collected the ingredients and cooked dinner for my son and friends. Yet me? No.
I forget, you see. It’s no fun cooking just for myself.
The only thing left in the cupboard tonight was a tin of rice pudding. And that made me smile with fond memory.
When I was a very little girl I remember my grandmother telling me that cold rice pudding was an infallible cure for a broken heart. I cannot remember why my heart was broken at that early age, but it obviously was, because she served me a bowl of the stuff. It made me giggle. So as a cure it was, at that point in time, pretty effective.
It had to be the tinned version, of course. Real rice pudding, baked with cream and butter and freshly grated nutmeg was serious and the thought takes me back a further generation to my great grandparents’ home, with the square, Deco crockery painted with daffodils. As an even littler girl I had to clear my plate enough to see those daffodils… which was one way of getting a child to eat her greens.
Memories of food, the smells and tastes that come back, visual memories of scenes and rooms, tiny details almost forgotten, intricately linked with those moments in time shared with loved ones. Remembering the daffodil plates I can see my great grandfather sitting opposite, his hair white as snow, cheeks traced with tiny spider veins. Behind me is grandma’s treadle sewing machine with the drawers stuffed with treasures and the brass inkstand shaped like one of the setters.
Most of the small room was taken up with the great carved mahogany dresser with grandad’s treasures from India. Opposite was the big, black-leaded Yorkist range with the bread oven, where the fire burned always and sometimes we made toast in front of the flames or watched strange landscapes in the embers of the coals. And always there were the three red setters, Bonnie, Rory and Meg and great grandma, seated in her chair in the corner with her beautiful long hair bound around her head in a coronet of plaits.
They taught me to cook. All of them, one after another. A simple, homely thread of loving that even now can take me back to their hearths and homes. I was luckier than many and remember most of my great grandparents. There were photographs of five generations together. The threads of learning went back in time for me in a very vivid way.
So the child that grew learned much first hand that in many families she would have missed. I sat at my great grandmother’s knee as she told me of her own childhood in the 1800′s and of her courtship with her husband to be. And she taught me to pray. Not the written prayers we learned in school, but as she did. Simply and from the heart.
Until her death in her very late nineties, she chatted with her God every night, shared the day’s joys with Him, because, she said, they were His and He should know how glad they made her. She took Him her sorrows and fears and laid them in His lap. She taught me never to ask for anything for myself because He knew best and would give what was needed. But to ask instead for blessings on everyone else.
Her relationship with God was a very personal one. She spoke to Him like a friend and that memory stayed with me. My own journey has been convoluted perhaps, my image of Divinity has shifted somewhat from that childhood vision, but the simplicity of those prayers remained. So did something she told me when I asked her where God lived. She smiled at me very gently and said, ‘In your heart.’
Smiling at that memory, it seems the cold rice pudding has worked magic again tonight.
Spell Check
I’ve been upsetting the spell-check facility on my computer a lot lately. It doesn’t seem to take much some days. It has never been keen on the fact that I write quite a lot in French for a start. But it can handle that, reluctantly, once it has had time to think about things for a minute or two. It simply sighs and switches dictionary. You can almost hear it grumbling under its breath as the fan kicks in.
It offers a minimal amount of protest for the odd bit of Latin. Perhaps it assumes I am being academic and doesn’t like to admit it doesn’t understand.
It has never been happy about some of the more arcane languages that creep in when I am writing on esoteric subjects. It has grudgingly opened the dictionary for me to add Hebrew words, and will permit me to include ancient Egyptian names, as long as they are written with an upper case letter. It has, of course, completely lost its temper on the odd occasion where I have transcribed Enochian, underlining whole paragraphs in violent red.
But the worst offender, as far as spell-check is concerned, is nothing so eldritch or profound. It is the dialect of my home. It seems to think I am being deliberately provocative, and underlines every word, space, punctuation mark and spelling with every virulent colour at its disposal. It completely withdraws the ‘add to dictionary’ facility in high dudgeon and persistently reinstates every coloured line as soon as I tell it to ‘ignore’. And let’s not even begin to explore its attitude to Yorkshire grammar…
It is, of course, well known that Yorkshire is ‘God’s Own County’. It says so on Wikipedia, so it must be true. It therefore follows that its language should be accorded a certain reverence. Perhaps spell-check is simply in awe? Even the ‘national’ anthem of Yorkshire is in dialect, for goodness sake!
Wheear 'ast tha bin sin' ah saw thee, ah saw thee?
On Ilkla Mooar baht 'at….
So as my next book, a magical fantasy, is set in Yorkshire, it is of course obligatory for at least a little dialect to creep between its pages. To me, it is the sound of Home, of memory, love, laughter and people. It is fresh brewed tea, scones and the smell of warm bread. It sings to my heart.
Regional accents have a way of drawing us back to childhood, I think. They are, thankfully, now widely accepted in a way they were not when I was a young. The voice of the BBC has softened that acceptance as it has changed over the decades. Which is just as well really, as I do not have the modulated tones of a 1960’s announcer, but the accent of my home, and in April I have to stand with my Lancastrian co-director (he can’t help that, you know…) and present the School to the world, with an open soul and no pretence to be other than I am.
It is seldom ‘broad Yorkshire’ these days, of course. Time spent in the south in married quarters as a child, years in France and other places have altered it and left their mark. So have the various jobs and social strata through which I have moved. Life does that to us, doesn’t it? Time, place and experience leave a layer of accumulated difference upon us. It is easy to lose oneself beneath that accretion, in the same way as the golden sandstone of the north became darkened by industry.
I will never forget the revelation of the town hall in Leeds… a glorious piece of Victorian civic pride… when the scaffolding came down in 1972 and the black stone, now cleaned of the accumulated grime, was unveiled in pale gold.
I look at myself in much the same way… though smaller and far less stately. A lifetime of experience has overlaid the essential me with so many traces and layers that have changed the outward appearance both physically and in other more subtle ways. Sometimes from habit, sometimes almost in self-defence. It would be easy to lose sight of the fact that this is just a veneer, a thin overlay, and that beneath those layers the essence is still there. It may have aged, and grown, there may be signs of erosion and a bit of wear and tear, but I comfort myself with the knowledge that in a building that would just add character, a sense of living history and presence.
It does make you wonder though, whether stripping back the layers to the essence of Self would let us see ourselves all golden again.
It offers a minimal amount of protest for the odd bit of Latin. Perhaps it assumes I am being academic and doesn’t like to admit it doesn’t understand.
It has never been happy about some of the more arcane languages that creep in when I am writing on esoteric subjects. It has grudgingly opened the dictionary for me to add Hebrew words, and will permit me to include ancient Egyptian names, as long as they are written with an upper case letter. It has, of course, completely lost its temper on the odd occasion where I have transcribed Enochian, underlining whole paragraphs in violent red.
But the worst offender, as far as spell-check is concerned, is nothing so eldritch or profound. It is the dialect of my home. It seems to think I am being deliberately provocative, and underlines every word, space, punctuation mark and spelling with every virulent colour at its disposal. It completely withdraws the ‘add to dictionary’ facility in high dudgeon and persistently reinstates every coloured line as soon as I tell it to ‘ignore’. And let’s not even begin to explore its attitude to Yorkshire grammar…
It is, of course, well known that Yorkshire is ‘God’s Own County’. It says so on Wikipedia, so it must be true. It therefore follows that its language should be accorded a certain reverence. Perhaps spell-check is simply in awe? Even the ‘national’ anthem of Yorkshire is in dialect, for goodness sake!
Wheear 'ast tha bin sin' ah saw thee, ah saw thee?
On Ilkla Mooar baht 'at….
So as my next book, a magical fantasy, is set in Yorkshire, it is of course obligatory for at least a little dialect to creep between its pages. To me, it is the sound of Home, of memory, love, laughter and people. It is fresh brewed tea, scones and the smell of warm bread. It sings to my heart.
Regional accents have a way of drawing us back to childhood, I think. They are, thankfully, now widely accepted in a way they were not when I was a young. The voice of the BBC has softened that acceptance as it has changed over the decades. Which is just as well really, as I do not have the modulated tones of a 1960’s announcer, but the accent of my home, and in April I have to stand with my Lancastrian co-director (he can’t help that, you know…) and present the School to the world, with an open soul and no pretence to be other than I am.
It is seldom ‘broad Yorkshire’ these days, of course. Time spent in the south in married quarters as a child, years in France and other places have altered it and left their mark. So have the various jobs and social strata through which I have moved. Life does that to us, doesn’t it? Time, place and experience leave a layer of accumulated difference upon us. It is easy to lose oneself beneath that accretion, in the same way as the golden sandstone of the north became darkened by industry.
I will never forget the revelation of the town hall in Leeds… a glorious piece of Victorian civic pride… when the scaffolding came down in 1972 and the black stone, now cleaned of the accumulated grime, was unveiled in pale gold.
I look at myself in much the same way… though smaller and far less stately. A lifetime of experience has overlaid the essential me with so many traces and layers that have changed the outward appearance both physically and in other more subtle ways. Sometimes from habit, sometimes almost in self-defence. It would be easy to lose sight of the fact that this is just a veneer, a thin overlay, and that beneath those layers the essence is still there. It may have aged, and grown, there may be signs of erosion and a bit of wear and tear, but I comfort myself with the knowledge that in a building that would just add character, a sense of living history and presence.
It does make you wonder though, whether stripping back the layers to the essence of Self would let us see ourselves all golden again.
January 23, 2013
Through the Looking Glass
One of the trans-oceanic discussions got going last night and, as often happens, at one end or the other, into the wee small hours. We can cover a lot of ground, from the ridiculous to the sublime, the mundane to the mystical.
"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes—and ships—and sealing-wax—
Of cabbages—and kings—
And why the sea is boiling hot—
And whether pigs have wings."
I often think of Lewis Carroll’s poem, “The Walrus and the Carpenter” when these conversations get going. And “Through the Looking Glass” would be an equally good title for the friendship we share. Though to be fair, the subjects of our discussions are generally weirder and farther reaching than that of the oyster-eating conversationalists thus described.
So last night, along with talk of snowballs and poetry, statistics and magic, parenting and the nature of a bishop’s smile, we spoke of love. It is, in fact, the common thread that binds most of our exchanges together and can be seen weaving its way through the apparent disparities as we talk our way from the gutter to the very gates of heaven.
The friendship itself is one manifestation of love. It was one of those instant moments of recognition when we met that something, somewhere had clicked into place and into purpose. We share many parallels within our lives’ journeys, and we slide down the latter half of life, she with great elegance, I with a less graceful yet gleeful abandon, towards a not dissimilar conclusion and in a shared inner joy.
We have spent very little time together eye to eye, yet heart to heart we have shared so much and we hold up a mirror to each other in which both are reflected as One.
It is the kind of sisterhood of the soul that we are seldom blessed with and is to be treasured as a rare and precious thing.
Yet were you to take a peek into our conversations, you would be as likely to find us talking of steam railways and the seedier side of humanity, laughing over risqué puns and gently poking fun at the cussed stubbornness of certain northerners as you would be to find us speaking of the deeper questions of Life, the Universe and Everything. For they are all one and a common thread of meaning is woven through all.
Last night, amongst the cabbages and kings, we spoke of love and how our relationship with it changes as we grow. We spoke of detachment, in a way that I have only really come to understand recently. Of course, most religious and spiritual traditions and the Mystery schools teach the need for detachment in some form or another, and it can be a frightening thing to even contemplate letting go of the self to that extent. There is an underlying fear of ‘who will I be, if I am not I? If I cannot feel, think, love as myself then who will I become?’
Let’s be honest, no matter how painful loving can be, no matter how joyful or tender, how heart-aching or blissful, it is love in some form or another that fuels all our relationships from our parents to our friends, from our children to our partners. It is behind all the richest experiences of our lives… why would we want to become ‘detached’ from that?
But it became clear to me at some point, that it was I who, through my own fear, was misunderstanding. The detachment is not from love itself, but from its dependencies. When we can lay those dependencies, those needs, on the altar with a clear heart, Love open up to us in a way that we have not understood, perhaps, before.
When we can see a person clearly, ‘warts and all’ as the saying goes, and love them because of who they Are, when we can love without needing them to love us back, without agonising over how they feel, and shedding useless tears when they do not give what we would like.. when we can allow them to be themselves wholly and freely and simply love them anyway, without expectation or trying to mould them to our desire… or when we can look into the mirror of the soul and see our own Self reflected in that greater Love, then perhaps we begin to know what detachment means.
It does not take love away from us, it gives us the freedom to Love with a whole soul.
"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes—and ships—and sealing-wax—
Of cabbages—and kings—
And why the sea is boiling hot—
And whether pigs have wings."
I often think of Lewis Carroll’s poem, “The Walrus and the Carpenter” when these conversations get going. And “Through the Looking Glass” would be an equally good title for the friendship we share. Though to be fair, the subjects of our discussions are generally weirder and farther reaching than that of the oyster-eating conversationalists thus described.
So last night, along with talk of snowballs and poetry, statistics and magic, parenting and the nature of a bishop’s smile, we spoke of love. It is, in fact, the common thread that binds most of our exchanges together and can be seen weaving its way through the apparent disparities as we talk our way from the gutter to the very gates of heaven.
The friendship itself is one manifestation of love. It was one of those instant moments of recognition when we met that something, somewhere had clicked into place and into purpose. We share many parallels within our lives’ journeys, and we slide down the latter half of life, she with great elegance, I with a less graceful yet gleeful abandon, towards a not dissimilar conclusion and in a shared inner joy.
We have spent very little time together eye to eye, yet heart to heart we have shared so much and we hold up a mirror to each other in which both are reflected as One.
It is the kind of sisterhood of the soul that we are seldom blessed with and is to be treasured as a rare and precious thing.
Yet were you to take a peek into our conversations, you would be as likely to find us talking of steam railways and the seedier side of humanity, laughing over risqué puns and gently poking fun at the cussed stubbornness of certain northerners as you would be to find us speaking of the deeper questions of Life, the Universe and Everything. For they are all one and a common thread of meaning is woven through all.
Last night, amongst the cabbages and kings, we spoke of love and how our relationship with it changes as we grow. We spoke of detachment, in a way that I have only really come to understand recently. Of course, most religious and spiritual traditions and the Mystery schools teach the need for detachment in some form or another, and it can be a frightening thing to even contemplate letting go of the self to that extent. There is an underlying fear of ‘who will I be, if I am not I? If I cannot feel, think, love as myself then who will I become?’
Let’s be honest, no matter how painful loving can be, no matter how joyful or tender, how heart-aching or blissful, it is love in some form or another that fuels all our relationships from our parents to our friends, from our children to our partners. It is behind all the richest experiences of our lives… why would we want to become ‘detached’ from that?
But it became clear to me at some point, that it was I who, through my own fear, was misunderstanding. The detachment is not from love itself, but from its dependencies. When we can lay those dependencies, those needs, on the altar with a clear heart, Love open up to us in a way that we have not understood, perhaps, before.
When we can see a person clearly, ‘warts and all’ as the saying goes, and love them because of who they Are, when we can love without needing them to love us back, without agonising over how they feel, and shedding useless tears when they do not give what we would like.. when we can allow them to be themselves wholly and freely and simply love them anyway, without expectation or trying to mould them to our desire… or when we can look into the mirror of the soul and see our own Self reflected in that greater Love, then perhaps we begin to know what detachment means.
It does not take love away from us, it gives us the freedom to Love with a whole soul.
January 21, 2013
Capturing the moment
It is cold tonight. That thought has sort of taken over from just about any other. The thermostat on the wall tells me it is not cold in here. But I sit here fully dressed, with fleece lined boots, a fluffy dressing gown and fleecy blanket... and I beg to differ. It is, I assure you, cold. Or I am, anyway.
I have walked miles in the snow today. Unable to sleep I got up early this morning… unconscionably early, and wandered out into the pristine snow. It was still falling heavily and at that time of morning no other human foot had touched most of what I could see. A selection of small bird prints, and that was it. So the camera and I tried to capture some of that beauty... failing miserably for the most part, but at least we tried, and, in trying, experienced.
The pictures I took do not do the morning justice. The do not capture the softness of the light or pick up the diamond sparkle in the surface of the snow. There is a vividness in the moment that no amount of memory can contain. But the pictures suggest something of the magical quality of the morning, the sense of anticipation at what the day might bring, a waiting to see what would come.
The snow continued. Looking at some of the pictures I noticed things I had barely seen as I snapped away. There were details there that had escaped me as I drank in the picture. And that’s fine. I did not need to analyse the scene to see the beauty. Did not have to realise how long it was since I had seen a frozen canal with snow on the ice, or wonder why there were so many ducks awake at that time of day.
So in some ways the photos were failures in their inability to capture the full glory of the moment, in others they are a more accurate record than memory alone, coloured by an immersion in emotion as they record the details the conscious eye missed or failed to register. Either way they serve as a reminder of a moment of sheer beauty and joy that will not be forgotten.
In some way or another there is a reflection in there.. how much detail do we miss by just seeing the bigger picture.. but do we have to actually consciously notice the detail in order to take in the bigger picture? Which draws the most response from us? Which informs us the most in the long term.. say from the perspective of the bigger picture….
I can feel a whole philosophical debate coming on here, but to be honest, I’ve been playing out in the snow most of the day and I am tired and cold still. Serves me right, I hear you say… and you are, of course, entirely correct. I am too old for messing about in snow… but hey, it was so much fun I had a perfect day. I’d gladly do it again tomorrow, but for tonight I am cold and tired and the white mound of the duvet seems awfully tempting….
I have walked miles in the snow today. Unable to sleep I got up early this morning… unconscionably early, and wandered out into the pristine snow. It was still falling heavily and at that time of morning no other human foot had touched most of what I could see. A selection of small bird prints, and that was it. So the camera and I tried to capture some of that beauty... failing miserably for the most part, but at least we tried, and, in trying, experienced.
The pictures I took do not do the morning justice. The do not capture the softness of the light or pick up the diamond sparkle in the surface of the snow. There is a vividness in the moment that no amount of memory can contain. But the pictures suggest something of the magical quality of the morning, the sense of anticipation at what the day might bring, a waiting to see what would come.
The snow continued. Looking at some of the pictures I noticed things I had barely seen as I snapped away. There were details there that had escaped me as I drank in the picture. And that’s fine. I did not need to analyse the scene to see the beauty. Did not have to realise how long it was since I had seen a frozen canal with snow on the ice, or wonder why there were so many ducks awake at that time of day.
So in some ways the photos were failures in their inability to capture the full glory of the moment, in others they are a more accurate record than memory alone, coloured by an immersion in emotion as they record the details the conscious eye missed or failed to register. Either way they serve as a reminder of a moment of sheer beauty and joy that will not be forgotten.
In some way or another there is a reflection in there.. how much detail do we miss by just seeing the bigger picture.. but do we have to actually consciously notice the detail in order to take in the bigger picture? Which draws the most response from us? Which informs us the most in the long term.. say from the perspective of the bigger picture….
I can feel a whole philosophical debate coming on here, but to be honest, I’ve been playing out in the snow most of the day and I am tired and cold still. Serves me right, I hear you say… and you are, of course, entirely correct. I am too old for messing about in snow… but hey, it was so much fun I had a perfect day. I’d gladly do it again tomorrow, but for tonight I am cold and tired and the white mound of the duvet seems awfully tempting….
January 19, 2013
The Garden of Ogmios
I slept for a few hours this afternoon. Almost unheard of for me! Then there was School business… the ritual drama and meditations for the launch weekend takes shape and hold something truly beautiful in their simplicity. After a long morning working and a little time with Faith and my son, the day just seems to have vanished. It is, in fact, quite dark already.
So, rather than dash off something that could count as a blog entry I took inspiration from Gary Vasey , with whom the Mystical Hexagram was written, and thought I’d share a short extract from my own upcoming novel, a tale of magic, mystery and adventure set in Yorkshire, woven through with the folk and creatures, myths and legends of the land that I love.
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“Welcome to the garden of Ogmios,” said Merlin, his words whispered by ghostly voices till they faded into silence. “Here he tends the roots of the mountain and grows his home from living rock. Look well, Heart of Earth, for you will not see its like again.” Rhea was spellbound by the beauty of the place and could well believe that this spectacular hall had been wrought by art and not mere chance. All the colours of a pigeon’s breast glowed on the graceful curves of the rock, catching and reflecting the golden witch-light.
Rhea had seen the show caves of Cheddar and the deep, silent caverns at Chislehurst, neither of which possessed the vibrancy and vigour of this place. Cheddar’s wedding cake loveliness was as nothing compared to the living filigree of stone through which she now walked.
In the centre of the cave, a large central space held a great slab of millstone grit, shaped like a couch with a raised pillar at one end. It reminded Rhea of the altar on the moor which she had touched that first day, save only that this was much larger and had not suffered the erosion of wind and rain.
“Ogmios’ couch,” Merlin explained. “Here he spends the centuries dreaming the shape of his garden and growing his crystals from seed.” He indicated that she should look to her right and she saw a small field of crystal and semi-precious stones laid out in a spiral pattern on the floor. There were huge clusters of amethyst and quartz, glittering pyrites and all the varied hues of agate. One large stone, polished by the dripping moisture from the stalactites above, looked like black glass, frozen around a snowstorm. Rhea was bewitched by its soft sheen and reached out a hand to touch the surface.
“What is this, Merlin? I’ve never seen it before.”
“The world calls it snowflake obsidian. You can see why.”
“It is lovely.”
“Ogmios would be pleased by your appreciation. He grew this as a memento of the first time he saw snow falling. It was at night, beneath a full moon at the dawn of life as we know it today. He thought it too beautiful to allow it to melt away forgotten so he caught the flakes in a stone the colour of midnight and preserved it for eternity.
“Geologists don’t have all the answers,” he chuckled. “They may understand the physical conditions required to produce these crystals, but they will never understand that they were first created to encapsulate a moment of beauty which touched the soul of a grotesque giant whose very existence they would deny. Rose quartz was the light of the first dawn, amethyst the clouds of a summer sunset. Agates are all the colours of the autumn earth.”
“And diamond?” asked Rhea, holding out the ancient ring on her finger, which seemed to have woken to life in this place.
“Starlight in frost,” he smiled. Rhea nodded her understanding, humbled and grateful for the deeper understanding of the forces of the world that guided her. She had begun to see the life innate in her surroundings and with that privilege had come a renewal of wonder and respect. “Come, child, the others will be worried although Ogmios may have told them that you are safe.” His face lit with unholy glee,” In fact, if they have met my friend, they will probably be more concerned that they were before! This way!”
Merlin led Rhea through the scintillating garden of living rock towards a shadowy opening at the end of an avenue of slender columns ablaze with mica. Rhea turned before entering the tunnel to take one last look.
“I could never have imagined that so much beauty lay hidden in the earth beneath my feet. It feels right, though, somehow. I can feel the life in the stone. If I knew how to listen, I think I could hear them whispering all the secrets of the underworld.” She turned away. Another unforgettable memory adding one more reason for reverence of the earth upon which she walked.
So, rather than dash off something that could count as a blog entry I took inspiration from Gary Vasey , with whom the Mystical Hexagram was written, and thought I’d share a short extract from my own upcoming novel, a tale of magic, mystery and adventure set in Yorkshire, woven through with the folk and creatures, myths and legends of the land that I love.
****************************************
“Welcome to the garden of Ogmios,” said Merlin, his words whispered by ghostly voices till they faded into silence. “Here he tends the roots of the mountain and grows his home from living rock. Look well, Heart of Earth, for you will not see its like again.” Rhea was spellbound by the beauty of the place and could well believe that this spectacular hall had been wrought by art and not mere chance. All the colours of a pigeon’s breast glowed on the graceful curves of the rock, catching and reflecting the golden witch-light.
Rhea had seen the show caves of Cheddar and the deep, silent caverns at Chislehurst, neither of which possessed the vibrancy and vigour of this place. Cheddar’s wedding cake loveliness was as nothing compared to the living filigree of stone through which she now walked.
In the centre of the cave, a large central space held a great slab of millstone grit, shaped like a couch with a raised pillar at one end. It reminded Rhea of the altar on the moor which she had touched that first day, save only that this was much larger and had not suffered the erosion of wind and rain.
“Ogmios’ couch,” Merlin explained. “Here he spends the centuries dreaming the shape of his garden and growing his crystals from seed.” He indicated that she should look to her right and she saw a small field of crystal and semi-precious stones laid out in a spiral pattern on the floor. There were huge clusters of amethyst and quartz, glittering pyrites and all the varied hues of agate. One large stone, polished by the dripping moisture from the stalactites above, looked like black glass, frozen around a snowstorm. Rhea was bewitched by its soft sheen and reached out a hand to touch the surface.
“What is this, Merlin? I’ve never seen it before.”
“The world calls it snowflake obsidian. You can see why.”
“It is lovely.”
“Ogmios would be pleased by your appreciation. He grew this as a memento of the first time he saw snow falling. It was at night, beneath a full moon at the dawn of life as we know it today. He thought it too beautiful to allow it to melt away forgotten so he caught the flakes in a stone the colour of midnight and preserved it for eternity.
“Geologists don’t have all the answers,” he chuckled. “They may understand the physical conditions required to produce these crystals, but they will never understand that they were first created to encapsulate a moment of beauty which touched the soul of a grotesque giant whose very existence they would deny. Rose quartz was the light of the first dawn, amethyst the clouds of a summer sunset. Agates are all the colours of the autumn earth.”
“And diamond?” asked Rhea, holding out the ancient ring on her finger, which seemed to have woken to life in this place.
“Starlight in frost,” he smiled. Rhea nodded her understanding, humbled and grateful for the deeper understanding of the forces of the world that guided her. She had begun to see the life innate in her surroundings and with that privilege had come a renewal of wonder and respect. “Come, child, the others will be worried although Ogmios may have told them that you are safe.” His face lit with unholy glee,” In fact, if they have met my friend, they will probably be more concerned that they were before! This way!”
Merlin led Rhea through the scintillating garden of living rock towards a shadowy opening at the end of an avenue of slender columns ablaze with mica. Rhea turned before entering the tunnel to take one last look.
“I could never have imagined that so much beauty lay hidden in the earth beneath my feet. It feels right, though, somehow. I can feel the life in the stone. If I knew how to listen, I think I could hear them whispering all the secrets of the underworld.” She turned away. Another unforgettable memory adding one more reason for reverence of the earth upon which she walked.
