Posted in Writing

A sense of ponder…

I heard this morning that she passed away.

And although she was not known to me-a story owned by others, I found myself staring aimlessly at the floor. A floor strewn with dirty clothes and a families clutter, yet a floor so desperately insignificant.

The chill in the air iced my bare feet and darkened the room. It was quiet. With absolute deliberateness I grabbed a bean bag and a cup of hot tea and headed outside. I wanted to see the world in a different light. I wanted to shake my ponder-Why are some spared when others are drowning in tragedy?

 
There will never be an answer to that.

 
I threw the beanbag down on the tiles and collapsed into it. The warmth of the sun ran right through me. It was a comfort not felt for some time, as we are usually escaping the heat in the tropics. The sky was the bluest of blue. The birds were carrying on, and everything was perfect. So spectacularly perfect-and yet not so-you know?

 
The impossibility of righting the wrongs in this world can be overwhelming yet acceptance and gratitude help us navigate our way through.

Posted in blogging, Dogs, My wordpress, Story, Writing

Me and My Dog

ME AND MY DOG.

For as long as I can remember, you’ve been my best friend.

You’re the only one that I always like.

When I’m angry or sad, you appear from nowhere, plonking yourself next to me with a sigh. You talk to me, telling me where your secret hiding places are, and where you buried your bone last week. You tell me all about the awesome stinky frog you found on your walk with Dad, and you tell me all about the great new friend you’ve made-“Archie”, but how he’s sometimes a bit annoying because he keeps steeling your ball.

You make me feel better. You understand me, and what it is I need.

We’re buddies, you and me.

You let me wet your head with my tears, and you help me hide the crumbs when I pinch another biscuit, but don’t tell mum, because she doesn’t know-It’s our secret.

You know all my secrets, and you never tell.

You don’t mind if I leave my yoghurt container on the floor every single morning. I get in trouble by the way, but it’s ok I’ll do it for you because I know how much you like to lick it clean. I know, because I can read your mind.

I know that you are sad when you are left by yourself in an empty house. I know you love to sleep in mum and dad’s bed when you are cold, I know that you secretly hate dog food and would prefer lasagne every night, but you’re grateful you get something, so you don’t complain-but I can tell.

I know that at the end of the day, when all the humans in the world bug me, you are the only one that knows.

I am glad you are my dog.

Simple

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Posted in blogging, Life, Stories, Writing

Unseen and Unheard

Why have I not been writing? Good question. I have been wondering that myself for some time, and I’ve come up with nothing solid. No simple lightbulb moment that’s hit me in the head and said “oh that’s why”.

Writing is like breathing to me. Essentially, mandatory stuff to keep me alive and well. However, for some reason, the urge I once had to express myself was replaced with a preference for silence. A silence within me that smothered the words and the stories and the desire to share.

Was I sick of the sound of my own voice and inflicting  my repetitive personal thoughts onto all of you?

Was I concerned about judgement, disapproval, or the misinterpretation of my message?

Perhaps it was a combination of all of the above with a bit of fear and a bit of “what is really  the point?” thrown in.

Those who know me have born the brunt of my writing inactivity with a bombardment of new hobbies, adopted by my restless self to fill the creative gap. However like a dog begging to be taken for a walk, the words in my head would tug at my fingertips in desperation.

The fear of exposing my personal thoughts to the world was repeatedly superimposed on me by more than one source.

“Don’t air your dirty laundry in public”

“What is wrong with you?”

However that fact that I listened, is what stopped me writing in the first place. Ironic? Terribly. However as soon as I began hesitating before putting pen to paper, and as soon as I ceased being myself as a result of others opinions, judgements or expectations, I realised I needed to re-examine my sense of self and my reason for writing in the first place.

It is all over, when you change yourself to suit others-bottom line. FORGET IT! It just doesn’t work and pretending, is incompatible with happiness.

All that is uniquely YOU is lost. All that is SPECIAL is buried deep underneath sensitivities and self doubt and all of that ridiculous rot that has absolutely no place in the real, honest, raw world. The world that adores us for who we truly are. A world that pains for less plastic and more of the real deal.

What is writing anyway? It is simply connection.

Sometimes words connect, and sometimes they don’t…

What I have learned, is that when they do, it’s not only magical, it’s important. Connection is what keeps us alive. It’s what helps us  feel understood, and validated and loved and valued. Cliché cliché cliché , bla bla bla…but I’ll be a monkey’s uncle if I ever, ever, forget that again.

For any part of you that you willingly share, be it only a part, will resonate with those that it is designed to reach, and that is all that matters…

So why did I stop writing?

…because I lost sight of what was important to me.

Are you unsettled?

Re-align your vision, listen to your own voice and allow yourself to re-discover who you are, what you need, who you want to be with, and what is truly important;

TO YOU.

Unseen

Posted in blogging, Deep, Life, Writing

Winning the battle

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WINNING THE BATTLE

~Nicole Martin

I am sitting here in silence and darkness and strangely I am still alert.
It’s very rare that this happens at this time of night without me instantly fighting sleep-life is never predictable.
It’s like the hammer has ceased banging my head into the ground, and I am able to reflect without distraction.

The boys are all asleep-it’s been a long day for them. I ran around earlier and put clean sheets on the beds, closed all the windows and turned on the air conditioning. There is something about making the environment nice for my boys, that is quietly satisfying as a wife and mother. Not sure what that is, or where it comes from. Instinct?

Perhaps it’s the feeling of tucking them in, and knowing they are safe and resting comfortably under my modest little tin roof, that draws out the deepest, most raw sense of security and relief within my subconscious me.

Relief that we’ve all been blessed to get through another day.

Relief that I’ve managed to drag my way through work and school lunches and dishes and school bags and dirty clothes just well enough for all to be content, whilst they rest under warm doona’s in the crispest of sheets in the coolest of aircon, in a blissfully unconscious and unbothered state of sleep.

I stare at them.

Look at how tightly closed their eyes are. Look at their little heads soaking up the softness of their pillow below. Look at their hair, all young and thick and all over the place, falling as it pleases, and resting exactly where it lands.

They breathe softly whilst their now big boy bodies concentrate on growing into men. I bought them that bed, and those pyjamas, and that pillow. I am proud that we as parents have managed to do that, when we had no idea what we were doing-at first. I am relieved, that despite the challenges we have faced as parents, and all of the problems we never managed to solve, they have grown up anyway, and they’re ok.

And now I will join my boys and share in their journey of subconscious bliss until tomorrow. When it all starts over, and the wheel once again groans and then quickly gains momentum, turning in time with life. All are forced to jump aboard and fend for themselves dodging obstacles, passing through fields of yellow daffodils, collecting money as they pass go, and heading to jail in times of bad luck.

But the wheel will always stop. Giving us time to reflect on the chaos, and allowing us to realise that the peace that happens every now and then, is the result, of winning the battle.

Posted in blogging, Writing

The so-called imperfections you see in your face are some of your most alluring features-because they are you.

Faces

‘I love its vulnerability, it’s impossibly human position. I love how it reaches out, willingly or not, sucks the breath out of your lungs and pulls you in…’

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They carry on their surface, the angles, shapes and colours that collectively unify to create an outward appearance;

yet the story

The unique, impossibly raw and beautiful story

is embedded within it’s character.

Faces cannot lie.

Can you see who is the person that lies behind the face when they meet your eyes?

Can you see their powerful individualism that is their reality?

I love a happy face

One that has warmth and sunshine pinned to its smile. One that smothers you with its bright yellow rays and wraps itself around your every breathing cell

Every happy face, is a beautiful face.

I love a sad face

I love its vulnerability, it’s impossibly human position. I love how it reaches out, willingly or not, sucks the breath out of your lungs and pulls you in

Every sad face, is a beautiful face

Perhaps one of our failings as a human race is our perception of beauty

Our perception that character, and the insuppressible beauty of uniqueness is imperfection

Overwhelmingly, the most alluring quality in a face is its powerful mystique

It’s honesty, it’s visible reflection of the soul, it’s unquantifiable energy, it’s stunning uniqueness, it’s story

The character in a face is the epitome of human perfection-beauty beyond definition,

for it cannot be measured.

Faces blooming with emotion, life and character have endless depth and come with infinite interpretations and possibilities, unlike the finite form of perceived physical beauty.

In the words of Amy Bloom-

“You are imperfect, permanently and inevitably flawed.

And you are beautiful.”

Portraits