Restless Memory


There’s a deep-set yearning in my gut 

Longing and sorrowful

Amniotic fluid currants rising up

Wanting a hand to rest on the spaces left untouched

A solid comfort and trust

Of lost innocence interrupt

A ruptured cradling of the dust

Yearning for a home unbeknownst to it’s own

A longing for nurture in constance




I am endlessly without
And in this
I have a full cup

Solitude Is Not The Absence Of Love

I frequent Paulo Coelho’s blog when I am in need of a little inspiration and wisdom. This resonated with me…

Solitude is not the absence of Love

by PAULO COELHO on MARCH 29, 2013

Without solitude, Love will not stay long by your side.

Because Love needs to rest as well, so that it can journey through the heavens and reveal itself in other forms.

Without solitude, no plant or animal can survive, no soil can remain productive for any length of time, no child can learn about life, no artist can create, no work can grow and be transformed.

Solitude is not the absence of Love, but its complement.
Solitude is not the absence of company, but the moment when our soul is free to speak to us and help us decide what to do with our life.

Therefore, blessed are those who do not fear solitude, who are not afraid of their own company, who are not always desperately looking for something to do, something to amuse themselves with, something to judge.

If you are never alone, you cannot know yourself.
And if you do not know yourself, you will begin to fear the void.

But the void does not exist. A vast world lies hidden in our soul, waiting to be discovered. There it is, with all its strength intact, but it is so new and so powerful that we are afraid to acknowledge its existence.

Just as Love is the divine condition, so solitude is the human condition. And for those who understand the miracle of life, those two states peacefully coexist.

taken from:



I will become the master of my spirit
The chancellor of my thoughts
The comforter to my feelings
The safe dwelling for my soul
I will divine in the sacredness of my body
My existence I’ll hold dear
And then no tarrying wind
Will inspire the faintest fit of fear
For I will be a great oak
With yew-like roots
That cement my being
I will be sturdy when shaken
I will be brave while doubtful
I will approach while dispersing
I will be alive while dying
I will be in essence
The beautiful craftsmanship
Of change renewing
I will be cyclical like the moon’s waning
I will encompass the universal will
Of receptive gratuity
And I will achieve dominion
Over the sand under my footing

A Favourite

“What is REAL?” asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. “Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?”

“Real isn’t how you are made,” said the Skin Horse. “It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.”

“Does it hurt?” asked the Rabbit.

“Sometimes,” said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. “When you are Real you don’t mind being hurt.”

“Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,” he asked, “or bit by bit?”

“It doesn’t happen all at once,” said the Skin Horse. “You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”

“I suppose you are real?” said the Rabbit. And then he wished he had not said it, for he thought the Skin Horse might be sensitive. But the Skin Horse only smiled.

“The Boy’s Uncle made me Real,” he said. “That was a great many years ago; but once you are Real you can’t become unreal again. It lasts for always.”

― Margery Williams, The Velveteen Rabbit

Sometimes You Are The Roadblock

When I’ve blundered in my speech
Then I’ve blundered in my mind
As I’ve blundered in emotion
Product of a blundered pride
If I’ve blundered in a self-importance
Mighty, mousey high
Then I’ve erred in my spirit
Mistaking the mountain for the sky

Life tends to suck when people get stuck on focusing solely on life’s difficulties and seeing life as the enemy. Viewing life as one big struggle that needs to be conquered and championed is the wrong attitude to bring along with you on the yellow brick road to happiness. Let go of your resistance and stop focusing on what you want but don’t have. Bake yourself up a batch of humble pie and realize that maybe you don’t need all the things you want or, on the contrary, maybe you are not ready for all the things you want and life is trying to help you out. Gratitude, anyone? Of course, life does get genuinely difficult at times and moments of hardiness of spirit are called for but defensiveness and cynicism should not become a way of being. Not only does it sap the joy out of your life, it also just feels plain icky. It’s like cruising through life on a sticky sea of muddy road; one where your spirit stagnates. Life always wants to help you! When you remember that life loves you and you keep in mind to love life, with it’s good and bad moments, the world it encompasses becomes an open field of possibilities rather than a challenging lifelong ascent through rocky terrain.

An Encounter With The Shaman

There is a dark hall that stands before me. It’s end seems to stretch onwards into eternity. There is a succession of doors framing either side of the walls. They hover over my mind like a constellation of vast black holes. Behind me there is a wise woman. I feel her. I perceive her. Her hair is stark white with spindles of silver weaving in and out around the circumference of her face. Her stance exudes a sureness accumulative of age. Gold bulky jewellery fashions her hands, wrists and ears. A gold pendent hangs from her neck and encases a small flawless crystal, which emanates a kaleidoscope of light, piercing the darkness. She wears a long ruffled dress of dark burgundy. Layer upon layer of fabric water-falling to the floor. Soft golden buttons frame it’s neck-line and it’s wrists flare out with emerald lace trimming. A shawl dons her shoulders, detailed with intricate pale embroidery. It is coloured in hues of warm fire red and deep chocolate brown. On her feet are stark black boots of supple suede. Her hair, white as death, cascades towards the great depth of the oak floorboards that cover this hall. Her skin is a deep muddy brown that has not been feigned from prolonged bathes of sunlight. It crumples and creases with life lost and life yet begun. She is effortless; as are her movements, as is her stare, which seeps through ancient eyes. They are a piercing mixture of illuminating white and rustic black. Their colour and intensity are like that of a frothy wave that hits the shoreline only to recede, in ripples back to the sea. She does not speak to me. She only looks forward, seemingly vacant yet with a disguised intensity of purpose. I realize she is blind. Her vision no longer serves her; she does not need it. She will guide me; I sense this. I know that she is not me, not like me, but she is of me. She is solemn; she is still. She will help me choose a suitable door. Still, she is blind and it is I who must ultimately make this choice.