Thursday, January 30, 2020

Towards February 2020, Imbolc, Valentines and Spring Glimmers.

The end of January 2020 has felt like February. Following a deep two week chill of -40 C, our landscape suddenly brought in balmy temperatures of -3.

In my room, the sunshine seeps in earlier through the patterned curtains. I wake to feel the Spring that is still a few months away. Underground is softening, warming, waiting, nurturing and growing. The lambs and cattle are lactating after a long winter and hope is blooming just around the corner.

Glimmers of golden light filter through the trees. I feel my soul being urged to be both warm and strong. I am gently encouraged to stand and remain within the full force of self rather than any belief in fatigue, age, weight, infirmity or injustices. While injustices and all these attributes are legitimate in their own right, spring reminds me that they are not ALL that I am or will be nor the world at large. They can not define me fully nor should I allow them to. With charisma, I am determined to shake of their dust and look to the air as shimmers of all that was, is and could be. But that is because my 'spring of the soul' aligns with the physical manifestation of spring to arrive. I would feel differently if my soul was still in winter's clutches.

It feels akin to walking in a darkened glade and suddenly coming upon a clearing with sunlight. In the beam of warmth stands a fawn bent over some grass. The moment provides a hushed soul ignition of inspiration and creativity. The world feels ripe with possibility. A lightness emerges both within and without. Slightly worn from the trek in the dark, it suddenly feels ok to 'be lost'...Maybe I was never lost at all? It's a new frontier of beginnings.

Or perhaps February, with it's first day an ancient celebration of Imbolc, asks for a mixture of motivation for the rest of winter but hope to begin the renewal of spring? Maybe Aphrodite's day on the 14th, though commercially used, in it's depths gives heightened acknowledgement to all forms of love? Or it could be simply that February is a often a welcome sign that January is over?


I feel it stir into all sorts of alchemical alignments. It's a story. It's a triple symbol. It's a start, an end and more importantly, a middle. I am reminded again about necessary endings. It is so nice to no longer be chasing love.

It is so beautiful to have children in my children's lives who show interest, happiness and desire to be part of their lives, our family and our home. Sometimes the sleepovers go into two nights or three and the friends can't seem to show appreciation enough. I forgot that is how teen friendship could be. I certainly had it. I am glad now that my children often do. It took an ending to get to this happy middle journey.

The space given from loss has been a glorious plot to seed multiple avenues of growth. The friends who show up occasionally are always wanting to be. They want to interact. They desire to show love. They give and also happily take. It's an unfolding process. There are joyful possibilities. No longer are the answers being chased. The process suddenly becomes the beauty. Dancing with uncertainty I find I can contribute more often in ways that matter to myself and the beautiful community we have cultivated. The energy put into chasing people or answers is now invested into mystic intention.


I don't read the news but occasionally I come across the disturbances. How can I not? In our circles too there is the tough, the honourable dark and the derisive dark. But overall, I accept, and sometimes fight, for the beauty, community, acceptance and seasons. I try to only deal with what directly affects those that are put in my path to protect and love and vice versa. There is hardship I must face or need to support others in. I have been in those seasons and will again. They have my admiration and love. Letting go of the rest, the power to control and the desire to be more is no longer a priority. In this spring season there are natural anxieties cycling within rejuvenation. I choose the brighter outlook. It’s the halfway point until official spring and I have no desire to rush the last half. There are too many things to nurture before in this liminal, gestational time.

I admit I’m a sucker for heart shaped packages, florals, boxes of shiny cards, reds and pinks and all the cheery warmth of Valentine’s Day. I’m tired of justifying why or feeling pressured to give disclosures or exceptions. I feel those that know me get that I give consideration to all. Now I’m trying to let my need to give all perspectives go and just be me. That said, Valentines has always been one of my favourite holidays. I love love. Aphrodite is one of my favourite archetypes along with Hestia who fits nicely with Imbolc.

Purdys' maple chocolates in the form of Canadian leaves are some of my favourite delights. Sour keys smothered in Rogers chocolate are also a personal weakness. Salted coffees, cinnamon hearts, cheesy cut out cards, deep reds, diamond sparkles, soft pink throws, decorative symbols of love and hearts everywhere fill my heart with glimmers. Differing seasons I receive some or all of the above and other times none... but that fact does not diminish the pure joy I see with them surrounding me. I admit the commercialism even makes me happy - just as Christmas also has aspects I love. I like seeing colour and cheer. It beats dire predictions and dreary white as far as the eye can see. While dire predictions and routine normality are important in their place, the celebrations and seasonal honouring unites. I’d rather be united in positivity and aspects of love.

Giving and taking. Thoughts and cards sent. Texts quickly constructed with heart filled gratitude. Cute and sexy together, in their respective places. February brings protected 'womb' time, energized hope, and the stirrings of passion. Hearth and home nurture love and places to create. It’s both individualized and communal. February strikes the balance as the Aspen tree, whose individual form holds hands under the earth with it's far away counterparts as part of a collective whole. We are one as one.

May you find Brigid's flame or Hestia's hearth in this halfway month. May your soul find a season to honour. May Aphrodite symbolize love and beauty. Look for the small ways love wins. Find the pockets of inspiration. Allow the gratitude and soul stirrings response to hope.

On a personal note, know I’m thankful for you, the reader, being part of this blog world and the circles of worlds created around it. I'm a seasonal soul and I am thankful for the seasons I engage with those in my surroundings.
Happy February/Valentines ect.

With love and gratitude;
Song Choice: Sucker- The JonasBrothers. (I LOVE this song!)

Friday, January 10, 2020

It Is A Curious Thing- To Own A Body and Not Just Be a Spirit . ( Dyspraxia, Autism, Chronic illness Ponderings)



It is a curious thing- to own a body- to not just be spirit but flesh, bone, neurones and muscles . To feel symptoms and wonder what is and is not legitimate. It is a curious thing to be entrapped yet also set free from the expression that is presented to the world of what one is.

The outer sometimes mixes with the inner and at other times it is completely at odds with what is being presented. At least that is how it feels to me. I can not figure out what parts of my confusion are dyspraxia and what parts are chronic illness or autism. Existence is confounding at times.

I feel as if I'm a cold ghost then all at once I am encompassed by fiery reality. It's a bewilderment when I catch my reflection, eyes sparkled, when I am expecting to see a dreary pale, face from a time of pain. Whom is this? Is this what the world sees? At other times I expect to see joy or beauty and I am shocked to find a shell staring back. But how? She felt such glimmers inside- where is the proof of it? How does the reflection seem to be so disparate from the inner mind of self?



The truth slants. It slides around on cement instead of absorbing into the porous, empty spaces. Like wax in a bag coating an injured foot, the heat contains but does not soak like water. It stays and hardens, creating a mould that when peeled off is a pile of mush instead of a cast of what was. Yet, somewhere there was magic. If, perhaps, magic is tiny bits of healing?

Orange and chocolate flake from forbidden muffins. Cream cheese absorbed, present but not shown. Yet, it teases the tongue with it's hidden charms. Are we not the same?

Thoughts, thoughts, thoughts, they swirl and become parts. Some manifest in pain while others are surprised, frozen joy. Lanterns hide the shadows as much as they brightly shine. Delicious delight in a forbidden night. Or foreboding in the midst of delight. It goes either way.

Unlocked words, locked up movement folded into one human soul. Pain is subjective yet true. How does one judge?

I find myself asking for help when healing is easy, and forgetting to ask when it is needed. Befuddled. Aid can often also disturb on a soul level. Rare, is it that aid is pure. Often it leaves me feeling like I'm covered in a white gown splattered with specks of dirt. Noxious is the nightshade of doubt.

Yet, there! There in that raw, overworked knuckle is hope in packed, hot fabric. Suction cups that are supposed to be pinching soothe. Perplexed healers. Why? They ask. Why do you feel fine when you should feel pain? Why do you feel pain when you should feel fine? Soft tissues, mysterious organ and visceral pain, smooth muscle and firing neurons sending wrong signals or perhaps they are right? Who is to say?

Lace out of fashion yet delicate stories embroidered as snowflakes. Bitter coffee spills, awakens, enlivens and ruins. Yellow splotches forever stay. Is the lace story any less valuable? Was the coffee the perpetrator or an innocent in it's own journey?

Sometimes I am the Diva and sometimes I am more passive than I should be. Sometimes my prison is my freedom because it enables me to see, to write, to be, to ponder or notice the small joys. And sometimes my freedom is my prison because I fool myself into believing it can be my every day. I grasp the freedom of 'normalcy' and soon after it becomes my personal bullet in the foot. It shatters the bones of illusions with cracked certainty. The doctors set 'what should be' back and nothing is the same again. Each time I think it will be fine it is not. When I think it is not fine - it is. I am Alice yet look in the glass at Kmarie. Is it important what I see? Is that a reflection of me? Is it important what you see? Does that factor into me?

How can I be so sure of myself on one hand but completely unsure of the next? That is what paradoxes do at times. This is how chronic illness undermines. Disability doubt. Mixed messages of acceptance and conformity.

I will not lie about it. I will not say something is that is not. I will not feel what I can not. I do know this. But that sometimes is all I know. What world do I live in where a gift that makes a face light up is not allowed because it is thought of as a bribe by establishment? Why is innocence so easily trampled, squelched, lost? Yet the gritty is lauded and applauded. Especially if it is attached to the 'righteous'? How do I embrace such paradoxes? I suppose since I myself am a paradox, it should be easier? Should's and could's do not change the world but how pretentious is it if I think I can be that change?

Yet, life is for the living. So that is what I must do. At least that part, for what is now, is as real as it is true.




Song Choice: Show Yourself- Idina Menzel