When I was in university, someone – whose name I cannot recall, and whose origins elude me now – told me that I had no natural power.

I cannot recall how I came into contact with this man over the internet – of course it was a man, and of course I encountered him over the Net – but I do remember that it was relatively early on during my forays into Wicca/Witchcraft/Thealogy, and I remember that I took his judgment very hard indeed. From the dim and distant past (which, in this case, is about 1997) I recall that he promised to be a teacher and guide in the worlds of the wise but now, with the benefit of hindsight, I suspect he was – as so many are – some bloke sitting by his PC and enjoying the modicum of power that comes from getting people to send you their photo so that you can make judgments about their natural abilities, witchy or otherwise. Not being usually quite so gullible, I’m not entirely sure what possessed me to send a photo and a lock of my hair to a randomer in the States, much less to base my self-worth on his reaction/reading of same. Perhaps it was the Living Away From Home For the First Time thing, or perhaps I was simply more vulnerable than I realised? Either, or neither, of those things could be the case, I suppose. What I didn’t realise until this week, though, was how much I still carried that judgment within me. It’s odd, isn’t it, these little things that we carry? These little spores that can become huge underground networks of poisonous fungi which undermine our foundations. We come to expect it from the things our parents said or did, but we don’t suspect that strangers can have the same effect with their throw-away comments. Turns out we carry it all unless we are very vigilant indeed, and I am, generally speaking, horrendously oblivious a lot of the time.

Having been given a new perspective, however, I henceforth aim to take more care with the opinions that I store!


Coming Soon…

In four days, I will be thirty-six. That’s definitely supposed to be Grown Up Territory – I wonder when it will feel that way in here in this little space that I call me? Most of the time now, I feel as if I have things reasonably in hand, but there are inevitably occasions when my inner four year old wants to take over. Does that ever end?

Life is much the same as ever. There are many happinesses in here; so many that I have to pay attention and count them out to really appreciate them. There is also, currently, an intention towards inviting the Universe’s abundance into this space, into my space, into our family. I read a wonderful post that Jo wrote that, as is often the case for me, sounded like it was being written by my wiser, more mature,  grounded self. She is speaking my words here, right down to the ‘we always have enough to get by’ but often by a seeming miracle. I  decided – probably about the same time that she did, and that’s what makes the magic, people- that ‘Just Enough’ was, and is, no longer enough. Time to open up, time break down the self-prophesies and self-harming stories. Time to bring about a new perspective and invite The All to present us with new options and experiences. It can feel treacherous to open up when there is so little leeway in one’s responsible, adult financial pose, but, then again, I was given the gift of seeing a post on Facebook today which said something along the lines of “you must spend your money with the certainty that it will return to you…because it has to.” This reminds me that, when so much around me is going well and bearing fruit, I have found a strange time to lose my trust and faith in the abundance that has always come me when it was needed or asked for. I can do this little by little, step by step, and with an increasing awareness of my self-sabotaging inner monologue, I can amend my focus back into the black and away from the red.

We will be more than OK.

Night Life.

Last night, we did something I had wanted to do for a long time: we went into the city and we walked the streets and absorbed some of the energy of Saturday night in Dublin. It’s been an awfully long time since I did it, and it was such a good feeling to see what I most wanted to see – the wild and beautiful diversity of people out for the night.

It’s been really hot here on the east coast of Ireland for the last week or so. Not by the USA’s standard of hot, but by our standards, very much so. Temperatures have been reaching twenty-seven or twenty-eight degrees and, for me, that’s Hide In The Fridge weather. It makes me sleepy and lethargic, even more so than usual. My brain shuts down and my limbs weaken under the wilting weight of the humidity. The glare of the sun is too much, too bright, for someone who’s favourite time of the day is inevitably very early morning or dusk. I like the in-between times rather than the bright and obvious midday light. Finally, yesterday evening, it cooled down. Everything swung back to a comfortable sort of eighteen degrees or so – which is my kind of t-shirt weather at the best of times – and I finally felt as if I could breathe. I can hardly describe the relief of feeling as if I could move again properly!

The whole city centre seemed like it was exhaling, actually, and there were so many gorgeous people out and about. This was somewhat tempered by the fact that, compared to how it used to be, the city was empty. Driving in at about eight thirty, people were conspicuous by their very absence. I don’t believe I have ever seen Town quieter on a Saturday night. But Temple Bar had a reasonable crowd, and the posters on the hoardings made me as happy as they always do: concerts, comedy gigs, theatre productions, protests, exhibitions – it’s good to see there is still plenty afoot in Dublin, despite its abandoned weekend.

There is something distinct and special about the Saturday night energy. I love people watching and I will be quite delighted to sit in a café during the day and watch the world go by. The thing is though that a different dynamic exists. It’s all a lot more structured, a lot more for show. People have a plan, a schedule, they’ve got appointments to keep and a set list of shops to visit. They have children with them or washing to hang out when they get home; they are, in short, preoccupied. Whereas people on a Saturday night are, generally speaking, looser, freer, more alive to the music and rhythms around them. They’ve done the prep work – fixed the hair, shaved the legs – they’re rocking the new clothes they bought earlier in the day and they’re ready for whatever comes next, but most of them are also OK with whatever’s happening now. They’ve got the buzz, and it’s a wonderful thing to observe.

Don’t get me wrong, there’s also the undeniable entertainment value of women in warm weather going out for the night. The skirts get shorter, the heels get higher, the tops get smaller and smaller. There are the usual orange faces and pink necks, the fake tanned legs and the white hands, the plasters covering the blistered heels. But it’s all good because there’s an underlying hum of excitement that infuses even the passersby with an element of vivacity.

The thing is, I suppose, that it’s like looking at what life should be like. It’s the hum of the Having A Good Time, or at least Expecting To Have A Good Time and, truthfully, what more do any of us want?

Of Atrophy.

Almost two years ago now, someone my heart loves deeply asked me to write things – anything – and to keep the words flowing from me. He understood that it was a healing process for me, and he told me that in writing words down, I was doing what he believed I was here, at least partially, to do. I promised him I would try.

In the time since, as my words slowly but surely faltered, I have felt more and more stuck, more and more closed off and sanded in. And I am – and have been – scared to put down words because it seems as if the only thing that ever trickles out is dissatisfaction and despair. The words that I wish would come stall in my mouth and at my finger tips, choked up with remorse and with the seeming futility of it all. I thought I had found my place in the world and that I had reached that contentment that most people only dream of. I thought that I had reached a point in my life where, even if I was alone, I was happy and whole and free.

I don’t know if I made a mistake letting someone else in. I can’t believe, given the love that I feel, that this was a bad move, an erroneous decision, something to debate even. But I am not myself. I have lost my balance, my centre. I never really believed I would feel this love again and, when TRM and I split, I wondered if it was even worth trying given that I was, in reality, obviously better off with a part time relationship even if I wanted something more permanent and solid. I couldn’t say no to something so sweet and honest and knowing, to someone who knew me so well and wanted to learn more each day, to someone who really sees me with all my goodness, flaws and strengths and loves me with all of them. We made a choice. I made a choice. I do not regret it, and I make it again every single day whole-heartedly.

But still I wonder if I am better off alone. Some deep voice inside me says that I was born to be a loner. I do more, I see more and I am more aware when I am by myself. I am a better parent when I don’t have anyone else to lean on. I have the space to move about and to breathe when I am single, although he knows from so much past experience that I need space and gives it willingly when I ask. I don’t know entirely what the problem is because I know it’s not him. It doesn’t help that I loathe my job, obviously, or that I resent the fact that I wish my days away when I should be living them. Not in some advertiser’s dream sort of living them, but in the manner of using all my days to bring something good into play. I think it is this more than anything else that kills the words in my head: this utter waste of days and months that sucks dry my enthusiasm for life in general. I know I need to get out but I do not know where I can go from here.

It may sound arrogant but I don’t want to waste my life. I know I have so much to be thankful for, and underneath this deathly weight, I am. But I know that if I leave it much longer, I will suffocate. There is so much that I want to be, and so much that I already am that is atrophying and dying. All those lessons I have learned, those experiences that I have grown from, seem like nothing at all in the face of this overwhelming boredom with what I have to live with in order to keep a roof over our heads. It’s necessary but it’s killing me; it is stealing my life.

I am going to try to ensure that this is the last post I will ever write about hating what I do with my days. We all deserve better. I know that some people can shake it all off as they walk out the office door every day, that some don’t really care what they do, or even give it much thought. I don’t know if I’m envious of them or not. I never really believed the ‘ignorance is bliss’ line, to be honest.

My words deserve something better; a finer subject. I will find it.


D’you ever have that realisation, after the fact, that you’ve been handed something priceless and that you were totally unaware of this fact at the time of the giving?

This evening I was given an amazing gift by my father-in-law: a gift of thoughts and words that I didn’t know how much I needed to hear, or how astonishingly clearly they put things into perspective for me. Someone once told me that my mantra should be “Dear God, please allow me to hear the truth about myself.” From time to time, I remember it and I ask for that blessing. I tend to forget, though, that it often comes from the most unexpected places.