Breath of All Things

And continuing The Moon Topple's Phoctober theme...

I want to say at the outset of this post that although I write, my natural leaning is towards prose - fiction and non-fiction. I do not incline easily to poetry - it requires far too much thinking to my mind! - though heaven knows as a teenager I spent hours scribbling "pomes". That said, there are times when some words appear that simply do not fit the shape of prose and so I take them and package them into forms that seem more suitable to what they are. I'm not sure one could or should call it poetry.

I am the wind.

I am the space between the leaves

the breath that carries the first robin’s song.

I am the swell and fall of the ocean

the rainbow on the splash of waves.

I am the silence between words

the stillness between the notes of a song.

I linger between buildings

drift in the valleys

and rest in the depths of a lake.

I rise up above the peaks

and soar through the stars.

I am the space between your fingers

the place within your dreams.

I flow through all things

encompassing and enveloping all.

Infinite and expansive

I am that I am

I am

and

I am is so much bigger than me.

These shots were taken earlier this year along a southern coastal stretch of South Africa known as The Garden Route. It is an area blessed by miles of pristine sandy beaches, rocky coves, placid lakes, deep ravines, tumbling rivers and miles of indigenous forest filled with giant Yellowwood trees. It is yet another one those incredibly beautiful places provided by nature amidst the other insanity that surrounds us.

Columns, arches and lions

Continuing the photographic theme as initiated by Phoctober...










These shots are taken at a memorial to Cecil John Rhodes. Rhodes was the British colonialist who made his wealth in the diamond rush - and founded the De Beers mining company - and went on to become Prime Minister of the Cape Colony. Rhodes Memorial is situated on the slopes of Devil's Peak - one of the two peaks that flank Table Mountain. The monument, built from granite, and modelled by Sir Herbert Baker on a Greek temple, was started in 1906 and completed and dedicated in 1912. The eight bronze lions were created by John Macallan Swan (the English painter and sculptor) and flank the 49 massive steps which lead up to the memorial The 49 steps represent each year of Rhodes' life.

The pain we see

These eyes, they stare at me and haunt me...

I am constantly struck by the pain in the world – and how it permeates every aspect of humankind. And then I wonder at that word – human + kind – earthly beings amongst whom there is never really enough kindness… Whenever I drive down to the local mall, there are always people begging at the traffic lights. Usually they stand there with a piece of cardboard on which is scribbled, “No Job. 4 Kids to Feed. Please help. God Bless”. Often their faces are contorted by an excess of alcohol and meths. And their eyes…to look into their eyes is so see the numbness that has surpassed oceans and eons of pain and trauma. Once when I stopped a child came to my window – I usually avoid eye contact, there is just so much pain I can bear to look at – but this time I looked. In the eyes of a child the pain still shows – the anger, the fear, the terror are still revealed though you see from the edges how the numbness, the self-preservatory armor of anaesthesia, creeps in. So young and yet already subjected to so much abuse.

We are a strange species. We injure each other so much – and to what end? I live, as you know, in a society that has endured the most violent of injurious behaviour – and which still continues to perpetuate that violence and injury – but in different ways. But it is not just here, it is not just this point in time. Consider, as a case in point, what’s currently happening in Burma. Consider the actions of Vlad Ţepeş against Ottoman expansionism. Violence and pain seem, so tragically, an almost fundamental part of our natures. Who’d have thought to look at it like that, that it would be like that? Especially when we would so much prefer to focus on our noble and gentler natures.

But you see, here’s the thing that is constantly made obvious to me. Many of us carry – to a greater or lesser extent - some kind of pain and trauma. Inevitably it stems from our childhood. Inevitably it was linked to our parents’ or some other’s pain. It finds its roots in pain that has gone on to become accepted childrearing practice - what Alice Miller calls the poisonous pedagogy. It goes on to shape societies and systems of governance. Seldom if ever did we bring the pain upon ourselves – yet we almost always pass it on. So there it is and there we sit with it. What becomes pivotal is how we deal with our pain – if we deal with it - if we are able to deal with it. Either we handle it and heal ourselves from it – and it strikes me that those who do are in the minority – for it takes resources, support, love, courage and fortitude to mine the depths of that which injured us and move on. Or, we pass it on. We may do so by turning it inward or we may vent our spleen on those around us – whether we know them or not. We try to make our issues their issues, we fail to deal with the things that make us ache and instead, like hand grenades, we detonate outwards, spreading and scattering our pain and our fear - through one means or another. And isn’t this perhaps the root of our problems - our and society's failure or inability to take responsibility for personal traumas, issues, baggage - the stuff that we all carry to some extent or another? Of course some might say, “But I didn’t ask for this to happen to me, it’s not my fault, not my responsibility.” Actually, whether you “asked” for it or not, it’s yours and utlimately only you can take the responsiblity - with support and love and care - to deal with it. No one else can. We start with ourselves, with a single step. Perhaps that is indeed the challenge of being human – to acknowledge, call up and accept our pain - personal and collective, to deal with it and our needs and fears, to move beyond and so to stop the rot of the constant spreading of personal trauma and fear. I accept it is not always easy, that circumstances can work against us but perhaps it is a case of to each his/her own level of challenge. I don't know. All I do know is I wish we'd stop hurting others because we are hurt - it makes for far too much of a Catch-22 situation which goes on and on and on...

This is a huge, complex and multiple topic - which probably deserves an entire blog, not just one short blog post - and I accept that I'm brushing the surface and that, as always, there are many ways of looking at any one thing.

I'm not sure if the single image above qualifies for Phoctober over at Moon Topples or not - the general instructions are, well, general... but take a look and see what's happening anyway.

Shadows

Continuing with The Moon Topple's Phoctober Photographic Phun... (would that he'd chosen a different name... Phoctober, indeed! Tsk.)

It's amazing how much more we see when we really look. "Observe. You must learn to observe properly," my father always told me. "Look, notice the detail, see the subtleties of difference and similarity..." And so I observed shadows.

We know there are shadows all around us but do how often do we stop to reflect on them. Pointing a camera lens into a shadow, somehow the world becomes the shadow. The shadow gains its rightful place, becomes focussed within the camera's eye. We take so much for granted, we fail to see so much. Looking at life, the world, ourselves, through the lens of a camera opens up whole new worlds and new ways of seeing. Who'd have thought shadows could be this evocative. Strange that we should forget just how real they are.

Sun's ray inverted

Fusing day with the night

Light and dark interplay

How doth the busy little bee...

Maht over at The Moon Topples is having a month of blogging photographically - in one way or the other - he's calling it Phoctober and since I rather like the idea, I've decided to join in. Go and take a look, it's a neat idea. I'm not sure what form my posts will take, but I guess, following on yesterday, you can expect lots of pictures... So here's today's offering...


In the book meme post which I did a couple of days ago, I mentioned a childhood favourite which is now so well read its pages have turned to velvet.
The book is Linnets and Valerians by Elizabeth Goudge - a story about four children who run away from their strict Victorian grandmother and inadvertantly find themselves, many hours later and miles away, on the doorstep of a severe and stern vicar - who turns out to be their uncle. The book contains a gentle magic which completely captivated me. I suspect too, that as an only child, the strong sibling bonding also held a certain, much longed-for appeal. One element of the book that has always stuck in my memory is the role played by the bees. Goudge used the bees to advance the plot and also to add a certain majesty and mystery to her story.
The following scene has always enchanted me.

Nan, the eldest child awakes at midnight and ventures into her uncle's garden where she finds Ezra, the "general factotum" (who is just a little bit magical) standing at the bee hives with a bunch of herbs and flowers in his hands.
She asks him what he is doing and he replies "Come the first night o' the full moon I talks to the bees at midnight."
As the church bell tolls midnight Ezra makes a small offering of preserved plums and barley sugar at the entrance of each hive and at each hive he bowed and said,

'Madam queens an' noble bees, you sleep, but in your dreams you will know that offerin's been laid upon the threshold. For this moon, madam queens an' noble bees, extend your protection over your domain.'
"He stopped and listened intently, and Nan listened too,and she thought she heard a far-away music as though an army of little people the size of her thumb were singing on the other side of the world. Ezra nodded his head, as though in satisfaction, and taking the bunch of herbs and flowers from Nan he touched each hive once with it, bowed again and turned away down the garden path. Nan curtsied and followed him.
'Did you hear it?' she whispered when they were halfway back to the house.
'What, maid?' he asked, and he stopped and fixed her with his intensely bright eyes.
'The far-away music,' she said
'You 'eard it?' he asked in astonishment. 'You 'eard the singin' o' the bees?'
'Was it bees?' she asked, 'But they were asleep.'
'Bees sing in their sleep,' he said. 'But 'tis not often mortal ears can 'ear 'em. Maid, you be one o' 'em.'
'What exactly to you mean?' asked Nan, feeling a little scared.
'I thought as you 'ad it in your 'eart the moment I set eye on ee,' said Ezra. Then, a little shamefaced, he corrected himself, 'The moment I set eyes on 'ee an' me sober.'
They had walked on and reached the well and paused there and Nan asked, 'What have I in my heart?'
'The gold, maid,' he said. He stretched out a horny forefinger and laid it gently on her chest, to the left-hand side. 'In your 'eart there be a nugget 'o pure gold an' if you could see it you would see a shinin' like a flame. There's not many 'ave it, but them what do 'ave it can 'ear the bees singin' an' call the brid's to their finger. An' they can lay down their life for another.'

I suspect like many a wishful child, I wanted to have gold in my heart, be able to hear the bees singing and call birds to my finger. I set about listening to bees then and have listened ever since. Today I live in a garden with many flowering trees and shrubs and it is my greatest delight to stand close by and listen to the chorus of bees - and I always approach them with the following words in my mind "Good mornin' madam queens and noble bees...". I am delighted that they are willing to share their song with me and to allow me to come so very close to them.

Spring Fever

A petal unfurls
Stem arches towards the sun
Spring rises again.

Sky lightens early
Songlines rise from the dreamtime
Plum bursts into bloom

Lions Circle Writing Endeavour

(Image from the Shameless Lions blog.)

As I mentioned a couple of posts ago, the Shameless Lions Writing Circle has been geared up for a new project - to write a collective short story. Now frankly, I have my doubts and concerns about over 40 people writing one story... but I'll reserve judgement and we'll see how it goes.

The first four pieces have been written and I've been tagged by Minx to write the fifth bit - thank the goddess I wasn't left to write the conclusion, or even something somewhere near the middle. Thank you, Mistress Minx, for saving me from that!

In his rules Seamus suggests that we all post the picture, the entire story and then add our own bit - but as I said to him this makes the thing become altogether unwieldy. So... I'm just going to post the pic - see above - and my bit - and if it intrigues you in any way, then I suggest to you go here to read the start of the story and whatever may come after...

So, this is my offering:


Sebastian leaned back in his chair, ran his hand over the stubble on his chin and afforded himself a thin smile. So, she had finally turned up in Jack’s life again. Just like the proverbial bad penny.
He flicked through the images on the screen. Grace laughing. Gracing dancing. Grace lazing in the sun. His eyes ran over the curve of her body, lingering on the rise of her breasts, the pert roundness of her backside. Ah yes, Grace the Temptress. Grace who could have been anyone, had anyone. Grace who knew the world lay at her feet. And by god, she’d meant to conquer that world. Ultimately it hadn’t mattered to her who she might trample on to grab her dreams. Sebastian chewed his lower lip, remembering the advice he’d given her long ago. "Be careful what you wish and dream for, Gracie. Make your choices wisely." But she’d just laughed, ran a hand over his face and flicked his hair from his eyes – with that casual sense of ownership she had with every man who’d crossed her path.
Funny how things came full circle… From owning, she’d been owned. Strange that she should have fallen for Sebastian Carrebreu, the sauve Frenchman – his namesake. He had no doubt she’d long forgotten him, Sebastian Comptom – but at least she’d remembered Jack…
He remembered the night she’d told them… He and Jack were on their way to the Hampton’s to Jack’s folks’ place – Grace was supposed to join them. Instead she had waltzed into the apartment, her hair flying, her cheeks flushed and declared, "Boys, you’re going to have to go without me!"
The smile on Jack’s face had crumpled. "Why, what’s come up? Whatever it is, can’t you cancel?"
"Absolutely not! See, I’m getting married, darlings!" The glittering diamond on her ring finger flashed as she thrust out her hand.
"To who?" He remembered how Jack had clutched the back of the sofa.
"To Sebastian!"
He remembered the pain, the betrayal in Jack’s eyes as he’d turned to him, gasping.
"Not me," he’d said. "Dear God, she’d never marry me. Nor would I ever ask her." He’d noticed how she’d narrowed her eyes at him.
"Of course not. Don’t be daft, Jack. Oh no offense, of course, Seb…" Her voice had been loaded with meaning. "No, I’m marrying Sebastian Carrebreu. Remember," she said, her eyes gleaming, "we met him at that protest and then at the conference his company gave."
"But you barely know him!" Jack cried. "You can't! He’s…"
"Why ever not?! Oh God, Jack, don’t get all possessive on me now. That would be so tedious."
She’d blown air kisses at them and flounced from the room. Twelve years… It might have been yesterday. But now she was back…and in Jack’s arms. Oh how the mighty are fallen. Sebastian smiled. It was a cold smile which didn't reach his eyes. He took a last glance at the photographs in front of him, closed the images and glanced through the notes in the file. Unfinished business... but not for much longer. He opened his email and began typing.


Now, I'm tagging Verilion to write the next bit.