What does your body feel like everyday?
Does your energy run out, your legs give way? Do you know what it’s like to be out of control? And to dread falling back into a gaping black hole? What is this pain that locks both my knees? Cramping them tight in a vice-like freeze Legs crippled by spastic braces Gripped with terror of Medusa like faces Tight jaws clamped over rage unspent Neck restricted, not saying what was meant Muscles tensed, too scared to rest Hyper alert ready to face the next test Stomach jammed not ready to let go Multiple gripes too frightened to show Boulders crushing down on a sad, heavy chest Gasping for breath, not eased by rest Wading through treacle, legs like lead A once glamorous life that now is a dread What is this terror hidden so deep That paralyses my child so she just weeps and weeps?
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When I was a kid, I loved animals so much. They just didn’t seem to love me, or if they did, they had a bloody funny way of showing it. I’d be all loving and attentive and they’d piss off and leave me with no note or anything. We’d get another pet and act as if nothing happened but one disaster just seemed to follow another.
My first pet ‘Goldie’ was such a beautiful hamster. Fat and shiny with whiskers that stuck out for miles. He went to stay with mum’s best friend while we went on our caravan holiday but he was gone when we got back. Peggy said he’d committed suicide. Pulled up the bedding behind his wheel and suffocated himself. It seemed a strange thing for a hamster to do but I think if I’d had to stay a week at my mum’s friends’ house, I’d probably have done the same. We tried a different species after that. I don’t remember the name of our pet budgie. I think I must have blotted it out of my memory since this time it was my fault it left home. He used to fly around and stand on my head or balance on my pen when I wrote. He was a cracking bird but he was officially my brother’s pet. I let him out to fly one day not knowing the window was open behind the curtains, so he took his chance and went to join his feathered friends outside. Mum reminded us of the gory details of how tame birds get pecked to death by wild ones so she didn’t exactly help my brother and I with our grief. David cried so much he burst the blood vessels in his eyes and had to go to hospital. It wasn’t a great day for me either but I felt so guilty I just kept quiet. Mum did what she thought was best and bought us a replacement budgie but looking back it was an unwise move. The new bird just pecked and bit anyone who came anywhere near the cage and we were all glad when it dropped dead soon after. So mum changed tact altogether and bought me a mongrel pup which I named Dusty. She was a dear little black and white mixture and I loved her with a passion. Sadly, she got rightfully fed up of my brother for tormenting her so she decided to bite him one night when he came downstairs with hay fever. Mum never showed any panic and did the discreet thing by taking her to the vets the next day to be put down. She was incredibly efficient and organised like that. It was amazing how she never showed any emotions but I guess she was so busy controlling everything she didn’t have time to. When I arrived home from school, all the evidence that Dusty had ever existed had been totally erased and nothing further was ever discussed. Pets come and pets go I suppose. No point in crying over unimportant things. Our cat Sooty was the only one who was genuinely pleased about Dusty’s demise. He’d refused to come inside from the day the puppy arrived and now could be top pet again. He was the kind of cat who thought himself superior to humans except when he needed food and then he purred and rubbed against your legs as if he really cared and loved us. He was like my dad in that respect, always there but you never really noticed either of them they were so much in their own world. Sooty was a poor substitute to Dusty, but at least he stuck around, which given our history so far, was something worth noting. Except that Sooty didn’t survive to old age as he should have either. We moved house when he was eight or so – to Chigwell, the elite place for Essex man. Cats as you know, hate change and ours was no different. Sooty was absolutely terrified. Tail between his legs, sussing out his new surroundings and meowing profusely. I knew as kids intuitively do, that he was far too fastidious and far too scared, to pee in the house, but mum insisted on putting him outside. I begged her to wait a little while he got his bearings but the fear of cat pee on the carpet was too much for the Mrs Bouquet part of her. Once outside, he scaled a nine foot patio wall and was never seen again. And that was that. We didn’t have any more pets after that. What is fascinating to me now, is that for near on thirty years, I shut down my love of pets and lost interest altogether. There are all sorts of psychological terms for this such as repression and splitting off, but put simply, I guess it was a safety mechanism since as a family, our track record on the pet front was pretty tragic. I think in hindsight, Dusty was the only thing I had learnt to truly love and feel safe with and her sudden and unexpected death was a significant turning point in my young life. Life is magical though isn’t it, because out of the blue many years later, in a pine shop in Richmond, this funny looking dog befriended me and if there is such a thing as love at first sight, this was it. I experienced one of those rare light-bulb moments where everything became clear without question. Like a divine or cosmic message reminding me of some deeper truth I had lost touch with. It wasn’t until some months later, that I smiled, as I suddenly clocked that the dog in the shop had been called Strider. Cynics would say it was just a coincidence, but our deep connection that day, brought forth in me hope and a new found faith in the possibility that I would stride out again with my dog and start a new life. Within two weeks I had researched and found a litter of pups in Scotland with just two male dogs left and choosing the one that was apparently calmer, I sent off the cheque for him to be ours, within a matter of weeks. My husband and others thought I was deranged, but for the first time in a very long while, I had a deep inner knowing that I had to have this dog. The British Blue kitten we had already promised our daughter, duly arrived as arranged and somehow as if to sense our indifference and maybe even knowing she wasn’t really wanted, she proceeded to shit everywhere imaginable, often minutes before buyers coming to view our house which was for sale. Since we had all compromised on our choice of pet when we were most definitely dog lovers, we were immensely grateful, that we were able to return the kitten back to the breeders after only a few days. It was immediately re-housed to a delighted young child who was far more able to love it than we were. We collected Archie from Gatwick airport on the day before Christmas Eve and fell in love with him from the moment we set eyes on him. You know don’t you when things are just right. Maybe pets actually find us rather than the other way round? Coming back to my childhood, at least my pets, with the exception of Dusty all chose to leave of their own accord which is something to remember them by isn’t it? I mean my friend wasn’t that lucky. Her boyfriend, affectionately known as Pine Tree trod on her pet chinchilla and squashed it flat. Or at least, I’m told he actually crunched and mangled it and then took it in a cardboard box to the vet in the hope they’d put it back together again. My friend was away studying at college and when she returned, even though Pine Tree had cleared up the mess, she refused to cook him any meals for three months after the incident and he lost about two stone in weight. In the end though, she forgave him and married the clumsy sod anyway. And, I don’t feel as guilty about our budgie as my neighbour must have. She tumble dried her designer kitten. All 250 quid’s worth of it, the second day after she bought it. The jokes in my village that day were pretty cruel. Years on, our family has had the usual catalogue of pet disasters. Two hamsters escaping and one male one giving birth to seven babies (one deformed). One lost rabbit named Puff who literally disappeared into thin air and one traumatised one killed by our manic German Wire Haired Pointer. A neighbour, well known for his road rage, tried to shoot Archie, our dog, when we first moved to Devon because he was orgasmic about ducks or anything that flew. My kids were playing in the estuary at the same time and aiming a huge shotgun, he was screaming that he would fucking kill the bastard dog if I wasn’t quick. Given that I couldn’t hardly walk because of severe leg problems, it was a pathetic sight as I struggled to catch my beloved dog before he was blasted out of my world and possibly with my children, if the guy was a bad shot. Archie never caught the ducks but he loved to swim after them for hours ever hopeful that he might. He did once get an old seagull which was sad and to our astonishment, a neighbour even came round to complain about it. My husband let the guy know in no uncertain terms that he didn’t quite see how that was such a horrendous crime, compared to the fact that this man used to regularly blast birds out of the sky at random and call it a sport? But back to the duck incident. How were we to know that the neighbour’s wife had died of cancer, shortly after releasing some specially chosen ducks into the estuary? Even though it helped to make sense of why it all happened, it was still an awful shock in those early days of believing somewhat naively, that Devon was an idyllic haven far removed from front page headlines. My husband was pretty brave and smoothed things over. That is, once I called him back from the pub, as it was the usual lengthy Sunday lunchtime session. He walked over the mud in the estuary, with the confidence of booze speaking and told the guy that he’d have to shoot him first, before he tried to kill our dog again. We used to see him in the pub from time to time and although one of our neighbours said he had a good heart deep down, we couldn’t quite bring ourselves to believe it. Last year, bless his soul, the same man shot himself with his own shotgun because he was being ravaged by cancer and couldn’t face going on. You never quite know what goes on in people’s lives and how vulnerable they really are, do you? Anyway, things calmed down over the years, as Archie’s antics became less frequent and as age took the better of him. Gone were the days of incidents with sheep in the woods, the time where he nipped my neighbour’s bum as she rode on her bike or his frantic chasing of testosterone teenagers on skateboards as they shot past his territory. Christmas times when I accused the kids of taking too many chocolates off the Christmas tree since over 20 had disappeared in a day. Then to notice Archie triumphantly strutting around the kitchen, totally unaware of the tin foil and tassel caught in his teeth and dangling down the side of his mouth, which was clear evidence that he was the culprit. We no longer received weekly phone calls from neighbours wondering if we had lost a dog because there was one swimming way down the estuary. His favourite past time was to swim right out, often between the yachts while people would scream with delight and confusion, never quite knowing if he was a dog or an otter. He would be found and returned, suitably pretending to be apologetic for his behaviour, when we knew at the next available opportunity, he would do his Houdini escape act. Archie’s always was such a noble dog with a huge charisma. The kids were going to call him Colonel, because my son thought he resembled a Prussian General, he looked so wise and important, even as a puppy. One of my dear friends said he was a very special dog with an amazing aura and that was a pretty accurate description. Another said he was the sort of unpredictable ‘bad’ guy, most girls would always be attracted to, original and different, independent and in his own space. Except that she thought it sweet, because he turned out to actually be the good guy with a pure heart of gold. Archie was quite a rare breed and in nine years, I only ever saw two people with another and one of those was in France. He was pure Scorpio and a born healer. He had a huge personality with enormous passion yet he exuded a quietness and gentleness of spirit that gave him this sense of ‘presence’. It was almost as if he was an old soul, if that were really true for animals as well as humans. You either hated him or loved him but you never failed to notice him. The woman at the dog show was horrified and disapproving of him, when he had no respect and peed over her prized rosettes just before she was due to present them. But heh, he never cared much for those kind of formalities. Life was for living to the full. Zen like and in the moment and I learnt so much from him in this respect. He came to me when I was chronically ill, hardly able to walk and one woman in the village said with judgement, that it might be better for me to have a dog that was less in need of long walks. What she really meant to say was that I should have some ‘crocked’ dog because I was half dead, but in reality Archie shone a light of what was possible. He was amazing because he would do figures of eight running manically and wearing himself out, whilst we only travelled a short distance. Over the years with his guidance, inspiration and loyalty, I learnt to stride out again and see life with new eyes. With the daily discipline of our wonderful walks together, I was able to reconnect back to myself and to my deep love of nature. We spoke our own silent language and once a clairvoyant quite rightly said that one of my dogs talked to me. Archie knew the days I couldn’t walk in the woods and he honoured me by chasing a tennis ball I would hit, bringing it right back to my feet, so I didn’t have to move. On those days, with the woods beckoning yards away, he never once ran off and caused me distress because he simply knew I couldn’t manage. That’s when he taught me to trust again and I learnt how to really love from a place I had never dared to go to. At home often unable to move from my debilitating illness, he would jump up onto my lap and transmit his big energy through to my legs, until he knew I’d taken enough. Years later, when I was in severe panic after a marriage separation, he would jump even higher and put his bottom on my heart to stop the palpitations. He sensed energy from everyone around and would never let anyone in the house, if he felt they were unsafe for me. Sometimes, he went a bit too far with his protection of me, but I realised in his latter years, that was the unspoken script I had given him and I needed to reclaim my own ability to protect myself, without expecting him as a dog to do it for me. He taught me a lot about boundaries and helped me to become leader of the pack, in my own power again. Despite this, even when I was deeply emotional, if he felt my ex husband needed support during the end of our marriage, he would try to clamber up onto him, to help him access his feelings and honour that he deeply mattered as well. I thought I wouldn’t survive his passing it was so painful. It was my first real experience of death and as I lost him, I went into blind panic at the shock of it all. Overwhelmed by grief, I needed to share how much this incredible animal had done for me and how impossible it was to believe he was gone. I was very blessed, as the vet who I had intuitively known was right for the occasion, was so compassionate and patient at every step, as were the men who came the next morning to take his body away for cremation. I was supported by a dear friend who was just amazing in how she held me with her quiet spirituality through those hours. The next day with another dear friend, even with all the grace around me, it was agony to watch my devoted companion of all those years, be taken away in a zipped up, green plastic bag, never to be seen again. I knew it was only the body and not his spirit and soul, as they would always live on but I’m human and loss is loss. Knowing I could never hold his big strong chest close to mine, look deep into his brown, all-knowing eyes or stroke his floppy and very silky ears was and is so hard to bear. I took some locks of his hair to keep for ever and I filmed him on a new dvd camera in his last hours but it’s still the end of that irreplaceable and very special, physical closeness. The other two dogs seem strangely quiet and bereft as well which I guess is to be expected, as they were a well bonded trio. It was the hardest thing I have ever done in my life, to let him go back home, so he could leave behind his exhausted and ravaged body. I knew it was time though, from the day a Magpie came to the kitchen door and tapped with his beak as if to call my boy home. The magpie came every day for a week and as my sorrow and fears intensified, I knew he was losing his brave battle. On the full moon, two days before he died, he spent hours staring vacantly outside, as if he was preparing to separate out from his earthly existence. So, this time I made the courageous decision to help him over to the other side, because he was too noble a dog to suffer the way he was. It was especially hard because my daughter was abroad on a Gap Year and I so wanted her to see him once more before he lost the fight. It brought up terrible guilt that I was responsible for taking his life and re-triggered the loss of my first puppy by lethal injection, but my ex husband was strong and supportive, as he encouraged me to do what was best for our dog. Emma loved Archie so very much but maybe he knew on some level, that it would have devastated her to watch how he was after the stroke unable to balance and collapsing in those last weeks. He seemed to age almost overnight and couldn’t understand or grasp how suddenly his body couldn’t match his instinct to manically chase around the garden after a pheasant or passing tourist. I needed the preparation time he gave me, to come to terms with the harsh reality facing me and then to grieve and cry my heart out for as long as it took. Maybe that wasn’t what Emma needed and perhaps when she returns, I can at least be a mother to her and help her with her grief and loss. For my son, it was less of a struggle to say goodbye and that is understandable because Archie always growled at him and they never had a chance to truly bond. He was a risk as there was a testosterone battle with teenage boys which was a constant worry and restrictive for Edward. There was some magic healing though, in the fact that my son stayed in his last few days and whilst he growled on his very last morning, as he was incapable of getting up, the previous days he had greeted Edward and showed him that it was only ever to do with the pecking order and never really personal. I know that Archie paid a high price for taking on board my emotions and absorbing what was going on for me and others in my family. He was always highly strung and unpredictable and that was part of his charm but at times he would become frenetic and very unsettled, as he tuned into what was happening for us ie during our final marriage separation. Pets do this for us and so often we don’t realise what’s happening, blaming them for acting strange or depressed when it belongs to us. It doesn’t matter to me if other people don’t believe me, but I intuitively sensed that Archie came to me as my healing dog and I always had a strong almost fatalistic knowing from those early days, that he would leave when I was healed of M.E/Chronic Fatigue. Ironically in a way, I almost held back from getting well because we were like a married couple and I couldn’t face the future without him by my side. He won’t be using his new pet passport for Italy and that’s hard, but maybe I’ll take some of his ashes with me when I finally go there to settle. What I do know, is that I couldn’t have survived the 13 years of my long illness and a painful divorce without him, so now being strong in my on space, his timing to leave, as with everything else about him, was impeccable. He was my greatest teacher as he taught me the meaning of the word sacred and how to really live life to the full, instead of just achieving or surviving it. When people in their ignorance talk of animals as lesser beings, I find myself feeling desperately sad that they don’t understand and recognise a deeper wisdom. It really depends what world you inhabit, because when it comes to intuition, sensing, total acceptance and unconditional love, they are infinitely higher beings. Also, as humans, we spend a lifetime competing with others and not accepting our beauty, where Archie knew without therapy, that he was a magnificent German Wire Haired Pointer and he never ever questioned it once. Two days after his passing, instead of totally falling apart, and despite the aching grief and terrible emptiness, I found myself with a small sense of renewed zest for life and focus, as if Archie transferred these qualities to me, as a final kindness. I reached out to dear friends and received their love and support when I most needed it, instead of isolating and stoically pretending I was coping with the loss as I would have done before. This alone is reconnecting me back to life and love which is a positive by-product of his leaving. I also began to think of how people often find a way to transform their personal tragedies into something special, that helps others who follow on behind. That perhaps there is a need in all of us, to somehow find redemption and make a real difference. What I do know, is that I owe it to my beautiful boy not to feel sorry for myself for too long, but to reclaim my power and give back to the world what I can. In other words, not to hold back anymore with excuses and self sabotage but to take action regardless of feeling that I lack confidence, direction or expertise. Archie gave me so very much and the very least I can do, is to honour that amazing gift by saying yes to life, completely and utterly, as he did each and every day. This is my tribute to Archie for being my best friend, companion, protector, healer, teacher and soul-mate. You can’t ask for a lot more than that from anyone. Rest in peace darling and know that you were so very loved and missed by all of us and will remain in our hearts forever. She was besides herself with grief. Totally overwhelmed. No-one to call, alone on the mountain with no friends near. Isolated, distraught and impotent. She’d just put the phone down frustrated from trying to explain the depths of her emotions in Italian, the subtleties of what she was trying to put across.
In desperation she went up to her altar, lit the candle and found herself screaming ‘help me, you bast….., show me what I am supposed to do, give me a sign, help me to see what I am to do, don’t just leave me in this agony’. And while she ranted, she picked up her two bells she had by the candle, normally ringing them with reverence but this time shaking them so ferociously like a demented mad woman. At that very moment, the alarm from her phone downstairs went off signifying it was 15.33. She was aghast. In awe. All panic and doubt disappeared. She stopped screaming and bowed her head in devotion and gratitude. The anguish completely dissipated like she entered a different zone altogether. It was just the same as years ago when she had screamed out to God about how to clear her chronic illness (known as M.E) when a lorry passed by on the other side of the road with the name ‘M.E. HEAL’ written above the cab. And then six years later, at a different junction with her illness, begging the universe for help once again, this very same cab decided to pass by once again. Was there really a Michael Edward Heal or was this just an unbelievable cosmic joke, a sign from the outside world at these perfect moments? This time, the grace of the alarm ringing to show this unified resonance? The night before, one of the Priestesses on a late night workshop had said that she set her phone for 15.33 every day, to remember the sacred because of number 3 being so important. She was suggesting that others do the same to have this one time, as a reminder to breathe, move back into devotion, and to honour the divine feminine. Without knowing why but trusting the process, Sofia had done the same and set her phone for 15.33, going to bed and then not thinking any more of it. At the precise moment of crying out for help at her altar, her answer came. It was one of those unforgettable holy moments. She marvelled at the miraculous timing, took a deep breathe and went down to switch off the alarm. Smiled and made a promise to trust a little more and remember to stay connected. Where was my face beneath the perfect masks
Blinded by promises of stardom Washed away as water wears out a stone Deaf to the little girl’s pleas to come home I’m sorry I never heard your sweet voice There was so much to do and no time to listen I’m sorry I left you behind for so long Starved inside, never singing your song But there’s plenty of time for us to start again So many ways we can get re-acquainted It’s like pandora’s box as we explore anew What a romance we can have – me and you We can wiggle our toes in the sinking sand And scream at the top of our voices We can giggle at the silliest of things And marvel at the magic of butterfly wings We can lick the remains in the chocolate cake bowl Perhaps we’ll dress up as a clown We could take a ride on a merry-go-round Search for Easter eggs buried in the ground I’ve never had such a special friend Full of wild ideas and exciting plans I can tune into you for all of my needs Like a personal reminder not to get lost in deeds I will cherish our secret and keep you so safe I can’t imagine life without you I thank God for the little girl I’ve found Who shows me life is an adventure playground Sofia took the cake out of the fridge at 4pm on her 50th birthday. She tapped the sides and realised with utter horror, that it was solid like a brick and therefore completely inedible. What a disaster. Her heart sank and moments later she found she was furious with herself. What a mess it all was and so symbolic that the cake itself was ruined. Didn’t it just sum up how hopeless she was these days? All those years of successful entertaining and now a basic cake defeated her.
Angrily, she sprinkled over the remainder of the edible, gold dust she had bought specially in Lawson’s. She grudgingly replaced the HAPPY BIRTHDAY candles back into the punctured holes and was aware of a sense of hopelessness taking over. In a very scathing tone, she mumbled to herself that it would soon all be over. At least the cake could be used to light the candles and everyone could sing the song and pretend they were having a good time. In that moment, her inner child’s dreams of magic and gold fairy dust were shattered, as another voice in her head said - ‘fuck the gold dust – it’s all a waste of time believing in that shit’. She would do this negative thinking in seconds, not realise the crippling effect her inner critic would have on her. The words would annihilate her, like an angry headmaster, blasting some unfortunate and unsuspecting student, scape-goated for no particular reason. Her body somehow hardened and became heavy and weighed down, as if taking on the constituency of the cake itself. There was no separation. She and the cake were one, as she collapsed in sympathy with it. They were both fucked up and doomed. Sofia could do this. She would ignore all her amazing achievements and focus solely on the one aspect that wasn’t perfect. She would write the script entirely based on the failed cake. From that 4 o’clock moment, she openly admitted her shame to every friend she saw or spoke to. It seemed to be all that mattered. In needing to be perfect, she started to lose connection to herself and everything around her. All because of a cake. During the candlelit ritual later on that evening, Sofia was nourished and totally present to the beautiful blessings and gifts she received. She was astounded by the love poured out to her by her generous hearted friends. She knew this was her truth. Her need for deep connection where everyone honoured the beauty and simplicity that each person offered. Everyone shining their light and their gifts in a truly unique blend, where nothing could ever be wrong. This was the real perfection. And as Helen so lovingly shared, everyone made up the ‘one heart’ on the ‘one earth’. How right she was. Sofia felt so much gratitude to have met and travelled the depths with this compassionate, wise lady who had such a heart of gold. At the table later, Sofia was more able to take herself lightly, as she presented the cake ready to light the candles. Her critic always so at hand and not wanting to miss a trick, felt it important to continue to admit in public, her shame of cooking such a burnt out offering. She joked that it was a Green and Black’s cake to die for – but only literally – ‘if I threw it at you’ she said. At this point, the energy shifted, as if enough was enough. Sofia’s self flagellation seemed to bring out the loving and strong, mother energies present in Helen and Rebecca. Helen questioned Sofia’s conviction that the cake was in fact inedible. She lovingly asked Sofia about the ingredients and on hearing that they were simply organic eggs, ground almonds and Green and Black’s chocolate, Helen stated quite clearly, that the cake would be undoubtedly be soft inside. Sofia listened but was not convinced. She found herself joking that a hacksaw was required to even get near the middle. At this point, Rebecca asserted herself and lovingly took control of the situation. She cut the cake with a complete ‘knowing’ that Sofia was utterly deluded. She exuded the self belief that the cake would be utterly delicious and the trust which Sofia so needed at times like this. Rebecca simply announced - ‘The critic is wrong’ - as it was clear that the mousse cake had delighted her taste buds with the squidgy hit of pure cocoa. Sofia tasted a small piece and that was the proof. She melted. Her body and spirits lightened, once again mirroring the constituency of the cake. Helen laughed that the cake had a delicious soft centre and was only centimetres away from the brittle edges that had defended it. Sofia chucked as the insights hit home. She smiled as she realised the need to trust the hidden depths in herself and others and not to judge any book by its cover. Oh - this constant disbelief in herself and life unless it was proven otherwise. How amazing that on a 50th birthday celebration, a cake could deliver such a powerful message. The next day, Sofia looked for the recipe sheet which she knew she needed to retrieve to give it its due honour. She carefully checked twice in the recycled paper bin but it was not there. Suddenly, it dawned on her, that in her disgust and anger, she had crushed it and thrown it out in the main bin. Like it had sinned and didn’t deserve to even be recycled. That was its punishment and this was how she would punish herself. Humbly, she fished out the damp, crumpled sheet covered in left-over avocado. She wiped it lovingly, before placing it to dry carefully on the warm boiler. She re-read the title. DARK CHOCOLATE MOUSSE CAKE WITH GOLD DUST ….The picture looked beautiful as it shone like sunlight…….’Chill overnight and it will be dense, fudgey and wicked’…. Yes, she thought the next day – ‘the critic is wrong’ , agreeing with Rebecca wholeheartedly. She smiled, with an inner knowing of what the next 50 years might bring with that awareness and she gave thanks. E N D To business and evaluation of Number 205:
A little old and scraggy and like many females with a tendency to be slightly heavy around the back rump end. Due to recent stressful changes in ownership has lost this excess weight. May therefore need to be fed extra food for a period before being sold to the next owner. Used to be highly prized for appearance and behaviour but now is less appealing to the mass market. Nevertheless is a solid option and a reliable breed. Coat a bit matted and uncared for at present because of challenging weather recently but with suitable care and attention this could be rectified over time. No smell. Colouring fair with patches of brown. Has tendency to bleat too much when penned in, which can cause others to react negatively. However, put together with others of the same type, she reverts back to calm, relaxed behaviour more in common with her true nature. Legs unsteady at times from carrying too much weight for too long. When part of an intensively farmed unit, she was unreasonably injected with growth hormones which caused her to grow at an abnormally fast speed, such that the rest of her body could not keep up with the strain. As a result of this dysfunctional rearing process, more to suit the outside market than her own needs, she picked up a complicated viral infection which caused a whole host of unpleasant symptoms and meant she lost her market value. This viral infection is quite common in more sensitive creatures of this particular breed but when approached from a holistic viewpoint, is one that is possible to cure. With natural remedies and excellent healing care, she has been recently checked over and found to be in good health. Still needs time to rest and fully recuperate but we estimate that by the end of the year, she will be back on full form and ready to return to the market place. Prefers natural, organic diet now as recovery came about as a result of grazing on private, unadulterated land. Somewhat fragile and timid in temperament at times due to abusive previous owners. In this respect, problems can occur if she gets pushed into the centre of the herd and is unable to find a way to the outside. At such times, when provoked, she is likely to behave in an extreme manner, thrashing around and panicking like a ram until she gets free. In these situations the stick is not the answer because like all creatures in fear, she responds far better with tender loving care and understanding. On occasions has difficulty following with the herd and fitting in with standard practices. It is not uncommon within this unusual breed and hence the label ‘black sheep’. At times, even the sheepdog in charge may not be able to sort the problems when they arise. As with all animals, she finds her equilibrium when she is left alone to trust her own instincts rather than being forced or cajoled back into her pen. At times, even though a pack animal, this breed prefers solitude and quiet and has to be housed in separate area to others. Successfully reared two healthy lambs who are now nearly fully grown. Is reaching the stage where shortly she will be too old for further rearing and it is questionable that she is strong enough to contemplate further offspring. Is currently seeking a compassionate and understanding owner with hope of building back her strength again. Offers invited: ………………… When you came to my bed, the light in my eyes died
I left my body and travelled far and wide A brilliant strategy allowing a necessary escape A temporary band aid masking the shock of rape It’s been so long, I’m longing to return I’ve missed so much, was frightened that I’d burn Please hold me so tight and preciously tender Allow me to risk reclaiming my gender I gave birth to two children, unaware of my womb My yoni, my breasts I must salvage from the tomb It’s my birth-right to be nourished by safe, gentle touch It’s my dream to be re-united so life won’t be ‘too much’ I’ve had my first taste of Mother’s unconditional embrace I’m blessed to ‘remember’ the Goddess’s face My body is my temple, it’s wounds my salvation When I honour this truth, I find destiny and creation Please help me to have faith in this welcome birth To relinquish the shame and replace it with mirth It’s time for embodiment with a nervous system at peace And to marvel at the grace that’s allowed for this release I forgot who I was altogether
The drug they used was the best I went to sleep for thirty nine years Felt no pain, just anaesthetised fears Invisible deprivation, no trail, no verdict Brainwashed from the start, all memories erased Programmed as a superstar, the family heroine Desperate to achieve, driven to win Sleeping Beauty, awoken by an unwelcome prince A prince of fatigue and breakdown Kissed by exhaustion and bodily pain Coming alive to myself despite being lame But without any drugs the withdrawal is agony Thirty nine years of betraying myself A lifetime of emotions kept locked away A pressure cooker near exploding night and day Being with myself hurts too much I’m like a panicked ball of terror A murky lake where in entering I’ll drown Can I dive that deep to retrieve my crown? It’s like open surgery with no anaesthesia Sometimes the trauma needs filtering But the time has come to surrender and let go To have faith in my path and to go with the flow Please help me to dive for the pearls so deep To celebrate my birth and awakening Please love and nurture this fragile new space So with your support I can see God’s grace I want to stop obsessing about you and your life
I need to come home to me I want to stop believing that without you I’m nothing I need to come home to me I want to be sure I won’t die from this pain I need to come home to me I want to have a reason to live if you’re not the centre of my life I need to come home to me Can I survive the blind terror that grips me And still come home to me? Can I dare to grieve my ocean of tears And still come home to me? Can I mend my heart which is broken in pieces And still come home to me? Can I let you go to live your life And still come home to me? I want to be brave, to stand tall and strong I must come home to me I want to show the children I’m not dependent and weak I must come home to me I want to find an anchor from a place deep inside I must come home to me I want to be whole even if I’m on my own I must come home to me You’re my brother, my father, my soul mate and lover We’ve travelled a lifetime together I love you with a passion, from the depths of my soul Without you in my life, there is a gaping black hole But we both need to find ourselves first, to know who we are To live our own truths, to dare to be apart I’m trusting to God that if I let you go That our love won’t die but has a chance to truly grow I walked through the initiatory gate of Empty Presence at my Priestess Retreat in California and on request, chose to let go of grief at the doorway. The next gate was a priestess honouring me with scent and stroking me gently with a beautiful white rose. I could not connect, I felt duped. The rose was plastic and I was horrified to be expected to surrender to something that wasn’t real especially now during this ‘Embraced by Love’ retreat. There was a fabulous pink altar with glorious statues, pink candles in elegant candlesticks and everything draped in glorious silks in different shades of pink and YET I was being offered a plastic rose to honour my awakening senses…..?
We sat in circle and I noticed how much I felt isolated with anger rising as each sister began to share about how blessed they felt to be in such a beautiful setting, how love was flowing. This only enhanced my sense of being separate and different, the all too familiar feeling of being ‘outside the family’. I decided I needed to be authentic and share what was arising but that it was more about wanting to express that having been duped as a child I was finally honouring the part of me that knew the difference between real and fake…..how for years I felt that I was a fraud and a fake. So speaking out was about shifting this, taking sovereignty, allowing myself not to be liked if I expressed out loud that I was frustrated to be stroked by a plastic rose when we were opening up to our senses. I realised I felt quite a strong sting of betrayal which I knew was about an old story but even with this, I still found myself projecting judgement that this was a bit of a cheap trick to pull on us at the start of the retreat! When it came to my turn to share, I took some ownership of what was happening. I was immediately honoured for being in alignment with my truth which felt such a relief as the workshop leaders did not take my comments personally. They asked me if I would like to have a new experience with the beauty and innocence of a real rose, which I took to mean that maybe I was right about the initial plastic offering. As I nodded with a shaky yes, I welled up with grief that was arising from old experiences of betrayal, the secrets and lies that had gone alongside the abuse and which was now being so perfectly mirrored in the story of the plastic rose. I was duped on so many occasions that to survive, I had to shut down my connection to my body and find some way to self medicate and cope with the shocks. In abandoning my body, I ended up ‘sensory deprived’ so that I rarely noticed anything and was more like an anaesthetised superwoman robotically going through life. Literally I had numbed out so much I wouldn’t notice if I needed to go to the toilet, I had so little connection to my body. I missed so much and yet - here – now – I could see that this WAS a plastic rose. I was impelled to say ‘no – now I want and I deserve more, this is not how it should be.’ It was a powerful Kali moment…… I was gently encouraged to choose a sister to support and offer me the rose for a second time. I chose my room mate Nicola who came over towards me, picking a white rose from the central vase and then suddenly I panicked again. A voice inside was saying ‘but no, this one is still plastic, what are you doing to me, I don’t want to play this game, it’s too painful?’ Time seemed to be suspended and a part of me so wanted to bail out and leave but as Nicola presented me with the rose….. I just about managed to utter that I didn’t understand what was happening…..to say that this rose was also plastic…………….and then ………a few seconds later………the truth hit me like a thunderbolt. It was a huge light bulb moment. I felt the stem with my own hands and knew it to be REAL…..I smelt the delicate scent and as such, I was shocked to recognise that the original rose had also been real……….that the multitude of glorious pink and white roses around the room were all exquisitely real. It was me that had not been able to see or receive the sensuous gift………. The cosmic wake up call did not go unnoticed. I was overcome with emotion, unable to speak. It was as if I needed to drop down on my knees and humbly ask for divine forgiveness, like being allowed finally into the Gates of Heaven. There was a palpable shift in the room as the energy dropped down and everyone realised what had happened for me, their own stories no doubt reaching home at the same time. All weekend the Goddess of Love perfectly played Her role to awaken us all from sleep, to help us hear the Rumi cry from his passionate poem ‘Don’t go back to sleep’. She was presenting me now with the love that had always been mine and that I had been forced to shut out because of trauma. This was the ‘bitter pill of the inner physician that cracked the shell of understanding’, another Rumi poem so perfectly encapsulating this shift of awareness. Now, it made sense why I clearly said ‘sorrow’ when I was asking what I needed to let go at the gate of Empty Presence. The years of feeling fake and not good enough, a lifetime of being disconnected like watching myself in a movie, endlessly seeking outside of myself in a desperate effort to be loved and find meaning. I had become a performing puppet and superwoman, totally focussed on perfectionism and stardom as a cover for the magnificent soft and tender petals that lay below. As I stared at the rose I was captivated by the two slightly mangled and limp leaves that were in the outer foliage reminding me of Leonard Cohen’s famous words ‘forget your perfect offering, there is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in’. I could see this rose was magnificent in spite of these outside leaves, the centre was exquisite in it’s yoni formation, the ivory silk of the petals almost too beautiful to be true and the perfume subtly, yet profoundly impacting me. I didn’t realise I had my own distinct and unique perfume. Some things are hard to put in words and this experience was one of them. I felt like I had returned home to my own pure nature, witnessed in circle by beloved sisters who truly saw and understood the awakening that was taking place. I didn’t need to tell the wound story, I spoke for generations of women who with terror in their bellies, had suppressed and dampened down their feminine power and hidden their shame as a way to survive. In speaking out and questioning the plastic rose offering, in being allowed to check the situation, I could ‘know’ the answer for myself and allow the experience to be fully received in my body. And, in having this direct experience with the rose, I could reconnect with my naked innocence and finally come ‘home’ to the Temple of my body. The whole weekend was magical but the next night we were dressed up as a mythological character we wanted to embody more fully. Having travelled for some days in Vancouver I was unprepared for the request that we were to offer something in front of the group. And also, since I had spent my life as a performing puppet and trophy hunter for my mother, this time, I knew I had no song, dance or poem that related in anyway to the Avatar heart warrior character that I had chosen to embrace. Thankfully the lady before me decided not to dress in an outfit and to simply stand in her sovereign self, channelling something through for the group as a whole. As a result of her powerful offering which touched us all deeply, I had a strong remembrance of being stripped and shamed in a past life as a Priestess and since it resonated so deeply, I decided I would do my ‘performance’ next. As I stood in front, I shared that my edge was to not perform or try to do anything but instead to innocently strip in front of each of my sisters and to be in my naked truth with no guilt, shame or apology. And then just to be with it, transparent and open. Tender, powerful and fragile, surrendered like the rose. So this is what I did. I undressed with no drama and I walked reverently around each sister offering myself in prayer to each one. It was so powerful and whilst it was out of my comfort zone, I knew it was right to honour myself in this way. I felt the safety, love and total acceptance being offered by the circle. As I returned back to front stage, I did feel exposed and some shame tried to kick in but I wrapped myself up with love, put on my clothes and received the honouring feedback from my sisters, from the Great Mother who was so present in the ‘field. I knew it was deeply significant. The message was so clear as only ritual knows how. The potency of the archetype of love was burning away the old shame story that was never mine to carry in the first place. I was reclaiming sovereignty of my body, returning home to my truth. My whole system was literally being re-wired and this continued for some days after…..and I had a deep ‘knowing’ that the healing that was happening for me was also being offered to the collective. Bless you for listening to my story. “I wish we didn’t have to go this wretched christening today. We don’t even know the baby and we’ll never see any of them again once they go back to the States” said Hilary. It was Sunday morning after a fun dinner party and they were both exhausted from the inevitable bad night’s sleep that follows such over indulgence. Michael was equally cross about having to attend another one of the dreaded Knight family gatherings and on these occasions, he found his resentment and anger surface, feelings he usually managed to keep well under control.
As an only child, he felt trapped and obliged to attend family occasions and because of this pressure, he tended to project his frustration at Hilary, so she would end up feeling guilty. The Knight occasions were always so predictable and tedious. Another classic opportunity to portray the perfect extended family when in reality Michael’s relatives were such a bunch of odd balls and probably more dysfunctional than most. But the illusion and denial had to continue and every effort would be taken to appear perfect in public. It was impossible for him to consider cancelling or being late as his mother would be devastated. She relied on his attendance, doted on him and unconsciously needed him to support and love her, not just as a wonderful son, but as the strong, masculine, protective figure in her life. It was rather a pathetic sight but on such occasions, Michael’s father was demoted to number three in the family while Michael himself was elevated in importance and held on high as the prized son and heir. Disowned pain causing imbalance everywhere as in so many families. No, it was impossible to consider cancelling or being late and Hilary would have been the first to acknowledge this, since her background of dutiful compliance and people pleasing was exactly the same. So, reluctantly they left their friends’ house on the outskirts of Barnstaple, having enjoyed a classic Sunday morning brunch together with the statutory browse through the Sunday papers, tabloids and all. Michael was tense and short tempered, not least because, with such a hangover, he didn’t relish the drive and the prospect of what lay ahead at the church. Hilary was always anxious and uneasy at times like this, as she feared conflict and found his cold and withholding manner so rejecting and difficult. The BMW shot down the road, route carefully planned as ever, but with little time to spare for other inconsiderate road users or unforeseen problems. Left at the roundabout with a view to short-cutting the moors and they met their first inevitable traffic jam. A lorry blocking the narrow Devon lane and no way through. Michael opened the window to ask an elderly gentleman if he knew the problem and despite his kindness, without so much as a thank-you, he shot the car into a screeching reverse, back up the hill, almost severing the old man’s arm in the electric window. “What the hell do you think you are doing” Hilary yelled, “that old guy was helping you and you nearly ripped his arm off for Christ’s sake!” Michael was fuming and as usual was over sensitive to any criticism, however justified, such that he adopted his usual cold and silencing behaviour to make it clear that he was cross with Hilary too. She hated these occasions. Not only did they both not want to go to the dull christening, but here they were, locked into a road rage situation, barely speaking and at loggerheads because of a simple hold up. “Please don’t drive like a maniac. It’s better to be late than risk driving so fast and you know I hate it” Hilary said. “We don’t have any choice, since the route we have to take now, will be much longer and we’ll most likely be late anyway” Michael curtly replied, ignoring the point she was really making. That was it then. Cold, withholding, silence. Hilary felt the icy atmosphere between them and wondered how they had moved so quickly from their cosy, loving space only an hour or so earlier. She never understood how her normally easy-going and placid husband turned into this angry demon as if he was possessed, just from attending a family event and the journey leading up to it. Her issue with conflict and authority figures meant she would freeze, stop breathing or chest breathe and just play the victim, people pleasing until the drama passed. But today she was aware she was cross and resentful towards Michael for his unacceptable behaviour, especially since she was being the supportive daughter-in-law as ever. The christening was not her choice and Michael had ruined her weekend by his aggressive and domineering attitude. She would never have dreamt of treating someone the way he did and yet at another level she expected it , was used to being the martyr and not standing up for herself which was a legacy from her own childhood with controlling and invasive parents. Worse than this, Hilary had woken this morning with another painful neck, something she regularly suffered from and unbeknown to her was the precursor to tearing her neck ligaments the year later. She had no idea at this stage that her neck problems reflected her inability to express herself and that these early symptoms were a warning that she needed to communicate her needs more assertively. So she was tired and in pain physically and although she had desperately tried to ignore the signals, was also aware of an increasingly desperate urge to go to the toilet. “I’ll need to go to the loo before we get to the church” she said apologetically, conscious that this simple request would cause Michael further anxiety on the timing front. “There’s no time to stop and no loos anywhere in sight. You’ll have to go in the church when we get there” he replied with no empathy whatsoever “You don’t understand” she pleaded, “I can’t wait any longer and I’m not sure that there are loos in the church anyway or that if there were, I would last that long”. Aware he had no choice, Michael grudgingly swerved into the roadside and screeched to a grinding halt. He made it clear that Hilary was to move fast and use the adjacent field, having no compassion for the fact she was not male like him and would undoubtedly prefer much more privacy. Lost in the agenda of being the good girl, Hilary dashed out of the car and ran to the nearest appropriate spot in the field, her mind focusing on the fact that she only just made it. The relief was so great and gave her such a sense of freedom and relaxation that she recalled how it was one of the best feelings ever. All the pent up feelings from the nightmarish journey went with the release. On a scale of 1-10 it ranked 10 for the sense of bliss and in this moment, she forgot to notice the opposing sensation of being stung by the bed of nettles she had the misfortune to crouch down in. She couldn’t stop mid flow, it was too forceful and equally too wonderful, so she had no choice but to accept the duality of feelings and realise the miserable fact that she was also stinging in agony from her knees up to her buttocks. Until she finished, she was not aware of just how badly she had been stung but as she ran back to the car, the horrendous burning sensation almost made her pass out. Still, she was focusing on doing the right thing and how much trouble she might be in for delaying their journey further. Michael was so driven and compulsively focusing on being the perfect son, suppressing his true feelings that he could not stand back and see things clearly. The incident for Hilary, just reflected her whole life. She had always been taught that her body was a handicap and that basic things such as resting, eating and other bodily functions simply got in the way of being a superwoman and slowed down the whole process of life which to her was about pleasing others and constant achievements. Once again, her basic need had caused so much problem it seemed. A final dash round a few more country lanes and they arrived at the church with five minutes to go. Perfect timing. They both sighed from the self-inflicted and unnecessary drama they had created. Hilary stepped out of the car, adjusted her tailored trouser suit, praying there were no unsightly spray or nettle marks showing and prepared her persona as the perfect daughter-in-law. As she walked forward, she was conscious how much pain she was in, not just from her neck which made her crook her head at an angle but from the nettle stings which were excruciatingly painful and made her walk as if she was clutching an orange between her buttocks in a kid’s party game. She stopped dead in her tracks, paralysed by what she heard. Her mouth dropped open and she was speechless when she overheard Michael’s mother say, “Oh, darling, you’re an hour early. Did you get the time wrong? You do know the christening doesn’t start until 2.0pm don’t you?…….. Scene One : I am alone
First thing in the mornings is hard. Really hard. Intense emotions locked up in dread that is suddenly awakened. My body hurts with fibromyalgia and sharp arthritic pains. The minute I wake from this liminal and liberated state, every day without fail, I am blasted with a painful adrenal rush, a sensation of shock in my solar plexus. A ‘hit’ of abandonment. I am awake but I’m alone. The dogs are a perfect mirror reflecting all that is happening. I long to go back to sleep, to turn a blind eye and forget, but miraculously as if reflecting my sorrowful state, resonant in that exact moment, my old dog downstairs, lets out an agonising, deep moan, as if she is in terrible pain. This desperate utterance ‘hits’ me like it’s my own. Guilty, she forces me to wake up. I remember again I am alone. My twin brother is not at my side. I am to continue this path on my own. This voiceless wail locked inside, is years in the making, a bottomless pit of grief that is so unbearable, that it’s easier to return back into my own secret and unconscious world. Occasionally, like my long suffering dog Roxy, I will make it clear I’m not happy with the crumbs of affection and business as normal, when I long for so much more. Just like Roxy, aching and heavy, she still desires to be top dog again, treated with respect and adoration, not shoved to one side as the problem that won’t go away. She might have stinky breath but her heart is huge and she’s always been there, faithfully at my side. My darling ‘baby’ dog Chammy, who sleeps on the bed, wakes and moves to lick my chin. She is always the centre of attention, named after the Archangel Chamuel, as she came to me as a gift of grace the day after a terrible break up. She’s a born healer, an energy worker. She reads my every nuance and in the very moment I am wrenched awake, that very second, she plants her paws and warm body on my gut and solar plexus. This is her karmic gift, to gently and carefully ease my suffering as I do for her, those early years abandoned as a puppy now mostly forgotten. She is so sweet, like my beloved twin baby brother, who is no longer entwined with me. We did not incarnate together but I feel him, aching to hear his beating heart again, next to mine. I am soothed by Chammy breathing. Reassured. She is my open heart. She is here. Now. She helps me to remember. To stay present. My old and weary dog continues her deep moaning to go and pee outside, a desperate, aching cry as if she cannot tolerate a moment more. Instead of resisting this urgent plea, I take a deep breath and return more to my sore body. Move my tight ankles. Arrive. And then silence. Beautiful silence. Everything interlinked. The mountain pregnant, sunlight sneaking through the green shutters. This paradise of mine that awaits. Roxy amazingly stops her cries, as I witness the situation instead of over-identifying in any one aspect. I am alive and I’m OK. I smile inwardly, as I notice that my wild, instinctual hunter dog is still sleepy in her cage, not yet awake. Slowly each year her early traumatised life recedes from her way of being, her cage at night, surprisingly helping to contain her frenetic energy and give safe, healthy boundaries. She needs containment, her infancy was traumatic as she chased her mother in terror around the mountainside until she found me. Gradually each month, she is more socialised, more settled. We are doing this together. It’s hard to consider her orgasmic frenzy of twelve hours the other day encouraged by another male dog, chasing the scent of wild boar, where she went beyond her limits and for three days after, was crashed and unable to move. These days, this is rare but like me, she can still self abandon, her nervous system not yet discharged of old shock, her exuberance sometimes too much to handle. We are both healing, step by step. I am fully awake. The witness is present. I am not the dogs. My solar plexus pains have receded as I remember to connect, to breathe deeply. I have no twin on this earthly plane. My baby dog has left my chest. All sounds have ceased. I am writing. Another sunny day, the morning awaits. As I make this shift, Chammy jumps back up, delightedly encouraging me to get up, licking me to say ‘please, come on, it’s time to enjoy the day’. Misha starts playing with something in her cage. She yawns her special sound on waking. My family and other animals, this Italian dream in place. No angst. Physical pains yes, unexpressed grief but I’m ok. I’ll all of it and none of it. Time to get up for the dogs, grateful for their love, messengers from above. Scene 2 : I am not alone Downstairs to witness my last bar of organic chocolate strewn across the floor. I immediately blame my partner for not putting Misha in the cage but then see it is Roxy who has unusually sniffed out the packet from behind my handbag. I am not blind to the message. I have been indulging as a comfort substitute and it doesn’t support my healing post Panchakarma, nor does it help my writing process. Thank you Roxy for this gentle reminder. Then I see that Misha is happily in her cage and I apologise quietly for my judgement of my partner. I move to the cage and tread in some pee that Roxy couldn’t contain. I take off my wet sock, grumble and then get the message. I mop it up. Misha starts wiggling with excitement she can barely contain. I open the cage to her bundle of energy and remember why I am here. So many hugs. So much welcome. So much love. So much to learn from these wise sentient beings who are my constant companions. I return upstairs to do more writing. I pick up my tea from the flask by my bed and see the words I had written in the coaster some days before. A gentle reminder. “I LOVE YOU”. Chammy snores in contentment. Dear Father, I’m frightened, please take away my fears
Let me release my past, so I shed less tears Tell me that you love me, just as I am So I learn that life is not like passing an exam Help me to trust other people in my life So I don’t stay alone or create undue strife Give me the strength to be here for me So I can rely on myself as I can for Thee Let me remember miracles happen every day That when I surrender to You, there’s a better way Help me to use my power, with wise and loving intention In making a difference, not seeking attention Let me feel safe inside and out To speak my truth without any doubt Let me know the Universe supports me being me That there is nothing I need to do or be Let me wake up and embrace each new day Knowing that my energy and health is here to stay Help me to believe I can accept the very best That life is abundant, even if I just rest What has happened to us when we no longer have the capacity to feel the suffering of others, people or animals, when we are so disassociated we have no capacity for empathy? Or when we find ourselves horrified but totally incapable of taking sacred action, when the task feels too big to do alone?
How can we take a wild elephant that is so utterly majestic and honoured as a God in India and then reduce it to an enslaved pseudo-Laksmi beggar? I’m not sure what hurt the most, whether it was seeing the grotesque spectacle of a beautifully adorned and painted elephant with silver anklets robotically performing his ‘divine’ routine or seeing the European tourists so asleep and happily taking photos on a Sunday afternoon day out? People delighted as this magnificent creature took their money and as if by magic, then blessing them with his trunk on their head. So many smiles, so much laughter while I sobbed uncontrollably. Each person was taken in by the elephant’s blessing, feeling special, desperately hoping for Lakshmi’s abundant gifts to be bestowed on them. This was what mattered, their illusion and ego aggrandisement that here was Lakshmi actually blessing their lives and making possible some more abundance in their lives. I wanted to scream and say that forcing a wild animal to perform some kind of fake divine ceremony was nothing short of obscene. Why couldn’t they see what I saw, it was so obvious, the cruel man was not hidden, he was close by the elephant for all to see? I was watching and yet stunned, frozen in shock. I kept turning to my partner to see if he saw what I did and yet nothing happened. Somehow I was expecting that others would all rise up with me, that we could make a stand. Yet everyone was taking photos, everyone laughing on their day out? I was in shock, helpless, transported back to my childhood, my own memories of having to perform, of being at the mercy of others for what they required of me. I was enraged at the injustice and yet speechless not knowing what to do. Somehow I was transfixed watching the cruel man at the back with the stick shouting clear instructions to the elephant to not step out of line, hitting his back leg at regular intervals and when this didn’t fully work, jabbing him viciously into the side of the mouth as a torturous reminder to stay in line. Yet I didn’t take action and I have to forgive myself for this as I left broken and heart broken. I did nothing, except to feel so deeply the injustice of the situation and fall into despair as no-one saw the obscene reality which was the elephant’s real existence. No-one was seeing the insanity, betrayal and slavery taking place in the guise of a devotional ceremony. No-one was seeing beneath the glamorous surface or recognising that the elephant’s apparent divine blessings were entirely because he had no option to comply or be abused. Whenever he delayed with passing the money, he was punished. All that mattered was the fun and narcissistic pleasure to be had. Animals are not here for our deluded pleasure. They are all sacred and none more than the elephant, Ganesh? I wonder what I might have done differently if I had held my inner child safely and allowed the divine to come through instead of freezing in shock? If I had managed to ask for guidance and strength in the moment in order to be in sacred service........(later this happened in India thank the Goddess...) |
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