I love music. Songs are truly the soundtrack to my life. It was pointed out last October by a dear new friend that we met in Montana, that I have a song for everything. I spent the entire fortnight finding songs appropriate to every situation. I just do. It's fun.
When I was pregnant with my son Max, I had few cravings: Granny Smith apples, the colour red and classical music. Mostly Bach and Mozart - I enjoyed their ordered simplicity, it soothed me. Occasionally, when feeling particularly hormonal, I would listen to Chopin.
I have to tell you the funniest story. It happened when I was pregnant I think, or at least Max was very young. Gavin and I were driving up to Colinton in Edinburgh. I shared my mum's old Fiesta with my younger brother and it was my week for driving. We drove past a Hedgehog in the middle of the road. Being bleeding heart Art Students we decided that the only possible action was to stop the car and rescue the poor soul.
As we stopped the car, a lorry drove past, squashing the Hedgehog flat. Yes, what's so funny about that? Well nothing. Except that as we watched this poor creature shuffle off this mortal coil, Chopin's Requiem was playing on the tape recorder.
It was too funny. I told you, God's a funny guy! Who do you imagine invented humour?
Anyway, I digress. Actually I've digressed so much that I've completely forgotten what I had to say.
Oh yes, music. You've probably gathered that I have fairly Catholic tastes in music. Funny expression that. The Catholics I've met - in real life and through study, have seemed to me pretty conservative in their tastes. Although I am happy to have had the privilege of meeting many wonderful exceptions to this rule.
I thought about it and guess that the term was coined to describe the Vatican's well read and well educated house. "know thine enemy". It comes from a good Source and for good reason. How can we control our subjects if we don't know what makes them tick?
Shame though. They missed out on a lot of fun by banning and denying all that great literature and art.
No matter of course since it only serves to make it more powerful.
My musical tastes - Catholic. Okay it's pretty safe. I like a good melody and interesting words, and a good beat, oh and the potential to sing and dance along. Not many requirements. I am innately lazy and pleasure seeking in my musical tastes. I love James Taylor and Lyle Lovett. I love Ella Fitzgerald and Joni Mitchell and Carole King and Carly Simon. I love Reggae music. What a beat.
We watched a programme on BBC 4 and they explained the beat of Reggae music. The trick is to fuse the drums and the base into one beat, one vibration - like a heartbeat. Brilliant. My favourite is "Stir It Up".
I had the pleasure of seeing The Wailers at the Vintage at Goodwood Festival. They were amazing. I'd been feeling a bit miserable, and behaving miserably, much to my disgust. I was standing in a long slow queue for the toilets when I heard the strains of "Stir It Up" drifting towards me in the dark. I was mesmerised - swaying and singing harmonies like a loony. I didn't care.
I watched them for as long as I could. Dancing and singing at the top of my voice, a permanent grin on my face. What's not to love? A stage full of beautiful Rastafarians full of talent and sure of who they are - their place in the world. That's very sexy. And the music is sexy - primal and rhythmic and in tune with who we are in the best sense of the word.
Mmm, I also love ballads. I'm a Balladeer at heart. I'm not a rocker, although I do fancy myself as Trailer Trash Country. I love The Dixie Chicks. My friend Cara put me onto them and I am eternally grateful.
One of my favourites is "Tonight The Heartache's on Me". It's brilliant, telling the story of a woman alone in a bar when her ex lover walks in with his new girlfriend. She looks like an angel and he looks smug as. Her answer is to take it on the chin and invite everyone to drink a toast to her - the butt of the joke.
I also adore Paul Weller - Mod Father and founder of The Jam. I first fell in love with Paul and his beautiful songs when I was about twelve. I used to make my own badges and listened to all their albums. Favourites of mine were Eton Rifles and All Mod Cons. There is a song on All Mod Cons that has my stomach turning somersaults just thinking about it. It is a song called "English Rose". I am hoping that our new friend Skyler the Cowboy will sing it when we move to Montana. It begins with the most beautiful and haunting fog horns. Yes really! And then the achingly moving and simple voice of the Mod Father himself soars quietly above the waves and the sound of trains in the distance. Exquisite.
Oh but what about Disco?! I love Disco. "Halston, Gucci, Fiorucci". I begged my mum to bring me back a bottle of Halston perfume from America. I treasured it for years, still do. It felt and smelt so glamorous - just like Studio 54.
One of my favourites is "Young Hearts Run Free". I identified so strongly with the lyrics of that song. I used to sing it to myself while working on the shop floor as a Management Trainee for Jenners. I would day dream about a time in the future when I could go back to my first loves - sculpting and writing and singing and living in La La Land.
My list is endless and you've probably had enough now. So I will leave you with another line from a song very dear to my heart.
Perhaps a wee hymn, it being Sunday n all. "Sing Hosanna" is one of my favourites. I was a choir girl after all. God and I sing that one a lot. You can really belt it out and it sounds pretty funny, especially when I burst out involuntarily. God really does have a sense of humour.
Thank you for reading this and thank you even if you didn't.
x
PS: I've put links to some of my favourite songs on my Blog - take a look!
Sunday, 27 February 2011
Friday, 25 February 2011
The Good Wife
I am a wife. I consider myself a good wife. Or even a Good Wife. I make this claim because I know what it is to be a poor wife.
Sadly my first husband bore the brunt of my learning - by trial and error mostly - okay by error mostly. I call Gavin my first husband now. I have much experience of Exs and I don't think it's an appropriate word to describe a previous spouse. Yes it feels good at the beginning when we want to reinforce our decision and forge a separate identity.
But they are never really our ex-spouse. How can it be so? I have a son with my first husband. My husband has two sons with his last wife. I know that such bonds cannot be broken, no matter how hard we try to destroy them, like an animal who would chew off his own leg to gain his freedom.
I have some experience of divorce. I remember hearing Billy Connolly's version of "D.I.V.O.R.C.E" and loving the words, too young to know what they meant - just that they were funny in his hands.
So I was with my first husband for thirteen years. Something I regard as a success. We were young when we met - 17 and 18. We grew up together and grew apart. I am not surprised. We each brought a lot of baggage to our marriage. It was interesting, and fun, and challenging and I wouldn't change it for the world. Which brings me to my current husband.
I have had the pleasure of knowing Chris for some thirteen years - as long as I was with Gav. It was love at first sight and I don't write that lightly. We met when his then business partner Bill double booked an appointment I had to view a clothing collection and fobbed me off on Chris. Despite having visited their showrooms previously, I had never met Chris and didn't even know he existed.
It was July and I was knee deep in the middle of a buying season. I had left my husband some five months earlier and was still reeling from the pain and shock and overwhelming sense of failure that our separation had brought so violently to the fore. Truth be told I was also still recovering from a broken heart - a doomed love which had given me the impetus to leave forever.
So not really paying much attention to my imminent appointment, I sat down to wait on a black leather sofa which now resides in our marital home. When Chris walked into Reception and I stood up to shake his hand, the weirdest thing happened. Remember I told you about my mum speaking to me? Well this is the precursor to that.
As I stood and reached out my hand to greet this stranger. As I looked him square in the eyes, as I had been taught, as I placed my small hand into his strong, large one, I heard a voice.
And the voice that I heard was my own. Too strange for words. As I gazed into my future husband's eyes and felt his warm, safe hand envelope mine, I heard my own voice say distinctly: "I want to spend the rest of my life with this man".
Can you imagine? Has it happened to you? I didn't know what had hit me. It was such a strange thing to say to myself. I spent the entire appointment tongue tied and clumsy and I left their showroom on a different planet.
It was many years before my initial thought became even remotely possible and our love was not consummated for many years, but I never forgot that moment and it sustained me through many a painful experience.
Many years later and happily married, I realised what it was that I had felt that summer's evening so many years before. I felt as though I recognised him. I recognised my future husband. I looked into his eyes and I relaxed, knowing that I'd found my soul mate.
I know it all sounds very romantic - and it was to me. The reality of our situation was rather more mundane and complicated. Isn't it always? But the knowledge that I was given that day and the solid love that has grown out of not only our years together, but our shared experiences, has proven to be the perfect recipe for our marriage.
Oh God, I sound like a Mills and Boon novel! Yes, well, that's how I feel. So now I can tell you why I think I am a good wife.
I am a good wife by instinct. Everything that I didn't do in my first marriage I try to do in this one. It is no effort, that is it's strength. I know that our aim is to love unconditionally and let go of Maya - illusion. And I have struggled for many years to overcome my demons and live in that way. This is different. Different in that being a good wife to my beautiful husband Chris is no effort, no chore. I love him unconditionally just like in the movies. I want to please him because his happiness is one of my main goals.
Now I subscribe to Deepak Chopra's view that we all have our Dharma - our one unique talent, skill that is individual to each of us. The belief (Hindu I think) is that we each have one special gift, something that we have a passion for and therefore we are good at. The combination of happiness and purpose is a powerful one - the most powerful.
Well, I reckon that I am Chris's Dharma. It seems to be true. His purpose in life, the thing that he is better than anyone else at, is me. Wow. How lucky am I?
Shall I tell you what he said to me quite early on in our relationship? I was bemoaning some situation, at work probably, and he made a pertinent observation about it and my feelings. I was so taken aback by someone noticing that I asked him how he came to know this about me. His reply to this day is still the loveliest thing that anyone has ever said to me. He said:
"I pay attention to you."
How beautiful is that? What more do any of us really want but to be noticed, to be heard. I once told that story to a group of my girlfriends. The collective aah that rang round the table was deafening.
So Chris, who is 20 years my senior and all the better for it, continues to inspire me to feats of selflessness that I had only dreamed possible. Of course they're not selfless at all, I just choose to consider them that way. If Chris is happy then I'm happy - whatever that involves.
And I've found that in practising selflessness I am become less selfish. Despite my false altruism I am changed by loving Chris unconditionally. It has made me a better person and a better wife.
Perhaps that is a more appropriate title for this piece. "The Better Wife". Yes, I like that. That sounds much more interesting and flexible than 'good'. More room for manoeuvre in that. Because although I claim such things for myself, I only do so within the context of our relationship. Many of the things that I think make me a better wife would be heinous crimes in some eyes. Isn't that always the case? And I don't care. It's none of my business what other people think of me.
I'll just carry on striving to be a better wife and therefore a better mother, daughter, friend. Because it feels like the right thing to do.
Thank you husbands.
x
Sadly my first husband bore the brunt of my learning - by trial and error mostly - okay by error mostly. I call Gavin my first husband now. I have much experience of Exs and I don't think it's an appropriate word to describe a previous spouse. Yes it feels good at the beginning when we want to reinforce our decision and forge a separate identity.
But they are never really our ex-spouse. How can it be so? I have a son with my first husband. My husband has two sons with his last wife. I know that such bonds cannot be broken, no matter how hard we try to destroy them, like an animal who would chew off his own leg to gain his freedom.
I have some experience of divorce. I remember hearing Billy Connolly's version of "D.I.V.O.R.C.E" and loving the words, too young to know what they meant - just that they were funny in his hands.
So I was with my first husband for thirteen years. Something I regard as a success. We were young when we met - 17 and 18. We grew up together and grew apart. I am not surprised. We each brought a lot of baggage to our marriage. It was interesting, and fun, and challenging and I wouldn't change it for the world. Which brings me to my current husband.
I have had the pleasure of knowing Chris for some thirteen years - as long as I was with Gav. It was love at first sight and I don't write that lightly. We met when his then business partner Bill double booked an appointment I had to view a clothing collection and fobbed me off on Chris. Despite having visited their showrooms previously, I had never met Chris and didn't even know he existed.
It was July and I was knee deep in the middle of a buying season. I had left my husband some five months earlier and was still reeling from the pain and shock and overwhelming sense of failure that our separation had brought so violently to the fore. Truth be told I was also still recovering from a broken heart - a doomed love which had given me the impetus to leave forever.
So not really paying much attention to my imminent appointment, I sat down to wait on a black leather sofa which now resides in our marital home. When Chris walked into Reception and I stood up to shake his hand, the weirdest thing happened. Remember I told you about my mum speaking to me? Well this is the precursor to that.
As I stood and reached out my hand to greet this stranger. As I looked him square in the eyes, as I had been taught, as I placed my small hand into his strong, large one, I heard a voice.
And the voice that I heard was my own. Too strange for words. As I gazed into my future husband's eyes and felt his warm, safe hand envelope mine, I heard my own voice say distinctly: "I want to spend the rest of my life with this man".
Can you imagine? Has it happened to you? I didn't know what had hit me. It was such a strange thing to say to myself. I spent the entire appointment tongue tied and clumsy and I left their showroom on a different planet.
It was many years before my initial thought became even remotely possible and our love was not consummated for many years, but I never forgot that moment and it sustained me through many a painful experience.
Many years later and happily married, I realised what it was that I had felt that summer's evening so many years before. I felt as though I recognised him. I recognised my future husband. I looked into his eyes and I relaxed, knowing that I'd found my soul mate.
I know it all sounds very romantic - and it was to me. The reality of our situation was rather more mundane and complicated. Isn't it always? But the knowledge that I was given that day and the solid love that has grown out of not only our years together, but our shared experiences, has proven to be the perfect recipe for our marriage.
Oh God, I sound like a Mills and Boon novel! Yes, well, that's how I feel. So now I can tell you why I think I am a good wife.
I am a good wife by instinct. Everything that I didn't do in my first marriage I try to do in this one. It is no effort, that is it's strength. I know that our aim is to love unconditionally and let go of Maya - illusion. And I have struggled for many years to overcome my demons and live in that way. This is different. Different in that being a good wife to my beautiful husband Chris is no effort, no chore. I love him unconditionally just like in the movies. I want to please him because his happiness is one of my main goals.
Now I subscribe to Deepak Chopra's view that we all have our Dharma - our one unique talent, skill that is individual to each of us. The belief (Hindu I think) is that we each have one special gift, something that we have a passion for and therefore we are good at. The combination of happiness and purpose is a powerful one - the most powerful.
Well, I reckon that I am Chris's Dharma. It seems to be true. His purpose in life, the thing that he is better than anyone else at, is me. Wow. How lucky am I?
Shall I tell you what he said to me quite early on in our relationship? I was bemoaning some situation, at work probably, and he made a pertinent observation about it and my feelings. I was so taken aback by someone noticing that I asked him how he came to know this about me. His reply to this day is still the loveliest thing that anyone has ever said to me. He said:
"I pay attention to you."
How beautiful is that? What more do any of us really want but to be noticed, to be heard. I once told that story to a group of my girlfriends. The collective aah that rang round the table was deafening.
So Chris, who is 20 years my senior and all the better for it, continues to inspire me to feats of selflessness that I had only dreamed possible. Of course they're not selfless at all, I just choose to consider them that way. If Chris is happy then I'm happy - whatever that involves.
And I've found that in practising selflessness I am become less selfish. Despite my false altruism I am changed by loving Chris unconditionally. It has made me a better person and a better wife.
Perhaps that is a more appropriate title for this piece. "The Better Wife". Yes, I like that. That sounds much more interesting and flexible than 'good'. More room for manoeuvre in that. Because although I claim such things for myself, I only do so within the context of our relationship. Many of the things that I think make me a better wife would be heinous crimes in some eyes. Isn't that always the case? And I don't care. It's none of my business what other people think of me.
I'll just carry on striving to be a better wife and therefore a better mother, daughter, friend. Because it feels like the right thing to do.
Thank you husbands.
x
Wednesday, 23 February 2011
God's Footballer
God's footballer hears the voices of angels
Above the choir at Molineux
God's footballer stands on the doorstep
And brings the Good News of the Kingdom to come
While the crowd sings 'Rock of Ages'
The goals bring weekly wages
Yet the glory of the sports pages
Is but the worship of false idols and tempts him not
God's footballer turns on a sixpence
And brings the Great crowd to their feet in praise of him
God's footballer quotes from the Gospels
While knocking on doors in Black Country back streets
He scores goals on a Saturday
And saves souls on a Sunday
For the Lord says these are the Last Days
Prepare thyself for the Judgement yet to come
His career will be over soon
And the rituals of a Saturday afternoon
Bid him a reluctant farewell
For he knows beyond the sport lies the spiritual
God's Footballer by Billy Bragg
I love Billy Bragg. I love his songs. He writes some of the best lyrics I've ever heard. How about "Sexuality"? Brilliant. Not love, not passion, just good clean (or dirty) sex - however you like it amongst consenting adults.
I saw Billy Bragg at The Barrowlands in Glasgow in the Eighties. My boyfriend Scott took me and I threw a tantrum because he'd got us a prime position in front of the stage and I was feeling claustrophobic - spoilt brat.
Billy was amazing. He is everything that is good and true in a man. He is an honest working class poet. He has a strong moral code and stands up for what he believes in - a man of courage. A man with "core values" as my husband would say. Mm.
Anyway, I digress - for God is indeed a footballer and plays through the feet of these young sportsmen just as sure as Christ was his son. Which leads me on to the subject of today's Blog.
Today Chris and I watched the Crawley Town v Manchester United FA Cup match on telly. We were having a well earned day off, the first of three in a row, and I was feeling at peace with the world having had a productively lazy day - my favourite kind!
So I was in good spirits when I curled up to watch the match featuring as it did our local West Sussex boys. We had discussed it the night before, Chris and I, and we figured that Man U would go easy on them in the first half, out of respect. And then they'd throw everything at them and end up winning four nil or something. And we were right. But also surprisingly and most thrillingly wrong.
It was a delightfully David and Goliath scenario with Crawley fighting hard and winning possession against the mighty Man U. And they won! Okay the score was 1-0 to Goliath but Crawley outplayed and outran them by a mile. It was a joy to watch. Nothing deterred them. They were fearless and brilliant in their attack and their defence. The Dutch goalie Kuipers was sheer genius and a pleasure to watch - England team take note. The Man of the Match was awarded to Pablo Gill the Crawley Town Captain. He was fantastic - always on the ball and playing for the team. Torres was on brilliant form too - he didn't miss an opportunity once and his one yellow card is just testament to how tenacious he was.
Manchester United had some good players too but they lacked lustre, as if they didn't have the heart to fight their opponent. I have respect for that. But even when they threw Rooney at them, they still had no oomph.
I've been a football fan since I was young and used to watch it on a Sunday afternoon with my dad. Snooker, Golf, Formula One and Football. My dad would fall asleep and I would remain beside him, watching attentively so that i could update him when he awoke.
And what about the footballers themselves? I know often they behave like spoilt kids, paid too much money and treated like kings, but who wouldn't if transported into such an unreal world at such an early age. I love footballers as much as the beautiful game itself. Thierry Henry? Yes please. David James - a Renaissance Man no less. Zinedine Zidane - I loved it when he lamped his opponent in The World Cup for insulting his mother! Football is a great game - entertaining in so many ways (especially for a woman) representative of life itself.
Here's to Crawley Town! Here's to David, the underdog!
x
Above the choir at Molineux
God's footballer stands on the doorstep
And brings the Good News of the Kingdom to come
While the crowd sings 'Rock of Ages'
The goals bring weekly wages
Yet the glory of the sports pages
Is but the worship of false idols and tempts him not
God's footballer turns on a sixpence
And brings the Great crowd to their feet in praise of him
God's footballer quotes from the Gospels
While knocking on doors in Black Country back streets
He scores goals on a Saturday
And saves souls on a Sunday
For the Lord says these are the Last Days
Prepare thyself for the Judgement yet to come
His career will be over soon
And the rituals of a Saturday afternoon
Bid him a reluctant farewell
For he knows beyond the sport lies the spiritual
God's Footballer by Billy Bragg
I love Billy Bragg. I love his songs. He writes some of the best lyrics I've ever heard. How about "Sexuality"? Brilliant. Not love, not passion, just good clean (or dirty) sex - however you like it amongst consenting adults.
I saw Billy Bragg at The Barrowlands in Glasgow in the Eighties. My boyfriend Scott took me and I threw a tantrum because he'd got us a prime position in front of the stage and I was feeling claustrophobic - spoilt brat.
Billy was amazing. He is everything that is good and true in a man. He is an honest working class poet. He has a strong moral code and stands up for what he believes in - a man of courage. A man with "core values" as my husband would say. Mm.
Anyway, I digress - for God is indeed a footballer and plays through the feet of these young sportsmen just as sure as Christ was his son. Which leads me on to the subject of today's Blog.
Today Chris and I watched the Crawley Town v Manchester United FA Cup match on telly. We were having a well earned day off, the first of three in a row, and I was feeling at peace with the world having had a productively lazy day - my favourite kind!
So I was in good spirits when I curled up to watch the match featuring as it did our local West Sussex boys. We had discussed it the night before, Chris and I, and we figured that Man U would go easy on them in the first half, out of respect. And then they'd throw everything at them and end up winning four nil or something. And we were right. But also surprisingly and most thrillingly wrong.
It was a delightfully David and Goliath scenario with Crawley fighting hard and winning possession against the mighty Man U. And they won! Okay the score was 1-0 to Goliath but Crawley outplayed and outran them by a mile. It was a joy to watch. Nothing deterred them. They were fearless and brilliant in their attack and their defence. The Dutch goalie Kuipers was sheer genius and a pleasure to watch - England team take note. The Man of the Match was awarded to Pablo Gill the Crawley Town Captain. He was fantastic - always on the ball and playing for the team. Torres was on brilliant form too - he didn't miss an opportunity once and his one yellow card is just testament to how tenacious he was.
Manchester United had some good players too but they lacked lustre, as if they didn't have the heart to fight their opponent. I have respect for that. But even when they threw Rooney at them, they still had no oomph.
I've been a football fan since I was young and used to watch it on a Sunday afternoon with my dad. Snooker, Golf, Formula One and Football. My dad would fall asleep and I would remain beside him, watching attentively so that i could update him when he awoke.
And what about the footballers themselves? I know often they behave like spoilt kids, paid too much money and treated like kings, but who wouldn't if transported into such an unreal world at such an early age. I love footballers as much as the beautiful game itself. Thierry Henry? Yes please. David James - a Renaissance Man no less. Zinedine Zidane - I loved it when he lamped his opponent in The World Cup for insulting his mother! Football is a great game - entertaining in so many ways (especially for a woman) representative of life itself.
Here's to Crawley Town! Here's to David, the underdog!
x
Saturday, 19 February 2011
Let's talk about God baby...
"Let's talk about God baby. Let's talk about You and Me. Let's talk about all the good things and the bad things we can be. Let's talk about God. Let's talk about God." Thank you Salt n Pepa (with a little amendment from me).
Emboldened by blaming everything on my friend Cara, and having promised myself that no topic is taboo, I want to talk about God.
Scary! God is a sensitive subject but I subscribe to the view that God is individual to each of us. I began to question why we are here from a very young age - always asking questions!
Now, for many years I struggled even with the word God. I saw the word as a symbol of male domination and a weapon of control, bearing no relation to any concept that I could relate to. And so I turned to Eastern religion, studying Transcendental Meditation and reading books on Zen Buddhism and Taoism. The simplicity and "rightness" of their concepts made sense to me. The idea that we are all connected, that we are here on this earth to evolve spiritually, that we reincarnate all made sense to me.
I spent 5 years studying 12th to 16th Century Italian and Flemish art at university and at no point during my studies did I consider the Christian subject matter as representative of real life events. God as a big hairy scary man with a beard sitting on a cloud shouting at everyone? Everyone told how to behave by more beardy men who subjugate women and persecute minorities? Nah, no thanks. I'm a woman, I'm not a practicing Christian, I like sex! This Christian God just wasn't believable to me.
But there was something out there that I was desperate to find, to understand. As early as age 5 I can remember lying in my bed in the dark and trying to figure out what was going on, why I was here. So how did I get to where I am today with my own personal faith and my own relationship with God?
I'm nosey - I like to know things, we all do. And despite my lack of faith in the Christian God that I was raised under, I still knew that there was something more out there - something more than just the life in front of my nose.
God aka: The Observer, the source, the field of intention, Love (my favourite), the Almighty, infinite, all pervading - the list goes on. I have finally decided that despite my aversion the the word, God is still the most easily translated. So God is the word I will use for these purposes.
Maybe I'll tell you where I am now and then fill in the gaps: At 45 I am now a true believer in God. I regard my faith in God as immutable - more of a knowing than a belief. I see God in everything and pay more and more attention to his messages, many of which are delivered with a sense of humour which rivals Billy Connolly's!
I use the term God and the male form because that is how it is in this Christian society. It still rankles to have to do so because I hate the connotations, the idea that God is a man. Not only does it offend my feminist sensibilities but more than that - I cannot bear that we have created God in our image as if we are the be all and end all - too arrogant. To do so is to limit Ourselves and our God - proof of which is in every war, every murder, every lie. Excuse my outburst, I feel strongly about this.
For me God is in the spaces. God IS the spaces. I like to understand things, I like to fit all the pieces of the puzzle together so that I can assimilate stuff - make sense of it. God continues to be my most constant study. And the more I discover the more I am changed.
Now those of you who know me well (and some of those who don't!) will know that I have lived my life fully, so to speak. By that I mean I have had my share of experiences - many of them melodramatic, many of them leaving devastation in their wake. But I'm not a born again Christian by any means. In fact if I manage to explain my own personal God to you then there are many who will regard it as blasphemy. That doesn't concern me, none of my business. We all have our own personal Gods even if that god is money or power or doing good. Every one of them serve their purpose - I know.
Key texts which have helped me on my spiritual journey:
Anything by the Dalai Llama
The Little Prince by Antoine De Saint Exupery
Conversations With God by (well, God) and Neale Donald Walsch
The Tao Of Physics by Fritjof Capra
Manifest Your Destiny by Wayne Dyer
What The Bleep Do We Know - film and book
How To Know God by Deepak Chopra
The Seven Secrets of a Successful Person (or something like that) by Steven Covey
Don't Sweat The Small Stuff, and it's All Small Stuff by the wonderful and now departed Richard Carlsson
Oh I can't think, and looking at my list it reads like an art student's - which I guess it is! But that is who I am. I'm a woman and artistic and a mother and a wife and my faith reflects who I am - as it does for all of us.
The biggest clarification as to what God is came for me through reading "Conversations With God". My sister had given me the book some 18 months before I first picked it up. Knowing my interest in this subject and always being so thoughtful with gifts, she had given it to me for my previous birthday. But having such a strong revulsion to the word and concept of God, I had shoved it on a shelf and ignored it.
Ah but everything in its time and place. When my mum died after a long battle with breast cancer, and my life had once more sunk to depths of grief and pain beyond that which I'd experienced before, I returned to this book in desperation.
What I found was a text that changed my life. Oh dear, I am sounding a bit evangelical! I really don't mean to. This is my own personal experience and I share it with you because I've learnt a lot. And a bit like Therapy, if I can help another in a similar situation then it seems worthwhile.
So to give you the gist of the text: this book is by God, translated by Neale Donald Walsch (thank you). In it God discusses his reasons for creating us and the world we experience. What kept me reading is that his words described my own life experiences perfectly. I'm not saying it was easy reading, especially with my prejudices. God had to talk a lot of sense before I was going to take him seriously.
I remember standing in the middle of Islington in London - out on a day trip to search out new business - and reading and re-reading the first pages of this book. I confess it took a while for my brain to absorb it because (as my sister says) I had no files on this.
The gist of the book is this: Neale Donald Walsch sat down one day and ranted to God, writing down all his questions and complaints...and he got a reply. Yes, weird. As he sat with his words on the page he had the urge to pick up his pen and write. And the words that he wrote were the words of God. Freaky huh? Too right! He was freaked by it, I was freaked by it.
But as I read on I discovered that it all made perfect sense. I mean Perfect. So God tells of how he was sitting up there just "being" in all his glorious and infinite perfection. And he got bored. What's the point of "being" if you can't experience it? So he decided to break himself up into "individuations" (Neale's word) of God - Us. And being individuations of God, we are imbued with the same qualities, the same abilities, the same choices - that is every choice. In making us in His image, we each have the power to create our own lives.
Pretty powerful stuff and like I said, fairly inflammatory. Okay, downright blasphemous. But these are God's words. Yes interpreted through a writer, but undeniable - to me anyway. Because I had proof of what I read, what He said. I had lived my life in a frenzy of experiences and I had concluded that the words I read were true for me.
True because God tells us to question everything. He tells us to be suspicious of religions which would have us subjugate our right to choice. He tells us to listen to ourselves and remember what we know. And He talks of Quantum Physical phenomena like the time - space continuum and the constant momentum of everything.
Once I assimilated the ideas and connected them to my own experiences, the book made me laugh - roar with laughter! Seriously, the Buddha laughs for good reason - he knows how the world works. God is a funny guy. Did you know - Neuro Scientists have proven that we learn best when laughter is involved. It leads to optimum absorption of information. Think about that. really think about it. How cool is that?! We learn through laughter, we learn through having a good time, feeling good. Nice one God.
That's probably enough for now. I never imagined I would write the above - I never imagined I would feel this way. I always regarded my faith as a private matter and was embarrassed by people who did discuss it in public. But it is part of who I am and I think that the fact that I am a Divorcee, a Step Mother, the daughter of a cancer victim, a bit of a loony (although I prefer the term eccentric), totally in love with my husband and a believer in God is interesting and probably makes me similar to a lot of you out there.
I'd love to know what your own experiences are, so let me know if you want to discuss.
x
Emboldened by blaming everything on my friend Cara, and having promised myself that no topic is taboo, I want to talk about God.
Scary! God is a sensitive subject but I subscribe to the view that God is individual to each of us. I began to question why we are here from a very young age - always asking questions!
Now, for many years I struggled even with the word God. I saw the word as a symbol of male domination and a weapon of control, bearing no relation to any concept that I could relate to. And so I turned to Eastern religion, studying Transcendental Meditation and reading books on Zen Buddhism and Taoism. The simplicity and "rightness" of their concepts made sense to me. The idea that we are all connected, that we are here on this earth to evolve spiritually, that we reincarnate all made sense to me.
I spent 5 years studying 12th to 16th Century Italian and Flemish art at university and at no point during my studies did I consider the Christian subject matter as representative of real life events. God as a big hairy scary man with a beard sitting on a cloud shouting at everyone? Everyone told how to behave by more beardy men who subjugate women and persecute minorities? Nah, no thanks. I'm a woman, I'm not a practicing Christian, I like sex! This Christian God just wasn't believable to me.
But there was something out there that I was desperate to find, to understand. As early as age 5 I can remember lying in my bed in the dark and trying to figure out what was going on, why I was here. So how did I get to where I am today with my own personal faith and my own relationship with God?
I'm nosey - I like to know things, we all do. And despite my lack of faith in the Christian God that I was raised under, I still knew that there was something more out there - something more than just the life in front of my nose.
God aka: The Observer, the source, the field of intention, Love (my favourite), the Almighty, infinite, all pervading - the list goes on. I have finally decided that despite my aversion the the word, God is still the most easily translated. So God is the word I will use for these purposes.
Maybe I'll tell you where I am now and then fill in the gaps: At 45 I am now a true believer in God. I regard my faith in God as immutable - more of a knowing than a belief. I see God in everything and pay more and more attention to his messages, many of which are delivered with a sense of humour which rivals Billy Connolly's!
I use the term God and the male form because that is how it is in this Christian society. It still rankles to have to do so because I hate the connotations, the idea that God is a man. Not only does it offend my feminist sensibilities but more than that - I cannot bear that we have created God in our image as if we are the be all and end all - too arrogant. To do so is to limit Ourselves and our God - proof of which is in every war, every murder, every lie. Excuse my outburst, I feel strongly about this.
For me God is in the spaces. God IS the spaces. I like to understand things, I like to fit all the pieces of the puzzle together so that I can assimilate stuff - make sense of it. God continues to be my most constant study. And the more I discover the more I am changed.
Now those of you who know me well (and some of those who don't!) will know that I have lived my life fully, so to speak. By that I mean I have had my share of experiences - many of them melodramatic, many of them leaving devastation in their wake. But I'm not a born again Christian by any means. In fact if I manage to explain my own personal God to you then there are many who will regard it as blasphemy. That doesn't concern me, none of my business. We all have our own personal Gods even if that god is money or power or doing good. Every one of them serve their purpose - I know.
Key texts which have helped me on my spiritual journey:
Anything by the Dalai Llama
The Little Prince by Antoine De Saint Exupery
Conversations With God by (well, God) and Neale Donald Walsch
The Tao Of Physics by Fritjof Capra
Manifest Your Destiny by Wayne Dyer
What The Bleep Do We Know - film and book
How To Know God by Deepak Chopra
The Seven Secrets of a Successful Person (or something like that) by Steven Covey
Don't Sweat The Small Stuff, and it's All Small Stuff by the wonderful and now departed Richard Carlsson
Oh I can't think, and looking at my list it reads like an art student's - which I guess it is! But that is who I am. I'm a woman and artistic and a mother and a wife and my faith reflects who I am - as it does for all of us.
The biggest clarification as to what God is came for me through reading "Conversations With God". My sister had given me the book some 18 months before I first picked it up. Knowing my interest in this subject and always being so thoughtful with gifts, she had given it to me for my previous birthday. But having such a strong revulsion to the word and concept of God, I had shoved it on a shelf and ignored it.
Ah but everything in its time and place. When my mum died after a long battle with breast cancer, and my life had once more sunk to depths of grief and pain beyond that which I'd experienced before, I returned to this book in desperation.
What I found was a text that changed my life. Oh dear, I am sounding a bit evangelical! I really don't mean to. This is my own personal experience and I share it with you because I've learnt a lot. And a bit like Therapy, if I can help another in a similar situation then it seems worthwhile.
So to give you the gist of the text: this book is by God, translated by Neale Donald Walsch (thank you). In it God discusses his reasons for creating us and the world we experience. What kept me reading is that his words described my own life experiences perfectly. I'm not saying it was easy reading, especially with my prejudices. God had to talk a lot of sense before I was going to take him seriously.
I remember standing in the middle of Islington in London - out on a day trip to search out new business - and reading and re-reading the first pages of this book. I confess it took a while for my brain to absorb it because (as my sister says) I had no files on this.
The gist of the book is this: Neale Donald Walsch sat down one day and ranted to God, writing down all his questions and complaints...and he got a reply. Yes, weird. As he sat with his words on the page he had the urge to pick up his pen and write. And the words that he wrote were the words of God. Freaky huh? Too right! He was freaked by it, I was freaked by it.
But as I read on I discovered that it all made perfect sense. I mean Perfect. So God tells of how he was sitting up there just "being" in all his glorious and infinite perfection. And he got bored. What's the point of "being" if you can't experience it? So he decided to break himself up into "individuations" (Neale's word) of God - Us. And being individuations of God, we are imbued with the same qualities, the same abilities, the same choices - that is every choice. In making us in His image, we each have the power to create our own lives.
Pretty powerful stuff and like I said, fairly inflammatory. Okay, downright blasphemous. But these are God's words. Yes interpreted through a writer, but undeniable - to me anyway. Because I had proof of what I read, what He said. I had lived my life in a frenzy of experiences and I had concluded that the words I read were true for me.
True because God tells us to question everything. He tells us to be suspicious of religions which would have us subjugate our right to choice. He tells us to listen to ourselves and remember what we know. And He talks of Quantum Physical phenomena like the time - space continuum and the constant momentum of everything.
Once I assimilated the ideas and connected them to my own experiences, the book made me laugh - roar with laughter! Seriously, the Buddha laughs for good reason - he knows how the world works. God is a funny guy. Did you know - Neuro Scientists have proven that we learn best when laughter is involved. It leads to optimum absorption of information. Think about that. really think about it. How cool is that?! We learn through laughter, we learn through having a good time, feeling good. Nice one God.
That's probably enough for now. I never imagined I would write the above - I never imagined I would feel this way. I always regarded my faith as a private matter and was embarrassed by people who did discuss it in public. But it is part of who I am and I think that the fact that I am a Divorcee, a Step Mother, the daughter of a cancer victim, a bit of a loony (although I prefer the term eccentric), totally in love with my husband and a believer in God is interesting and probably makes me similar to a lot of you out there.
I'd love to know what your own experiences are, so let me know if you want to discuss.
x
Hello everyone!
Hello! I've been buying all week in London - Autumn/Winter 2011. Yummy things ladies. Lots of delicious knitwear and fun & funky fake fur accessories - brilliant!
So I haven't been here to Blog. The one I've just posted is from 2 weeks ago.
I'm working hard on a Therapy Blog and it's nearly ready to launch. I don't want ot be wasting your time so it has to be good!
Speak to you soon.
Laura x
So I haven't been here to Blog. The one I've just posted is from 2 weeks ago.
I'm working hard on a Therapy Blog and it's nearly ready to launch. I don't want ot be wasting your time so it has to be good!
Speak to you soon.
Laura x
Blue
Blue
I know what I like and I have a capacity to repeat a pleasureable process ad nauseum (a human neccessity rather than anything unique to me). When I was a child my brothers and I were forced to take interminible drives in the country (I speak as a 7 year old - now I appreciate greatly the efforts my parents went to to keep us occupied and interested in the world around us).
Anyway, one of my methods of relieving boredom involved singing a certain (usually concocted on the spot and pertaining to a current topic) song repeatedly. Not only was there repetition but it was never ending. No matter how loud the admonishments or real the threat of The Wooden Spoon (“dodge the wooden spoon” - one of our favourites), I was not to be diverted from my mantra.
“This is a bumpy ro-oad, this is a bumpy road. This is a bumpy ro-oad, this is a bumpy road...” You get the picture.
I have continued my obsession with indulging my pleasures ad nauseum as I’ve travelled into adulthood. I have also continued my singing. Which brings me to “Blue”.
Ah Joni Mitchell. Don’t you just love her? Actually it’s just as likely that you don’t. She’s a bit like Marmite is old Joni, isn’t she? Like another favourite of mine, Barbra Streisand. We had a discussion about this, Chris, Heidi & I, you know - what is it about Joni and Barbra that can irk so? It was suggested that it’s their insistence on being most forcefully who they are. We humans aren’t comfortable with that, are we? Oooh no, being transparent, being “ourselves”...
“you’ve got to be feckin’ jokin’, am wan o’ them stripey things over there” (thanks Billy!)
Right now I’m sitting on a Southern Train to London Victoria and the haunting strains of “River” are playing out their drama in one ear while the besuited man diagonally opposite me gobbles the last of his Ginster. Here are the words:
It's coming on Christmas
They're cutting down trees
They're putting up reindeer
And singing songs of joy and peace
Oh I wish I had a river I could skate away on
But it don't snow here
It stays pretty green
I'm going to make a lot of money
Then I'm going to quit this crazy scene
Oh I wish I had a river I could skate away on
I wish I had a river so long
I would teach my feet to fly
I wish I had a river I could skate away on
I made my baby cry
He tried hard to help me
You know, he put me at ease
And he loved me so naughty
Made me weak in the knees
Oh, I wish I had a river I could skate away on
I'm so hard to handle
I'm selfish and I'm sad
Now I've gone and lost the best baby
That I ever had
I wish I had a river I could skate away on
Oh, I wish I had a river so long
I would teach my feet to fly
I wish I had a river
I could skate away on
I made my baby say goodbye
It's coming on Christmas
They're cutting down trees
They're putting up reindeer
And singing songs of joy and peace
I wish I had a river I could skate away on
© 1970; Joni Mitchell
(Listen to it on YouTube.)
It's coming on Christmas
They're cutting down trees
They're putting up reindeer
And singing songs of joy and peace
Oh I wish I had a river I could skate away on
But it don't snow here
It stays pretty green
I'm going to make a lot of money
Then I'm going to quit this crazy scene
Oh I wish I had a river I could skate away on
I wish I had a river so long
I would teach my feet to fly
I wish I had a river I could skate away on
I made my baby cry
He tried hard to help me
You know, he put me at ease
And he loved me so naughty
Made me weak in the knees
Oh, I wish I had a river I could skate away on
I'm so hard to handle
I'm selfish and I'm sad
Now I've gone and lost the best baby
That I ever had
I wish I had a river I could skate away on
Oh, I wish I had a river so long
I would teach my feet to fly
I wish I had a river
I could skate away on
I made my baby say goodbye
It's coming on Christmas
They're cutting down trees
They're putting up reindeer
And singing songs of joy and peace
I wish I had a river I could skate away on
© 1970; Joni Mitchell
(Listen to it on YouTube.)
This song reminds me of me. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve felt that way - yearning for an escape and lured by the fairytale. Nowadays it reminds me of my son too. Now in our twenty fourth year together, there have been many heart wrenching moments between us, and the line “I wish I had a river I could skate away on...I made my baby say goodbye” has a poignancy now that was missing all those years ago in my Edinburgh student house when I was first hooked in by “Glass Of You”.
Joni’s not the easiest to sing but I am determined to do something with her songs. Indeed, it’s thanks to old Joni and “Blue” that I’m inspired to attempt to warble in public once more.
I can carry a tune. Poor mum was always being slyly lambasted by my Grandma for her lack of a musical family. Grandma played the piano beautifully and I have a cousin who’s immediate family could put on a semi professional musical recital that would get the Classical X Factor judges talking (yes I am envious Trish!)
But I can carry a tune, I have a good ear (what, only one?) I am prone to ENT problems and so suffer from Tinnitus, but it doesn’t seem to interfere with my good ear. So I progressed on from tuneless dirges to my parents’ record collection.
Ah “California” is playing - this one I will sing. I love this song, it’s so light and cute and so filled with longing for a place that I have never visited but know I belong. And the song begins in Paris - one of my favourite cities - bliss. Really, it feels like this song is mine, tailor made for me and all my layers.
I sang at school - you know, the usual - choir, school productions, folk club, that sort of thing. Of course Scotland has a fine and ancient tradition of folk music - deep and lyrical and haunting and ethereal, like so much of Scotland.
But I can’t say I ever took it seriously. I sang because I loved to sing, in the same way that I wrote because I loved words and made things because I loved getting stuck in and creating things (anything) with my hands.
As the years have passed I have continued to sing. It is indicative of my mood and forms the soundtrack to my life, in the same way that writing and art have. It is a part of who I am - part of the “wee loud Scottish lassie” that is me.
Now I’m sounding quite grown up and reflective here, amen’t I? Well, I am trying to give an honest account of who I am so I haven’t quite finished yet.
I literally sing wherever I go. I mean singing loud enough to hear, to myself, unconciously. There I’ve said it, I’m a nutter. What happens is that I get a tune in my head from the radio or the shop hifi or my itunes and that tune stays in my head and I sing it out loud until I hear a new tune and then that one takes over. Kind of like a musical relay race permanently running in my head.
Now I don’t notice it - I’m just singing my song and thinking about what’s on my to do list for the day. But other people do, oh yes. I must hear on average twice a day “Oh someone’s happy”. And invariably I say “Sorry?” because I have no idea what they’re talking about. Living where I do and it being a friendly place, I have now resorted to smiling and nodding in response- it’s quicker.
Thing is, when I said my singing is indicative of my mood this seems to refer mostly to my global mood. By that I mean that a piece of bad news or an irritating phonecall will not stop me from singing, even severe upset doesn’t deter me if it’s short term. But I’ve suffered from depression - you know, the one with the capital D? The one that, in our current parlance, everyone claims ot suffer from? Now that stopped me singing. That and severe, prolongued trauma - death and illness (not mine...death, that is), that sort of thing. But it takes a lot to stop me singing.
I can also tell you that I have no shame. My son will testify wholeheartedly to this. I will stare at people on buses and the Tube and if they look up I’ll smile. I have also been known to join in other people’s conversations - I can’t help it, I forget that they’re not talking to me! Mind you, embarassment was the best weapon in my armoury as the mother of a teenager and I honed it to perfection.
So picture this - and this picture comes coutresy of my dear friend Heidi who heard, then saw, me passing her gate last summer. She described me thus:
You were singing the way you always do. I could hear you coming down the High Street as I was approaching my gate. I was going to call out to you but you were such a vision of purple shoes, jangling charm bracelets and perpetual motion that I decided just to enjoy the sight.
Yes. Have any of you out there seen Billy Connolly talking about the Irish Limousine driver’s wife? He describes her as this permanently moving creation of noisy jewellery, shiny red lips and short skirt. It cracks me up every time I see it but I laugh partly in shame and in secret remembering what Heidi saw that day.
“I thought you said you were shameless?” I hear you cry! Well I am but only in as much as I can’t control myself and do strange things unconsciously (I’m not helping am I?). If I’m behaving in a conscious manner than I always try to behave appropriately. Oh, alright.
Have you ever seen someone in the street singing to themselves? I have, a young woman once while I was sitting on a bus, and she looked like a certifiable lunatic. Really, she looked as if she was talking to herself - well she would with no sound. So that’s what I look like most of the time.
See what I mean?
Tell me that you do the same.
x
x
Sunday, 13 February 2011
Why I Write
I know that many of you who know me in my other guises as shop owner, acquaintance, or customer, may find my ramblings rather odd.
Shall I make you laugh?
I asked Louise our fabulous manager what she thought of my Blog. She answered that she "got it because she knows me", but that her husband wondered what I was on. That's not the funny bit. She then suggested that my customers may be put off buying from Therapy if they thought that the buyer was a complete lunatic! Too funny. Thank you Lou!
Of course, Louise may well be right, I write and my customers walk. I rather suspect though that, after an initial charitable glance, most of them will see there's nothing about our shop and not refer to it again.
Now I blame my public spewing on my dear friend Cara. Yes, if you have any complaints or queries about my writing, then ask Cara - it's all her fault. You see Cara laughs at my stories, Cara tells me to write it down, start a Blog, make her laugh. She's very demanding is my friend Cara. Cara is my equivalent of "bad boys did it and ran away".
At least Cara is my excuse for writing. I love to write, just as I love fashion. Everything is a book to me. I have all sorts in my head - from children's books to erotic novels (ok, rude).
I read a very interesting article in You magazine last summer (another reason I'm here). It was about women of my age (mid forties) suddenly benefitting from a change in hormone levels, being inspired to do something for themselves for the first time in their lives. Apparently as levels of our reproductive hormones Oestrogen and Progesterone drop we move on from our role as bearers and raisers of children. Simultaneously our Testosterone levels increase making us more motivated to concentrate on ourselves and our own personal desires. Hey at last, there is some justice in the world!
As examples of this, the article interviewed a number of women who had put this theory into action. One of them was an author. She talked about the years she'd spent being envious of every writer she saw interviewed and how determined she'd had to be to follow her dream, how her family suffered while she hid herself away and wrote. I was envious, I wanted to be her, to be writing. I felt an ache reading her short interview. I couldn't bear never knowing whether I could do it.
I was that 13 year old, mortified and puce with embarrassment, cringing while my critics discussed the merits of writing about what you know and the correct grammatical use of the word "myriad" (something I have never forgotten).
The event was a rather charming and earnest writers workshop organised by my school and set in an idyllic thatched village somewhere in the wilds of Scotland. I had been asked to attend and thrilled to be spending time with my older and wiser peers. Eager to appear grown up, I wrote about a 16 year old girl discovering she's pregnant. Ok, so it was a little ambitious for a barely pubescent school girl who's own sexual experiences consisted of one snog with my best friend's brother. (I must admit the whole tongue thing came as a bit of a shock.)
And I was stopped in my tracks, my writing was halted, I halted it myself. I became a margin artist: A shadow artist too afraid to make my voice heard, content to hone my writing skills
on marketing documents and private therapeutic outpourings.
Well enough already! I'm hoping I now have enough "stuff that I know" to have something interesting to say, and enough wisdom and hindsight to do something positive with it. Perhaps you can let me know.
I'm going to be away from my computer until Thursday now so please enjoy a well-earned rest.
Thank you.
x
Shall I make you laugh?
I asked Louise our fabulous manager what she thought of my Blog. She answered that she "got it because she knows me", but that her husband wondered what I was on. That's not the funny bit. She then suggested that my customers may be put off buying from Therapy if they thought that the buyer was a complete lunatic! Too funny. Thank you Lou!
Of course, Louise may well be right, I write and my customers walk. I rather suspect though that, after an initial charitable glance, most of them will see there's nothing about our shop and not refer to it again.
Now I blame my public spewing on my dear friend Cara. Yes, if you have any complaints or queries about my writing, then ask Cara - it's all her fault. You see Cara laughs at my stories, Cara tells me to write it down, start a Blog, make her laugh. She's very demanding is my friend Cara. Cara is my equivalent of "bad boys did it and ran away".
At least Cara is my excuse for writing. I love to write, just as I love fashion. Everything is a book to me. I have all sorts in my head - from children's books to erotic novels (ok, rude).
I read a very interesting article in You magazine last summer (another reason I'm here). It was about women of my age (mid forties) suddenly benefitting from a change in hormone levels, being inspired to do something for themselves for the first time in their lives. Apparently as levels of our reproductive hormones Oestrogen and Progesterone drop we move on from our role as bearers and raisers of children. Simultaneously our Testosterone levels increase making us more motivated to concentrate on ourselves and our own personal desires. Hey at last, there is some justice in the world!
As examples of this, the article interviewed a number of women who had put this theory into action. One of them was an author. She talked about the years she'd spent being envious of every writer she saw interviewed and how determined she'd had to be to follow her dream, how her family suffered while she hid herself away and wrote. I was envious, I wanted to be her, to be writing. I felt an ache reading her short interview. I couldn't bear never knowing whether I could do it.
I was that 13 year old, mortified and puce with embarrassment, cringing while my critics discussed the merits of writing about what you know and the correct grammatical use of the word "myriad" (something I have never forgotten).
The event was a rather charming and earnest writers workshop organised by my school and set in an idyllic thatched village somewhere in the wilds of Scotland. I had been asked to attend and thrilled to be spending time with my older and wiser peers. Eager to appear grown up, I wrote about a 16 year old girl discovering she's pregnant. Ok, so it was a little ambitious for a barely pubescent school girl who's own sexual experiences consisted of one snog with my best friend's brother. (I must admit the whole tongue thing came as a bit of a shock.)
And I was stopped in my tracks, my writing was halted, I halted it myself. I became a margin artist: A shadow artist too afraid to make my voice heard, content to hone my writing skills
on marketing documents and private therapeutic outpourings.
Well enough already! I'm hoping I now have enough "stuff that I know" to have something interesting to say, and enough wisdom and hindsight to do something positive with it. Perhaps you can let me know.
I'm going to be away from my computer until Thursday now so please enjoy a well-earned rest.
Thank you.
x
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)