Tag Archives: hope

Limitations of Flesh

27 Monday Feb 2017

Posted by in Dancing, Magic

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My knees are burning. My back is cramping. Tears stream down my cheeks in frustration. All I want to do is dance again. To move. To feel alive.

Wall of blank.

Exhaustion rises up, fog descends.

My mantra: I am lucky. This is temporary. This too shall pass.

I don’t believe it.

My body tells me that all there is is Now. Now is all. It might be correct.

I curl up on the floor. Empty.

I catch my breath. Numb.

Noticing, with strange detachment, that the world has become distant. That I’ve been a quiet automaton for hours, days… perhaps longer.

I breathe myself back into my body. Back into my feet. Back into the burning, aching flesh.

At least I feel alive.

I notice. Even restrained, even with the limits of movement, even with the fog and frustration, Here and Now, if I can keep my self in my belly, in my feet, in my hands, in my flesh… I can breathe and expand. The deeper into the flesh I go, the deeper into the magic. The deeper into the world I sink, the more I can expand, the more I am aware of. Oh it hurts, yes, but with each breath is life. With each prickly of goosebumps the wild spirits brush my skin with fingertips, tentacles, lips dripping in nectar.

The more present I am, the more present I am with Them. The gods stand behind me, the ancestors whisper in my ear, the spirits draw near. I can feel my edges, raise my shields, let down my hair, call out the cry of a Witch in the night.

The deeper into my body I can stay, when all my instincts are to flee, to float into painless disconnection, the closer the magic is.

Her and Now. Here and Now at the crossroads of every moment. Here and Now is where the web of Wyrd is woven, where the Power lies.

 

I am lucky, this too shall pass, this too shall return to the Fertile Darkness from whence it came, I am lucky, there are lessons here, if I can just stop running, just be Here and Now.

And in the stillness, I dance.

Exhibitionism

02 Saturday Oct 2010

Posted by in Art Craft and Beauty, Following Delight

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Hanging paintings on a public wall feels a little like exposing my heart to the world.

Knowing that, Monday lunchtime, office workers will file into the canteen past my pictures, lovingly crafted but still revealing the inadequacies of my skill, the limitations of time and materials and money and…

Today I hung 5 of my paintings in a corridor of the NPower HQ in Swindon, alongside other artworks, by other members of the Swindon Artists’ Forum.

I expected to feel shy and inadequate seeing my work alongside such glories as I know the other artists create, but it seems I’ve come a long way. I didn’t feel embarressed. I could see the differences in style, and still appreciate what I’d made.

I’m actually proud of my art! How awesome is that?

And still, theres a little knot of uncomfortable-ness at the thought that people will pass these pictures, will pass judgement on them, and therefore on me. Art comes from a very deep rooted place in my heart. Even when it looks like doodles to passers by…

I’m excited. Its wonderful to be able to share these, and I hope hope hope that my pictures will brighten someone’s day along the way. And, if someone buys one, then so much the better (that is the only way I’ll find out if anyone likes one, after all! Unless someone makes the effort to send me an email just to say I’ve made something beautiful, which is possible.)

And I’m scared.

And thats ok.

For those of you who don’t work in that particular building, here are the pictures I took to commemorate this momentous occasion with:

Paintings Ready To Go 02-10-10

Paintings Ready To Go 02-10-10

The Corridor at NPower 02-10-10

The Corridor at NPower 02-10-10

NPower Exhibition 2 02-10-10

2 Paintings at NPower 02-10-10

NPower Exhibition 3 02-10-10

3 Paintings at NPower 02-10-10

Feathered Wings of the Heart

20 Friday Aug 2010

Posted by in Following Delight, Magic

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A freind of mine has started a blog about following spirit, and he writes beautifully! I encourage you to go and have a read… Revolve Your Spirit

His post today has inspired me to respond… if you know me, or have been following the Fey Hearted blog, you probably have seen that my Book  about finding your Faery Heart has reached completion, and is currently in the process of being born into the world in a special edition of 13 hardback books, each individually embellished by myself (when they finally arrive!).

Gwydion has written eloquently about how our wings will carry us to Spirit,to Heaven, to God Herself, and today he described how these wings must be grounded in our hearts. Our wings must be our own, our own colours, grown from our own desires, our own path.

And this makes me wonder, how is it that people who don’t know their own hearts can grow their wings again?

We are angels on earth, fallen, I agree.

But how is it that we might come to remember this?

For myself, it helped that my mother always told me to be true to myself… but the recognition that we could be more than simply office or factory workers, buried under the weight of grey streets and regimented work came from seeing people who did not live like that. Artists, street performers, tarot readers… people who danced at work, rather than trudged.

These examples of colour opened my eyes.

And then there were books… people wrote about their beliefs, their experiences, their hopes and dreams and worlds beyond this one.

I started with fantasy and could not believe that 9 to 5 was the only way to live.

And then, I found The Craft. A path which did not involve subservience to what is meant to be, but delight in all that is.

I found a map, well, in truth, a collection of fragments of maps which I found links between… have you ever noticed how all the maps of the multiverse have the same landmarks? And every map has your self at the heart?

So that is where I started, spiralling into my heart.

My point? If you live from your heart, as best you can at this moment, others will see.

If others see, they will also see, they can choose to do this too.

Be your Self, and others will see that they, too, can be their Selves.

One reason for my Faery Hearted Book is so that others with a heart like mine might find inspiration from its pages to let their heart shine too, just as others have inspired me.

I’m curious: where is your inspiration? In what ways are you living your life that you hope will inspire people to live well?

Moment to Moment, My Dear…

15 Saturday May 2010

Posted by in Art Craft and Beauty, Magic

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Painting

That knot in my chest just gets tighter every moment...

Its hard to breathe past the dawning feeling that things just aren’t right…

I let it fill me and reach inside for a sense of direction…

Strokes of colour, like feathers, reach into the sky.

A sense of flight rises up from within...

I see I fear confinement, being tied down to one place…

I see I fear losing, losing you my dear, and losing me.

My longing for adventure,

outpouring of colour in space…

Patterns form, shift, swirl.

In the flow I move...

Heart-to-hand-to-joyful-line, forming patterns, shifting, swirling outwards and outwards…

The freedom of a snow-white page…

Kissed by colours, the emerging-moment fills me…

A powerful hand glows.

I am full of power...

I glow. I know. To paint is to be free.

I know. To trust is to be free.

I know, to spread my wings and leave to faith what happens afterwards…

I know, to live, moment to moment, in each moment, is to be free.

I Wish not to lose you, my dear, but I Will keep me.

Moment to moment, my wings spread wide.

My dear-one, sweet-one…

Will you fly by my side?

Trust me to Live.

Trust me to Fly.

And its your choice, my dear, your choice.

Moment to moment.

Your choice to Live too.

Your choice to Fly.

In Love, I hold out my hand.

In Love, I must do what I must.

In Love, moment to moment, in Trust.

Squidmonsters and kittens

17 Wednesday Mar 2010

Posted by in Following Delight

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~ A Templesmith inspired meander…

On the hive-brain that is Twitter I once asked Ben Templesmith this:

Out of curiousity… I love your style but squirm at the subject,

have you ever drawn, say, a kitten? (Without tentacles?)

And his response was:

Nope, I don’t draw nice things generally. It’s the bad stuff

that happens in life that defines us after all, not the banal/cutesy

While I really appreciate his taking time to respond, and the limited space of Twitter… I disagreed:

Really? Only the bad stuff that defines us?

I can understand not banal/cutesy, but ruling out good/beautiful/happy as defining?

And that’s where this post comes in, I’ll not get into the argument that kittens are not necessarily merely banal/cutesy, though they can be, but I will present another perspective.

Both kinds of life experiences define us.

Its too often that I’ve come across people who feel that they are shaped primarily by the bad stuff in their life. Yes, that has an effect on who you are and how you interact with the world, but so do events like winning awards, having children, getting happily married and living past your golden wedding anniversary together, and on a smaller level, even experiencing a beautiful sunset can set the tone for an evening, a night, or a whole week.

When we can be defined by both the joy and the sorrow in our hearts, why only settle for one half of the equation?

The Silent Smile

06 Wednesday Jan 2010

Posted by in Faery

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Once upon a time… for that is how all stories must start, although there is always something before, and so it is also how all stories must end… Once upon a time there was a maiden who lived near a deep dark forest, a maiden named Rose.

When Rose was very small she would slip away into the forest and come home with twigs tangled in her hair and a silent smile upon her face. Her mother would ask her why she loved the forest so, and she would simply smile and shake her head.

One day, however, a sad thing happened. Rose stopped going into the trees.

All children grow up, and it seemed not in the least bit strange that she ceased her wandering home with twigs and leaves and moss entwined in her locks, and instead would come home with red lips and green eyeshadow.

And so Rose grew up.

She married, and they moved into a little cottage by the forest, next door to her parents. Sometimes, though, her beloved husband would catch her gazing sadly out of the window into the dark green leaves, but she never said why.

One day little Rose, who was not so little now, was ironing, or washing, or cooking, or somesuch chore as adults have to do but that seem never to be finished, and she heard a voice from outside the window.

A voice calling… singing… laughing…

And she ran outside (and I cannot remember if the dinner burned or the washing was left undone, for it really doesn’t matter today) and there, disappearing into the forest was a half-forgotten figure, a slender girl as green as grass and as naked as a newborn, with sunlit hair and the shadow of wings on her shoulders.

And Rose, of course, followed.

She followed the green-girl through the trees and as her feet felt the forest floor for the first time in forever, she remembered why she used to smile as a child.

And the green-girl stopped, and turned, and smiled.

And disappeared.

And Rose returned to the cottage, several hours later, with twigs entwined in her unbound hair, earth between her toes, and a silent smile on her lips.

And every now and again, still, though her hair is now grey and her feet less sure, she will kick off her shoes, unbind her hair, and slip into the forest to find her silent smile.