To a Damaged, Imperfect and Flawed Friend

Dear Damaged, Imperfect and Flawed Friend,

How very glad you are all of the above.  It means you're still here, still working on 'stuff' just like the rest of us poor slobs.  It means you recognise that your current unhappiness is not normal and that you are already in the process of change.  I am sorry you are blue and experiencing a (temporary) lack of self confidence and that inner fortitude that I, and everyone who knows you, sees so clearly. 

What happened to your Big Life?  For whatever reason it no longer suited you.  Perhaps it will suit you again and you will go and create another Big Life.  Because you can.  You know you can.  Then again, maybe a Big Life isn't the answer either.   Maybe just a different life; different from the **** and ***** life, different from everything you've known and done before.  God, if anyone can do it, you can.  Do you know how much I admire you, how I try not to envy you - your energy, your intelligence, your confidence, your wisdom, and that Bigness of Being.  I always feel like I'm not doing enough, being enough when I'm around you.  Not that you in any way try and make me feel that way, not at all.  My feelings are my responsibility, my problem - but you are a bit larger than life and the rest of us are kind of animated shadows in your presence.  Lazy animated shadows.  You've accomplished so much, done so much, been through so much and come out the other side, long striding with a cheeky smile.

It's obvious I see you differently than you see yourself right now.

To me it is also obvious that you are grieving, grieving for what was, as imperfect as it was, as impossible as it was, it was still your reality for over 10 years.  Now it's finished and letting go is a bit sad especially as you're not quite sure where you're going next.  But go you will.  It might mean HUGE changes, changes that you think impossible now.  New chapters usually mean change.

I am sorry you've been disappointed by a friend or friend(s).  That's rough.  First time it happened to me as an adult I was flabbergasted.  I didn't think adults did that to each other, thought adults left it behind in elementary school but I was wrong.  I got over it and did as you have done - just got them out of my life.  Time is the only thing I (don't) own - so wasting it on people who have other agendas besides friendship is verboten.  I owe them nothing. 

You might put out more love when you get assaulted.  I'm not evolved enough to do that.  Self preservation comes first.  No, being really pissed off comes first.  Then self preservation, then letting them go - wishing them well (like I said, not evolved enough for love) but getting them away from me.  I do know that I can love them later.  The one and only guy in my past who physically abused me - first I got myself and my cat out of there, then I did alot of How Dare He?  Then I healed and forgot, then finally forgave him.  Now with the distance of many years I see he had real problems, that he was weak and frightened and quite pitiful.  But took me years to get to a compassionate view of him.  Anyway, you didn't need a betrayal on top of everything else but it might be part of the moving on scenario you're embarked upon.  Who knows?  Or maybe you've outgrown the friendship and they found a way to set you free.  Friends, especially friends of long standing (like close family), reinforce certain images we have of ourselves - but maybe it's the wrong image.  

You're a traveller.  Remember when you rocked up on foreign shores where no one knew you and you were more yourself than you had ever been?  Maybe that didn't happen to you but it did for me.  All the Holly Daughter, Holly Wife, Holly Sister, Holly Friend facades cracked and a somewhat different, stronger, tougher, and more authentic Holly emerged.  Your friends could've done you a huge favour.

LIke you I get depressed about things out of my control.  It's an ongoing life lesson that I'm still very much engaged with.  I rant at the stupidity of people, governments, you know the drill.  And all I accomplish is getting myself upset.  So I try and do other things instead - live my life in a way that treads lightly, write lots and lots of letters to politicians, sign lots and lots and lots of petitions, give money to good causes and then let it go.  I am responsible for my own life, the example I set,  the thoughts I think.  I subscribe to things which tell me good news, or informs me about creative people, and sites which reinforce the beauty beauty beauty in the world.  And thank god I walk the dogs every day.  That hour in nature does so much to restore my equilibrium.  That and the hour of yoga (yoga has changed my life).  But the best antidote to depression  is gratitude.  I thank my ugly feet for carrying me so well, the bed which carries me safely while I sleep, the food, OH THE FOOD!, that I love too much and which others don't have, for Richard, always for Richard, the cats, the headache which feels so good when it's gone, for everything.  Can't meditate very well  so that deep well of stillness is elusive, but I can and do give thanks.

For you too.  For your troubles which will make you shine even brighter.  The wisdom you have, the compassion you share, the love you give so unselfishly - do you think you can be what and who you are and live old and alone, in that very small life?  No, your spirit is too large and radiant for that.  And if it doesn't feel that way now.  Just wait, it will.

Richard's mental sharpness is deteriorating almost, it seems, before my eyes.  He's slower, his speech is slower, his voice is no longer his but an old man's voice.  It's almost as though I speak to him through a thick brown pane of glass.  He can hear me and I can hear him but the sharpness and immediacy of speech is muffled and delayed. 

This morning I rang Canton Ohio to see if Aunt Lee was still alive.  A letter I'd written her in October was returned.  I know now that she gave me the wrong address but I didn't know that until I'd googled it looking for the phone number.  Anyway, I spoke to her.  She had no idea who I was.  The name was familiar, Barbara and Jack's names were familiar but she couldn't place them.  She couldn't remember the name of her husband either.  I wrote in reply to a letter she'd written in October which although confused and rambling was anchored in the reality of names and places and events.  It's only December.  She's slid into la la land in a few months, the same as Grandma Anne.

Which brings me to - Richard, who was fully aware of who I spoke to and why (we spoke at length about the returned letter and Aunt Lee), kept referring to Aunt Lee as Grandma Anne.  Who, I asked.  Grandma Anne.  Normally a person would catch themselves and say, "No, I meant Aunt Lee!" but even when pressed he stuck to Grandma Anne.  Then when his attention was drawn to the mistake he accused me of being angry with him.  Because he's scared he goes on the offensive.

Often I see him standing or sitting staring off into space, no, not off into space, at the ground.  He doesn't look up anymore.  For minutes at a time.

I didn't used to worry but I'm worried now and I worry about my worrying for it doesn't help and it wears me down.  I understand why I slept for 2 days when he went to the States.  I didn't have to check up on him all the time, nor did I have to - not entertain him but break up the silent empty chunks of time for him.  He often comes looking for me.  I feel the neediness of him even if it isn't verbalized.  He needs to know I'm nearby.  I understand why I'm riding more than I used to.  That hour on Balthazar is time by myself where I cannot be reached.  I breathe more deeply then.

Worry too about moving house.  Is it a crazy idea?  Or will it help him to engage and focus more.  When he's interested in something he pulls himself together and seems quite normal (although he fixates on things more than he used to, grabbing on to a topic or job and worrying at it until it's finished).  On the other hand, if he is deteriorating as quickly as he seems to be, I will eventually face the reality of being on my own.  Do I want to be on my own and still live in Gatton?  Can't imagine I'd be moving myself and all the animals and furnishings by myself.  So if we're going to move it has to be soon.  Suspect that whereever we're living in the next couple of years is where I'll be seeing out my days.

 I feel guilty for thinking about a future that only contains him on the periphery but if my suspicions are correct there will come a time, and perhaps sooner than I think, when I won't be able to manage him.  If that is the case, I want to live in a place where there is no annual massive burning of the bush or an operating quarry.  I want to live in a place of physical beauty and be near people who perhaps aren't so hidebound and conservative as they are in this farming town.   So I plan and scheme and try and convince Richard that it's a good idea to move to the Tweed Valley and not north to the Sunshine Coast hinterland.  If we move there we will only be able to afford a small acreage and will be stuck in some hobby farm development on poor soil with the possibility of crap neighbours and noise.  If we go south we can afford acreage, acreage which will act as a buffer.

I would give a lot to have Richard back as he was.  I miss him.  I blame that damn surgery and that damn incident which put him in intensive care (and of which we don't know the real truth, I'd wager).  Until then he'd been fine.  Now I do the heavy lifting.  Maybe that's only fair.  He was my strong hero and looked after me.  Now it's my turn.  I chose to remain childless to avoid responsibility.  But there's no escape from the lessons we're sent to learn.  I have to learn unselfishness.  MIndfulness.  Trust in the Universe.  The healing power of love, for him and for myself.  Endurance.  Resilience.  Humour.  Patience.  It's all come together, is coming together in one massively intense One on One lesson. 

Richard away in Ipswch.  The farrier was here until 11.  Have done very little of a constructive nature all day.  Just finished yoga and meditation.  Trying to build up to 15 minutes of meditation - eventually to work up to 20.

The days seem to come and go with frightening rapidity.  Copied the previous post to the blog - wrote it 8 days ago - and have intended to write every day.  By the time I've ridden Balthazar and done morning chores it's 10am and I'm pooped.  Guess I'm not 20 anymore.  Have to stop and sit for awhile, then again I've been up and going since 5:30 so maybe I'm being a little hard on myself.

Truth be told.  I fritter away a lot too.  I'm an expert timewaster - reading Weird News on Huffington Post - or playing games - still  playing games although credit where credit is due - not nearly as much as I used to - also practive French - and writing weekly to my elderly aunt who's in a  home in Canton Ohio hundreds of miles away from family.

I hope I'm wrong and one of her two kids is nearby yet going on past history, I doubt it.  Can't help but pick up clues from previous letters.  She was so painfully grateful when L took her to the Cabin.  Maybe they are loving attentive children and make the effort to stay in touch but somehow I doubt it.  Therefore I've decided to write her once a week.  News, not from Lake Woebegone but from Dry Gully Road.  Perhaps she's non compos mentis now.  I knew she was having cognitive problems after a fall, maybe she's passed away - she's in her 90's - and no one's told me so that I wrote to an empty bed or a wastebasket, but it's still worth the effort.  After a shaky start she flouted husband and husband's brother and remained good friends with Mom.  That means a lot.

Suppose too, I've so little family that keeping touch with those that remain becomes increasingly important. My other aunt doesn't write and the few missives received are so fragmented and full of joy and gratitude that I've written her that she imparts no news at all.  She's a bright and loving spirit but goes off on tangents to her tangents to the degree that not one sentence is completed.  I love her and love her joie de vivre but she exhausts me too.

(Written November 12).  Having trouble finding uninterrupted time to write - to follow a thought more deeply than just thinking it.

For days now I've wanted to investigate why I feel something may be lost by mindfulness.  If I'm always 'in the moment' I'm not thinking and if I'm not thinking I am not - or so it seems.  Isn't our whole reason for living to make use of this gigantic grey muscle, the brain?  So why then does it exhaust me with its constant chatter?

I've certainly become more aware of it and the mindlessness and fixations of its mindlessness.  The fires for instance.  Frequently I catch myself having reasoned arguments with the proponents of burning.  In doing this I'm not coming up with new insights, it's more an ego thing where I try and convince them of the uselessness and harm bush burning does.  So I stop and a few minutes later find myself doing the same thing again.

I've been quite surprised. 

This awareness, this mind observing the mind, is a new thing for me.  A bit mortifying but awareness is the first step to change.  When I become aware of being somewhere other than here and  now I try and focus on body and breath.  That focus lasts about a second, maybe two then I'm off again.  But it's a start.

Have also started doing yoga without the bird CDs.  Have several recordings of birds; in Turkey, India, Far North Queensland, Tibet, etc.  Always listened to them while doing my hour of yoga.  Now I do it in silence.

I've decided to try not to be distracted from the here and now.  Already understand that the rest of my life will be needed to even begin to get a handle on this.  Yoga is better although my mind still wanders - of course! - deeper, more correct, more calming, with less impatience to get this over with to move on to the next thing.

There's always neough time for everything in the here and now.

"Right Now" I am taking refuge in the Towoomba City Library from a) the heat and b) more bush burning at home.  When I heard John was ging to burn the corridor across from Horrocks' where  two pheasant coucals and a whipbird live I got upset.  Again.  Useless to cry for what was going to happen.  Then hearing Peter Horrocks was going to burn the creek (which doesn't belong to him) gave rise to a real rant.

So, here I am; in the air conditioning (it's 36 in Mt. Whitestone, probably 32 here) with a full tummy from a Jilly's salad and with my caffeine levels topped up with a very bitter soycino.

Started reading Turning the Mind Into an Ally by Sakyong (which translates as Earth Protector) Mipham - which only goes to illustrate how much of an antagonist my mind is because of the suffering experienced BEFORE the burning even took place. 

Still one has to start somewhere.  I don't meditate every day, even when doing yoga there's usually an excuse I can find to postpone it.  Two to 4 times a week probably.  And the little I do and the inconsistency of it doesn't make for a mind I'm in control of.

This book will make a big difference.  After a rough start I'm pretty consistent with yoga because the benefits are so obvious and addictive.  I feel better.

Suspect that regular meditation will reap the same reward.

Beyond that -found The House, the Purple House (so called because of it's purple painted front facade and deck) which appeals to R and I.  Two hours from Brisbane which is its main drawback.  But nevertheless it's a winner.  100 acres at Lillian Rock between Kyogle and Murwillumbah.  $650,000.  Affordable.  Private.  Beautiful.  Even wrote to the realtor.  Who knows?  I do know we will find the best place for us.  I do know, or think I do, that it is time to leave DGR.  On the way home from the ride this morning (through burnt out overgrazed paddocks) saw men in fancy casual clothes and expensive 4 wheel drives - 3 of those - returning from a look at the quarry site.  It mght have a price tag of $9.5 million but some rich investor will buy it as a tax break and future investment.  Anyway the signs are there, from the quarry being on the market to endless torching of the bush to a proliferation of motorcycle traffic even to hoons doing donuts at the end of our driveway - and squealing as they did it - not the motorcycle engine but a chubby young man, squealing like a pig and so engrossed in making donuts he didn't see me standing there staring at him.

Another of the many symptoms of my untamed mind.  I judge all the time, form opinions all the time.  Catty things - just then a young woman, long blond hair pulled into a ponytail, black t-shirt and jean shorts, great bone structure, honey coloured skin - and obsese.  I make alot of silent judgements about obsese people.  Not how horrible they are but how sad.  But no matter whether it's catty or commiserative it's still a judgement call.

I don't experience reality as it is.

Wonder if they've finished burning yet.

Then there's a whole 'nother chapter titled Richard and the almost daily manifestations of his rapid aging (he's only 67!).  Forgetting things, dullness, not following through with a thought or action.  I'm starting to check up on him, make sure things are done properly -without him knowing.  This morning the flyveil  lay unwashed by the tap.  He'd taken it there and then forgot about it.  One of the feed buckets was still in the yard, the hot water tap was not turned off properly so that it dripped, the dishes were done but no counters were wiped (if I cook he does the dishes which as I'm doing almost all the cooking means he does the evening dishes all the time.  I do lunch.  He does breakfast).

Pen dying, time to quit - buy a new pen!

RIght Now and my happy death wish

"Right Now" rolled the die for this - choices were:  Wash walls (going to start washing the outside walls by hand, not enough water in tanks to use the gurney), washing living room windows, chip lantana, draw (nearly finished cloud drawing), blog or start weekly letter to Aunt Lee.

Aunt Lee.  Her husband, my Uncle Ben, died in January.  I wrote as soon as I heard but never received a reply.  Then, at the beginning of this month, I get a letter from her.  She's in an old age home in Canton, Ohio, hundreds of miles away from Grand Rapids, Lansing, where Linda lives, or Jake, wherever the hell he is (he was in North or South Carolina, then Mexico, so who knows?).  I don't know the story so getting mad isn't helpful.  Maybe Linda is desperately trying to get her in a home closer to her.  Aunt Lee doesn't mention the kids at all.  All I know is although she was trying to be brave, the letter was sad and spoke of a woman very much alone - and you can never be lonelier than when you're lonely in a crowd.  So decided I would write her once a week.  Can only tell her Dry Gully Road news, certainly don't want to write of my woes (not that I have any) but writing about the animals and Australiana and upbeat newsy stuff, well, it might just make her smile sometimes.  I am so glad Mom and Dad never went into a home.  I'm not going either.  I'll die first - and that's the only way to avoid them; stay healthy, stay active, keep your marbles, then die in the night or better yet, have a little warning that I am soon to be cactus so the animals are taken care of.

That was my only fear while Richard was away.  If something happened to me while he was gone and no one noticed then the animals would suffer.

So there's my death wish.  Suppose Aunt Lee is tired and perhaps no longer looks at dying with a jaundiced eye.  It's a long beautiful, well-deserved sleep at the end of a long busy life.

Remember reading somewhere that those who have recently died go somewhere where they get to recuperate from life's rigours.  And Wayne had that wonderful dream of Mom in just such a place.

Death is no enemy.  Death is called an angel with good reason.  It is love that releases us from the constant, miraculous, exhilarating, beautiful but ultimately exhausting embrace of life.

So tired I can hardly write - and I'm purposely writing slowly to avoid mistakes (after crossing out two paragraphs and having to start over).  Very little sleep last night from the worst and longest lasting episode of 'restless legs' I've ever experienced.  All due to running home (about 2km?) from where I found a female, a pregnant female, flying fox hung up on a barbed wire fence - about 30' west of where Helen Keller, the deaf and blind and starving wallaby was discovered.

By the time Peter arrived (neither Richard or I are vaccinated against the deadly lyssavirus), it was dark so we worked by the headlights and a torch.  The female was so entangled on the barbs Peter had to pass her in a circle 3 or 4 times around the fence wire and even then had to cut it in order to free her. 

Brought her home for a drink of water, some Aspro Clear (one tablet in 30ml) and to finally disentangle her soft brown skin from the barb.  There was no blood save for what was on Peter's fingers after she bit him.  And who could blame her?  The pain must have been excruciating.  She was hyperventilating and whimpering continuously.  I haven't heard anything so tragic since working at the vets.

The bat hadn't broken her teeth, her bones or punctured her palate, something they often do when biting the barbs.  Peter thought her chances were pretty good.  The wing flesh wan't dry or papery - she'd been on the fence during a cloudy day - but even with all these things in her favour she died overnight, her and her unborn baby.

We tried.  Then there are all those bats and birds and animals that die unknown and unlamented somewhere in the bush - or in a bush fire, but I won't go there again, have already had my rant.

Took Balthazar up to the Secret or Hidden Valley which is neither secret or hidden anymore.  John's burned it, luckily he burned very little of the bush but of course every burn encroaches just a tiny bit further into the hitherto untouched bush.  Besides that he's had a dozer clear the track.  The dozer cut a huge swathe up the sides of the ravine.  It's a great clear riding track now but at what cost?  The earth and rock overflow now clogs the seasonal creek, and the waterfalls that appear after heavy rain will mean blocked water gouging out new channels and causing more erosion.

Said to Richard yesterday how much I love this house.  And I do.  It's going to have to be a very special property to get me to move.  Now that I've calmed down after the fires have finished I lose that keen edge to move.  But if it needs to happen it will happen.  I leave myself in the hands of the god.

Right Now I'm Grateful

"Right Now"  I am enjoying this exercise as it gets me writing again.  Read yesterday that 80% of people would like to publish a book.  I used to but now realize it's not something I care enough about to make the effort.  It's like drawing/painting - the joy is in the doing not the doing with one eye on a publishing contract or a gallery show.  Sure, I would love to be 'discovered' but it ain't gonna happen so may as well settle back and enjoy the ride.

Recently I'd been getting anxious about the state of the world and the monumental stupidity of humans.  Thinking 'good thoughts' wasn't working nor was the anxiety eased by recalling the many wonderful unselfish caring acts of everyday people.  Those thoughts were swamped by global warming, fracking, Syria, Somalia, Egypt, the USA (esp,. the USA which should know better!), Tony Abbott, Putin, Cambell Newman, Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan, ad nauseum, even ad infinitum!  The world committing a slow and excruciating suicide when we have the means, the know how, the intelligence to turn it all around.   All we lack is the will.

Even me.  Had an email from GetUp Australia.  Would I organize a rally for November 17 to protest against global warming?  No, I would not.  It still bothers me that I'm one of the guilty ones who allow evil to flourish because good women do nothing.  I sign every peition, write letters and send money but don't really put myself out there.

More anxiety.

Then I remembered the sure fire, fool proof way to happiness.  Gratitude.  I'd forgotten to be grateful - grateful for everything from my breath, to my bed, to my food, husband, this house, this table - and the storms coming our way, possibily severe according to the news, but which will bring much needed rain.

Right Now I'm Almost Mindful

"Right Now" - I've just finished yoga and meditation (if you can call that mishmash of htoughts and stillness meditating) and have made the dice list.  This - the blog - was number 4.  So for 10 minutes I will write and see if anything of note emerges. 

We went to an auction today.  I bought 6 wood frames with mats (and one plastic frame) for $30.  Not bad.  I have many frames now so no excuse not to draw or paint.  Just got another pen - what a difference a nice pen makes.  How must it have been for quills and ink - or cuniform in clay tablets.  Rather difficult to get a stream of consciousness going.  Maybe that was a good thing.  Now we, I, write any old thing without thinking it through and think it gold.

Think I'll write about speed.  The speed and sloppiness of thinking, of writing, of eating, of most everything.  There's a certain pride I take in doing everything quickly.  I walk quickly.  I think I probably talk quickly, when I do a job I do it quickly - but quickness kills mindfulness.  In the rush to move from this thing to the next thing I am not present for either.  (I'm finding it a real effort to slow my handwriting down but in doing so it is more legible and I make fewer mistakes).  Anyway, this rushing from one thing to another colours my entire life or perhaps I should say obscures it.  Without mindfulness, being fully present in the moment, I don't see it except through the veil of the next imagined (because I am already placing myself in that future) moment superimposed over the top.

It's quite clear when I stop - stopping and breathing being the key words here - to think about it.  Logically or intellectually 'getting' something doesn't make it true however.  And then there are distractions.  I feel the need of R, who just came in looking for me, wanting me to distract him from the enormity, infinity and finality of the present. 

"Right Now" a Spider is Dying

"Right Now" there's a spider dying on the pedestal base of the computer monitor.  Only noticed it because it was raking its legs like spiders do when they are pulling out silk but I don't think, because the spider is on its back, that is the reason.  I think it's a death dance, an eight-legged tarantella in reverse.

Have thought about death alot recently.  Just lost another bird, a juvenile magpie found on the road when walking the dogs.  Feathered but flightless it had horse hair, probably mane hair, wrapped around the joint of one leg.  Tried to remove it but it had cut in so deeply I couldn't be sure I got it all.  Took him to UQ yesterday morning.  In the afternoon they rang to say the joint was septic.  They couldn't be sure he would regain full use of it it or be pain free so they'd put him down.

Again I'd looked in the eyes of this little being, as I did Maggie (magpie) from a month ago, and had seen this very individual one-of-a-kind being staring out at me.  I was so certain he'd come home to heal, to be rehabilitated, to learn to fly, to be released.  I was crushed when I got the news.  That "person", that one-of-a-kind, no bird like him before or ever after, had graced this earth for only a short time and now is forever absent.  His paents will rear others babies.  I will forget him in time.  What was the purpose of his existence?

All life is sacred, all unique - even as I vacuum the dozens if not hundreds of invading bugs which have swarmed through the house this spring.  Soft-bodied brown beetles with orange flashes visible when they fly.  I feel guilty even as I position the vacuum nozzle over them.  I am sure each one of them is an indiidual too.  Why don't I squirm with guilt?

Tell Me The Story of Leaving

Years ago I read and worked through The Artists Way by Julia Cameron.  That book and that author were directly responsible for the writing of my first book.  Well, my only book.  The second book languishes somewhere in the guts of this computer along with essays and feline memories.  Have just stumbled upon a website called Writing From the Soul wherein you are urged to write for 10 minutes straight without editing.  Then, when finished, you are to read it aloud.  Interesting that, for if I read it as though I'm reading it for an audience; slowly and with soft but definite inflection, it reads well.  Do I copy it here?  Why not.  The prompt is:
"Tell me the story of leaving."  I leave when I need a break from reality.  Reality is right here, right now and sometimes it is too real, too now.  Not sure what I want to avoid.  I think it's the future but the future, if left alone by busym ind, remains the future.  I don't honestly know.  Am I bored?  How dare I be bored!  I feel guilty when I'm bored and do boring things.  It's the opposite ends of the spectrum; the thankfulness and *gladness* I felt this morning when returning along our road after cutting forage for the birds, and seeing the quarry mountain lit up with golden early morning light while the western side was clothed in blue and seeing this magnificent view punctuated by two birds flying across the sky - punctuation marks in the empty page of blue sky.  So all this beauty and gratitude, for I was filled with gratitude and then much later in the day after chores and meals and a trip to Toowoomba, I come in here and "leave" by playing one winning game each of solitaire, free cell and spider solitaire.  Why?  Why do I do that?  There's enough work to keep me occupied untiil the end of days.  I've a graphite drawing which has finally passed the difficult state and *invites* me to play with it - but no I come in here and park my bum in this too comfortable chair and bring up Games.

"Tell me the story of leaving".  Sometimes, although grateful and happy most of the time, I would like to trade responsibility, safety, serenity for a life on the road going solo, owing no one and no thing my allegiance.  But it is just a passing fancy.  I'm not 22 anymore.  I like routine and pencil sets and cleanliness and food and a soft bed.

Richard home Saturday after 17 days away.  Didn't think I'd miss him as much as I did.  Have always been fairly content with my own company.  It wasn't loneliness.  That's a different feeling altogether, once experienced never forgotten.  No this was just plain garden variety missing his company.  As much as he occasionally annoys and irritates it is his annoying habits, his irritating behaviours.  Although he, and I won't mince words anymore and pretend that it is something that it isn't or worse, that it doesn't exist, so although he is aging before my eyes and it seems sometimes as though he's 80 rather than 67, beneath the fogginess, the slowness, the shuffling, the dreaminess that isn't dreaming, he is still my Richard. 

Slowly our roles are reversing.  Before he took care of me.  He was the nurturing partner while I faffed about and did my thing at 90 miles an hour.  Now I have had to slow down and nuture him.  Thank god I've finally learned to like cooking!  Making delicious nutritious meals is such a sweet and simple gift I can give him every day.  But the nurturing extends to doing the heavy lifting (not that I'm capable of much either), problem solving, being the instigator of things (something I've always done just more so now). 

It sounds as though Richard is non compos mentis and that isn't true at all.  He's off to town this morning to work through a list of errands.  He still does all the banking and handles the insurance and all those accoutrements of day to day living.  Because he worries about those things and spends alot of time thinking about them he does them well.  He can build anything.  He built the new aviary and has just replaced a rotting railroad tie with boards which blend in perfectly with the deck (or will when they age).  He can do all that standing on his head. Anyway, no matter.  In that cliche'd but perfect phrase, 'it is what it is'.  If I start to worry about the future I am undone. 

And then there are other people's problems.  The Gold Coast has been in the news for all the wrong reasons.  Bikie gangs are making their presence known, intimidating civilians and trying to intimidate the police by surrounding a station where one of their members was being held.  There are several different gangs which are at war with one another.  In the course of this, two men from different gangs were arrested. 

At this point I would like to mention the professionalism of the newscaster.  She reported this story without cracking a smile. 

These two men, from opposing gangs, were arrested for various violent offences.  One of them was 21.  He was shown leaving the watchhouse, black t shirt stretched across a body which is familiar with the weightroom of the gym.  Tattoos everywhere and a big white necklace (of bone?) around his neck.  Aware of the cameras he strutted down the ramp like the conquering hero.  I think he was with the Lone Wolf Bikie Gang. 

The other chap, a Sergeant at Arms of the Comancheros was also shown.  Stocky, bull necked, again familiar with the gym.  A high ranking member of a well known, violent and criminal gang.  39 years old.  Charged with assault and GBH.  I think. 

The punch line?  Both of these tough bikies live with their mommys.  No wonder they're in a bad mood.

As I lay in bed this morning in that halfway state between sleeping and waking, listening to the orchestra of birdsong, I became aware of my breathing.  How many breaths do I take during the night while I sleep?  How fortunate I don't have to worry about it, that breathing is automatic.  Yet, when I want to change my breath, within limits, I can.  What a miracle breathing is.  The basis from which all life flows. 

How easy it is to take everything for granted.  I do.  All the time.  Yet life is a miracle.  The very act of being alive.  I know I've written of this before but it doesn't hurt to remind myself.  Wish I could remind others.   How lightly we view life.  How cheaply we toss it away or maim it beyond recognition.  (Unfortunately read and viewed images about a new drug called Krocodil which destroys flesh so that bone is exposed.  After using it one's life expectancy averages about three years). 

What were the users thinking?

What are we as a species thinking?  We seem hell bent on destroying ourselves and taking every living thing with us.  It's so sad and so unnecessary.  We've forgotten the miracle of the breath.  With it, everything is possible.  Without it.  Nothing.  The door closes so firmly that even the door no longer exists.

Feather Plucking and a dose of reality

Didn't have an epiphany the other day.  How unusual.  Days, weeks, months go by without an epiphany so this isn't 'news just in'.  However, I did have an idea.   No, more of an understanding.  The idea has been around for centuries.  Like most things I can understand it logically but *knowing* is another matter entirely.  So, the understanding was just this - that life is a distraction from reality.  While living is an adventure, a wonder, an enchantment, an education and a damned hard one sometimes, it isn't real.  Or the living of it distracts us from what is real and the realness is to be divined not through living or thinking, planning or remembering but by BEING HERE NOW. 

Realized I spend most of my time in distractions whether it's here on the computer, reading a book, watching tv, even listening to music.  What is so hard about being here now?  Why do I find it so difficult?  It's as though I must continually tempt my mind away from its own reality.  Even while meditating (and I use the term in an offhand manner as my meditations are studies in trying not to try not to think), when I do touch upon that other reality (and I only say other because it's so foreign as to qualify for another dimension), I retract from it like a hand from a hot stovetop.  It's almost as though there's a vortex yawning before me, willing to suck me away if I will only yield and the desire to yield is why I meditate and my ego the gate of fear which keeps me stranded. 

Some housekeeping:  Richard is in the States. I suspect he's homesick but that's just a feeling I had while lying in bed listening to the morning melodies.   Mallory has a little green friend.  It's spring and I hear baby birds everywhere; some mickey birds in the big gums to the east of the horse yards, some lorikeets in the blooming silky oaks.  Bittersweet to see him being courted by a bird when there is no possibility of their being mates.  She even followed him to the deck late yesterday afternoon.  Have to put him into a cage and bring him in every night as his aviary isn't snakeproof.  She perched on the top and sang sweet songs while he made goo goo eyes at her - and peered around the edge of the drape to plead with me.  Wish I could be a buddy and help him out.

The biggest bird news is the sudden decision to feather pluck by Obama.  He's always been a very nervous bird.  He's the one that screams the most, that exhibits neurotic cage behaviours like weaving, that is the most frightened of me and the one that panics first when anything unusual happens.  Had noticed a few pink feathers on the bottom of the aviary but didn't think anything of it except that the birds were starting to moult.  Then went out on Tuesday afternoon and there were drifts of pink feathers everywhere and a poor denuded Obama.  He's plucked all the outer pink feathers from his breast including his legs, his shoulders and the grey scapular and median covert feathers.  Why after 5 years he's decided to pluck now is a mystery.  I've separated him and his mate Fern into the other half of the aviary.  Every other day I'm putting in fresh branches to chew and every other day they are allowed out for morning pick.  Can't have all of them out at the same time as it would be too difficult (read stressful) to try and return them to their correct aviary.

Don't think he's picked much since the changes so I am hopeful.  He really had only 2 days of determined picking so am trying to discourage the behaviour  before it becomes a habit. 

Richard is in the States.  I suspect he's homesick but that's just a feeling I had while lying in bed listening to

The most marvellous dream this morning.  Long convulated story involving work and workmates at the surgery, my boss' house, the boss's mentally unstable son getting married and stabilizing, nudists, a toilet that sprayed mud and urine when flushed (won't even attempt - it's too scary - to decipher what that means) and finally winding up volunteering to help organize books at an opportunity shop.  Richard volunteered first (how like him) and I waded in after.  The woman in charge, all high energy and talent (she carved these extraordinary sleeping horses from wood) soon had us sorting books alphabetically.  I was going great guns until I came upon a box, an ordinary wood box but filled with art nouveau treasures in the form of carved perfume bottles.  A frosted glass one with stylized deer, one a cobalt blue, another amethyst.  I couldn't believe what I was seeing.  They were so beautiful and they were at an op shop.  Asked the woman what was the procedure for volunteers buying what they'd found.  She said the bottles would have to be sent to Melbourne to be priced and then volunteers would have to pay twice what they were worth.  Thought sending them to Melbourne was a bit inefficient, especially if they turned out to be worth less than the postage but otherwise fine. 

I awoke with a smile on my face.

Every day I think of things I want to write and every day I do not write.  Today I write.

Just looked up the quarry, the one we are going to move away from.  It's for sale for $9.5 million.  We have entertained the fantasy that if we won the lotto we'd buy it, thinking it'd be worth just a couple of million. Now know we'd have to win the big $20 million which is offered occasionally to even come close. 

Thinking about moving house is frightening.  I used to be so brave.  I can prove it as I'm writing this on an island continent in the southern hemisphere, tens of thousands of miles away from my birthplace.  I made the move in my twenties.  I had a large soft bag of clothes, a tackle box full of pastels and bucket loads of courage.  Now I have much more 'stuff'; a husband, animals and a crushing sense of responsibility and anxiety.  We wouldn't be moving except that I have made such a stink about living next to a quarry. If it doesn't work it will be my fault.  Part of me knows it will be fine; tiring, stressful, scary but fine.  Another part of me screams failure, regret, disaster.  I try not to listen to it. 

One step at a time.  The birds are off the verandah.  The verandah has been thoroughly cleaned and is ready for undercoat.  When the final coat is dry and  the windows have been washed, we ring the realtors.  Can't believe we'll do it.  Was watching tv last night and there was a shot of people sitting on a queensland beach.  That could be us I said.  And it could.  We can't afford to live on the beach but we can afford to live within easy driving distance.

I do believe that it is time to embark on the next chapter in our lives.  We need other places to explore, other people to meet.  Being closer to the the populations centres does have disadvantages - more people, traffic, crime, etc. but it is also ripe with opportunity. 

Letter to a friend:

Won't get into a competition with you about who is worse : )  We are equally bad ... and equally good, methinks.    Suspect we're both subject to that continuously criticizing voice within  (where did that come from?  My parents, although not perfect, didn't belittle me.  Is it our western christian, therefore guilt-based society which gives birth to the inner critic?.... and does it matter?)

Met the little guy when Richard and I had lunch with them last week.  Hadn't seen P in such a long time.   He looked well.  Lunch was great as always.  Loved the pond.  Donated a few goldfish which promptly went and hid under rocks.  Caught up with Jack the cockatoo.  Still miss him but so glad he's glad.  He's a happy bird now.  Great to see Cambridge on 'this side' of the aviary rather than always at the far end.  Richard and L talked Tai Chi (Richard has been to his second class.  He also fasted with me that Monday.  He won't admit something's going on but his openness to trying things which might help brain function is telling).  Anyway, the property looked stunning as always.  Wattles in bloom everywhere.  Was a lovely couple of hours.

But it isn't the same without you there.  P's stamp is more visible, as it should be- but sad all the same.  And sadly you sound somewhat melancholy, G.  Wish I had some wise words to help you through this but only you and P have the answers, if answers are even needed.  Perhaps living day to day IS the answer.  If you need to do something you'll know it.  And act upon it too.  You don't lack courage. 

Had occasion to reflect upon the nature of grief and guilt the other day.  We lost our little cockatiel Tachimedes.  Noticed he was a bit lacklustre and his poos had gone green and runny so put him on coccivet.  Worse the next day so direct dosed the coccivet.  The following day acutely ill with gurgly breathing.  Rang Karen and put him on Baytril but he died late morning.  The guilt stems from hindsight,  from not noticing little things which I should've paid attention to but that I didn't SEE (not being mindful, aware, HERE).  His death was unnecessary.  He was only 5 years old.  The grief, well you know far too well the grieving part.  So while crying from shame and loss a part of me stood back and watched and thought completely unrelated thoughts, like when will I have cried enough to assuage the guilt I feel.  When will I have cried enough to meet the inner criterion of grieving?  It was quite an odd experience.  Having grieved so many times over so many things...the feelings were real yet also just a familiar process that didn't touch the true reality of things - does that make any sense at all? 

Hours later:

We went to Spring Bluff for coffee.  Richard ate a caramel macadamia nut coated bit of slice with whipped cream and is now sick in bed.  Too rich.   Odd how one's digestion becomes used to good food and can't handle the other stuff anymore.  He'll come good in time. 

Ah, the ballet.  Ah, Warhorse.  Ah, David Helfgott.  Lucky you.  Especially the ballet.  I love ballet.  In my next life I'm going to be small boned, petite and live near a ballet school.  Took it up at age 44 but couldn't handle the leaps.  Dang.

Anyway, best go and do some chores, quietly, while Richard recovers.  I hope you come see us when you're at Long Grass for those 3 days (or before!).  Richard goes to the States on the 21st September, returns October 2.  Not much time but as he's going with Anthony, that's all the time he gets.

Saw an old Errol Flynn movie, Robin Hood, the other day.  In it he laughs at the Sherriff of Nottingham, a big rollicking hands on hips, head thrown back sort of laugh.  What a great laugh at life sort of laugh.  I'm working at cultivating it.  You too?

Richard has been to get a CT scan of his brain as well as an ultrasound of his carotid arteries.  All was well.  So there is no obvious physical explanation for his deterioration. 
      I wasn't going to write about this but it is so much on my mind and no none reads this anyway - and even if they did - what great secrets am I imparting?  It is more important for me to have a place to speak frankly than to safeguard secrets that aren't secrets to anyone who knows us. 
      We went to another town yesterday to run some errands.  While there we looked in some opportunity shops for work sweatshirts and trousers for him.  He was so dull, so helpless, sometimes reminding me of a windup doll that has wound down until prompted to do something else.  He'd stand in the aisle unmoving, or absently fingering a sweatshirt without really doing anything, almost as though he needed permission - or a push.  I'd say what about this or this or this?  Try this on.  What do you think of this one?    I wanted to shout, as I so often do, Wake Up!  Come Back!  Everything he does is done slowly.  He gets out of the car like he's 86 rather than 66.  He walks slowly - unless we're walking the dogs and then he can hook along quite well - he fumbles with his wallet to pay or has to really think things through to use his card.
      The other day I asked him if he'd given seed to the birds.  In the afternoon, when we pull the pellets and water dishes, we always give the galahs a few seeds as a treat and some millet seed on the stem to Dimitri.  No, he said, I thought you'd given it to them earlier.  When?  Earlier in the day.  Why would you think that?  Because you were down here.  Yes, I was down there - about lunch time.  Yesterday I mentioned the chairs we bought a few months ago.  The much loved much longed for Art Deco Club Chairs.  What chairs, he asked.  You know, the chairs.  He stared at me.  I could almost see the wheels grinding slowly around but the gears didn't mesh.  So I explained to him what chairs I meant.  Oh, those chairs.  I thought you meant kitchen chairs, dining room chairs, not those chairs. 
     They are the only chairs we've bought in years.  It's a minor thing but it's a telling example of what occurs with frightening regularity.
     I think Helen, Richard's friend of 30 years, his ex partner when he was in the drug squad, is annoyed that I'm not pushing him to have more tests or go see a psychiatrist.  I understand.  Despite the clean bill of health from the CT scan and ultrasound, something is going on.  But Richard is now quite annoyed if the subject comes up.  If I tried to get him to go see yet another person I suspect he'd dig in his heels.  He asserts, and it's true, that he's done everything required of him.  He's seeing a nutritionist and doing the exercises required.  He has gone to the doctor with my complaints (not his, he is certain nothing is wrong and that he's as sharp as ever) and followed up with the scans.  He has even gone to Tai Chi as of Monday.  That might be the making of things. 
      I found Tai Chi very difficult when I first learned it.  You are asking your body to move in unaccustomed ways which while not physically demanding is hard mentally.  That's why it's called a moving meditation.  It takes total concentration.  He's going to move mental muscles he hasn't had to in quite some time.
      So I'm trying to remain positive.  We're on a roll to get the house ready and move closer to the sea.  As I wrote to Helen, I feel as though I'm on a deadline.  Get all the hard work done before .... before what?  Before he loses it completely?  Yes, that's my fear.  That he has Alzheimers.  I thought that would show up on a scan so as there was nothing seen it is a relief.  Still, still....   So get the house ready to sell, find another place suitable for all of our furred and feathered family as close to the sea as we can afford to be.  We won't wait for the quarry to start.  We'll do this now while we can.  We've been here for 22 years.  The next move will be the last one. 
      I remind myself daily how fortunate I am.  And I am.  Right now, everything is fine and there's no point in scaring myself stupid by thinking about what might happen.  Today, this moment, it's gravy. 

Aw shucks,

Because I did a favour for a friend and took some art of hers into the Gatton Show, I decided I'd enter the pastel drawing of our neighbour's feline, Alley Cat.  Cost $3 and I was going  there anyway. 
     Karen is a skilled artist, skilled in many mediums.  She had two pastel drawings, one of a friend's little girl and another of a possum.  She also entered a watercolour painting of  turtles from a photo taken while she was in SE Asia.  That watercolour was the best I thought.  It was realistic but because the turtles with the patterns on their shells were crowded and swimming above and below one another it was almost abstract. 
     While I was there filling in the paperwork I saw other work that had been entered.  Thought why in the world did I bring this painting of mine.  So many skilled artists, so much beautiful work.  The woman who was there before me had paintings of a green tree frog, a tortoiseshell cat and a mountain scene (painted on a new paper, yupo paper).  They were all good.  She talked freely of how she might win at one show but not at another, it all depends on the judge.  She knew Karen's work as well, 'she wins alot', she said.  I went home knowing I'd provided variety but with no hope of winning anything.
      You know what's coming.  I won first prize (and $20) for pastel paintings.  Can't believe it.  I shouldn't be proud but I am.  Years ago I'd entered a pencil drawing of a bearded dragon.  I thought then and still think it was a good work.  Didn't get a mention.  Sent it to Tam for her birthday, a little reminder of Australia as she was quite taken with our little lizard friends.  This painting, titled Glamour Puss because it reminds me of those l980's glamour shots women used to get which look so dated and sad now, is just another cat picture.  Enough skiting.

Crows and other things

Reading Janet Frame's An Angel at My Table.  Have ordered Faces in the Water, a fictionalized account of her time in mental institutions (she was in more than one).  Her book shows how strong the human spirit is - even when she sabotages her own happiness, even when she's weak, even when she allows herself to be thistledown blown by the whims of others.  And her books make me ashamed.  I who have so much and do so little with it.

     Even now with Richard away, the perfect excuse to stay inside and create (a large blue band of rain is crawling across the weather map toward us) and this page before me for the first time since June, I am finding it difficult to settle and concentrate.  

     Often when I am walking I compose things in my head.  Observations to be recorded, thoughts to be considered but I do none of those things.  People write novels while working full time and raising a family.  What excuse do I have?  None, except when I look at the sites saved on this computer, even the blogs written by others, they are all about art, none about writing.  

     Isn't it odd how adept we are at beating ourselves up?  And how certain we are that we need to be beaten up?  So rather than carry on with the same old crap I'll write about crows.

     Crows.  I've been entranced by them for quite awhile.  They are so common they've become invisible.  We revile them because their song is more like dragging rusty car bodies across stones than anything resembling music.  Among other things they feed on carrion.  Although their black feathers are glossy we see them as dusty harbingers of decay.

      But they lead lives of mystery.  Each afternoon when I walk the dogs I watch them.  Sometimes they all seem to be heading north, the next day south, the next west, and finally east.  Flying in twos and threes (so as not to attract attention?) they make their way to what?  I have no idea but I am certain this casual gathering is deliberate.

      One day I watched two crows flying overhead.  They squawked and squarked while they flew a large irregular circle.  Soon they were joined by another pair of crows.  The four of them flew another circle.  Then two more and finally, two more after that.  The eight of them winged around this aerial circle and then, after a few turns, they drifted apart until two were left.  The original two?  I don't know.  Finally they too drifted away. 

     What was the purpose of that?  Was it a corvid version of afternoon smoko?  Was it a family gathering?  Friends catching up?  Neighbourhood Watch?  

     Yesterday I rode up the road.  On the way back I allowed Balthazar to graze while I crow-watched.  A 'murder' of crows had gathered in a tree halfway up Mt. Whitestone.  *Murders* are common around here.  They seem drawn to the flanks of Mt. Whitestone, or any good sized hill.  The gatherings are another mystery.  The crows all talk at once and at the top of their voice.  

     Trying to understand them as a human I cannot help but put a human interpretation on them.  If people got together to discuss something and all of them shouted continuously no one would understand anything and nothing would get done.  But understanding crows I would need to be a crow.  Maybe they gather to shout with the joyousness of being alive.  Maybe it's choir rehearsal.  Or a contest.  Whatever it is, it is meaningful. 

Death and Sleep

Thinking about the fact of death.  Not in a morbid, scary or I'm-going-to-do-it way, only because someone we know is probably beginning the process.  Suppose once we took our first breath as newborns we began the process so let's say this person is racing to the finish after 88 years. 

In the flush of robust health and the relatively young age of 57 it is easy to say I'm not afraid of death.  Pain, yes but that's another subject and one in which I hope never to have an intimate acquaintance.  Death, however, seems much like sleeping. (Such an original thought!)  When I've lived through a big busy day the sweetest place in the world is my pillow.  I sink onto it with such relief, even with the sense of a lover found after a long absence.  I close my eyes with no fear of the oblivion to follow but with relief, even eagerness.  There is nothing to fear in sleep.

When my mother way dying I believe she reached for it as I reach for my pillow.  She'd been ill for years.  Tired for years.  Everything was an effort and although she loved and was loved, those ties were not enough to claim her.  My paternal grandfather died during one of her hospital stays.  Mom cried.  He's gone before me!  Death was the longed for embrace.

Today we seem to fear death. I fear not my own but the death of others.  It's the grieving that kills.  Death in a way is life.  I hope when my time comes and I pass through that door I will feel as I do now and find that I was right.

 The alternative doesn't bear thinking about.

Geometric dreams.  Vivid dreams that are staying with me.  I go through dry patches where nothing dreamt survives into daylight.  Now (had to stop then.  The theme from Lawrence of Arabia on the radio.  Great sweeping panoramic exotic sounds.  Music so aligned with the breath.  Had I been holding my breath? for I took a huge deep clearing one at the start, like a breath of release or relief.  Music is such a powerful medium, because it moves through time and is not static like art?  The written word moves through time too and has changed the course of history repeatedly.  But music!  I think if we could saturate war zones with Debussy's Syrinx or Williams soundtrack to Schindler's list, soldiers would put down their weapons and weep with the sheer beauty.  But then I am constantly arrogantly amazed that people don't think like I do.  Like litter.  Walking the dogs I am forever picking up litter.  This 5km dead end road is bordered by giant gum trees, green hills, brigalow scrub, wattles and is quite simply, very beautiful.  So why am I picking up soft drink cans, KFC containers, cigarette packs and other common detritus of modern society?  A few days ago while riding I saw from my higher vantage point someone had flung a bag of garbage into the undergrowth.  Haven't picked it up yet as I need Richard with me to hold the dogs - and to help carry it back.  The point of this is not to have a whinge per se, although whinging does satisfy, but to illustrate that naturally people don't think like I do or they would never litter).

Which is a long seque from dreams.  I don't know why I'm remembering dreams again.  The first dream had our road transplanted to a caldera.  On the opposite side, on the rise leading to the lip was another collection of buildings.  The next night I dreamed of a flood, traced it to a neighbours dam, blue and half filled with water.  The dam was shaped like a roasting pan.  Last night, no dams or calderas but a bathroom with long louvered doors, a former vet nurse, a man tied at the wrists and the rope looped over a coat hook, horses, children underfoot, changing clothes, perfume and guests having a party on the verandah on the other side of the louvered doors.  Complicated and untranslateable. Why do we dream?  The unanswerable question.  The mind entertaining itself while the interfering conscious self sleeps? 

I would like to know the meaning of my dreams but find, as in reading Tarot for myself, that I am unable.  There is no eureka moment, only frustration and confusion.  Despite this I still like to write them down.

Auction of a Life

Yesterday drove to Esk to attend an auction of household effects.  Jacqui's effects.  Jacqui is in a home now and the contents of her two story queenslander with dormer window were spread across the lawn for all of us strangers-in-hunt-of-a-bargain/find to paw through. 

There was a rack of clothing; old ladies clothing, that was also going to be auctioned off.  It was a sad sight, dark pastels and navy blue sweaters with white piping, a pinkish purple mottled jacket.  I could almost see the old lady wearing them.  Now, instead gazing out at her garden with the twin pony tail palms (lot 239) she is gazing at what, 4 walls?  other lost and lonely faces across the dining room table, quick smiling nurses with permanent creases between their brows? 

An entire lifetime gone in an afternoon.  We bought the imitation Tiffany lamp.  Thank you, Jacqui.  I loved it when I saw it and one day, I hope, someone else will adopt and love it too.  Instead of a rack of old lady clothes, dresses and skirts and sweaters, mine will be a drawer of jeans and tee shirts.  Jacqui's auction was a timely reminder.  Time is fleeting.  A baby, a child, a young woman, a mother, a crone.  All gone with the auctioneer's hammer.

Procrastination and the Messy Perfectionist's Life

Waiting to start something while waiting for Richard to go to town just means I wait.  No reason why I can't start while he's still here but isn't that often the case?  Everything must be just right before doing something I want to do - which is just another form of procrastination.  Waiting for the right weather, atmosphere, time, environment, mood, tools, whatever the reason for procrastination just means more procrastination. 

So what is scary about diving right in?  I think it's fear of not doing something perfectly.  I've never done anything perfectly my entire life - except live.  Every day I wake up, I'm alive and breathing, even standing and moving, and that's perfection.  If I wasn't living my life perfectly I'd be dead.  But that's a rather extreme view.  My more usual viewpoint is unless I can draw the perfect picture, write the perfect blog, train the perfect horse, it's not worth doing.  Well, it is or I wouldn't keep trying but there's this underlying current of guilt because I'm never quite good enough. 

Not unusual, eh?  Where did we get this obsession for perfection?  Wish I could blame my parents, it would be so easy but while they encouraged they did not browbeat. 

At the same time as being paralyzed by perfectionism I am quite content to do things half arsed, to have the mind set that an attempt is as good as realization. 

What both these mindsets lead to is guilt which also paralyzes.  Better to do nothing at all than attempt anything that might be a little difficult. Not only is there the guilt but this mental white noise; perfectionism warring with why bother, guilt with ego (and I've plenty of that!), energy with sloth.  What a mess.  No wonder I, along with so many others, finally get ill (my current back challenge) with it.  We've got the brakes on while flooring the accelerator. 

Added to that are the many good things I feel I ought to be doing to be kind to myself; yoga, meditation, walking, painting, loving others, loving myself, being out in nature, eating well which means taking the time to cook from scratch, educating (French), reading non-fiction, the list goes on.  All this stuff under the direction of my inner tutor/mother/friend.  And where am I in all this?  Usually playing Mah Jong.

What's that thing animals (and people) do when they are torn between two different desires?  Displacement behaviour.  Grooming, licking, Mah Jong playing. 

So have I got the answer?  Of course not.  I'm a messy, lazy, conflicted, guilt-ridden, arrogant, courageous, cowardly, high energy, loving, loathing, collection of days.  Out of it comes a life.  Maybe that's all it is.  If life was a perfect sail from A to B on a calm sea with no storms I'd fall asleep (die) fairly soon.  I don't have the answers.  I don't know what tomorrow will bring or how I'll handle it so I keep getting out of bed to find out.

In Cold Blood, then and now

Read Truman Capote's In Cold Blood.  Could hardly put it down.  I've got a sketch going that I'm enjoying working on but even that wasn't attractive enough to draw me away from the book.  Even though, having seen the movie (which was excellent) I knew what happened, it drew me in.

I Googled photos (mug shots) of Perry Smith and Dick Hickock.  Unremarkable looking men - but aren't the worst criminals always unremarkable looking?  While looking I stumbled across a page where photos taken by serial killers of their victims were posted.  I shouldn't have looked.  Worse, I shouldn't have read.  When telling Richard about it I didn't tell him the details.  I wish I hadn't let those facts into my brain as I've had more trouble shedding them then the 5kgs gained since I quit smoking.  Why infect someone else with something so awful?

But that's what Truman Capote managed to do, make the most inhuman behaviour by the most inhumane of men somehow humane.  They are not lost to humanity.  Or perhaps, despite what they did, because I can still feel compassion for them, I see their humanity even if they couldn't.  They lived half lives.  They lived utterly on the surface.  They reminded me of my Grandmother, buoyant as a cork, who kicked and thrashed to try and dive below the surface of the sea yet never managed to do so.  These men skimmed the shiny surface of things.  They knew there was more to life, more to them but it was, for some reason, inaccessible.  And so, with no empathy and no intimacy or real feeling for themselves, they were congenitally incapable of extending feelings of empathy or intimacy and especially mercy, to anyone else.

But like Capote, I find the real enigma was Perry.  He killed all four Clutters yet put a mattress box down to protect Mr. Clutter from the cold basement floor and prevented Dick from raping Nancy, was even willing to fight him to protect her.  Dick seemed more a sociopath, even a bit of a savant with his almost total recall of places and events.  Intelligent like a computer is intelligent but with no more feeling than a laptop.  Unless it had to do with his own comfort. 

Wonder if Perry had had a normal loving family life how he would've turned out.  Know it is unfair to those people who had a similar upbringing yet managed to keep their sense of right and wrong and make a place for themselves in the world, yet Perry, intelligent, sensitive, dreamy, was so scarred by the abuse he received as a helpless child, he could only see through a glass darkly the bright sunshiny world forever closed to him by his emotional blindness.  Like a fox caught in a trap he chewed off his own leg in order that he feel something.  

So, recalling the truly horrendous paragraph I read about one of the photo taking serial killers (which I won't repeat here) and wondering why?  why?  WHY?  and how could anyone torture someone like that? and thinking they were inhuman and worse than animals (and why, BTW, do we always give animals a bad rap?  They kill to eat and although a praying mantis may eat its prey alive starting at the head and a lion toy with a gazelle fawn before killing it, they have nothing on the creativity and calculated cruelty of homo sapiens), yet even this half a person, this deformed and twisted human being is still a part of creation and has that spark of something, despite it being almost impossible to see, which gives him humanity.  If he is killed by the State, what does that prove?  It is only, as Dick rightly understood, a revenge killing.  Perhaps a fear killing too for a community would feel safer knowing that murderers such as Smith or Hickock were dead. 

Is there any redemption, any cure, for someone like that?  I'll call him the Draino Killer (and that gives an indication of what this man inflicted on another).  I doubt it.  Society must be protected from someone like him but society as a whole is not improved by the taking of life.

While Hickock swung from the gallows the doctor who had to wait nearly twenty minutes to pronounce him dead because his heart kept beating, repeatedly stepped outside to cry.

I've written myself into a corner.  I don't know what the answer is.  We've just had  a young British soldier hacked to death in broad daylight by two Islamic extremists who encouraged passersby to take photos while they waited the twenty minutes it took for armed police to come and shoot them.  They wanted to start a religious war and the young hot heads are only too happy to make it come true.

Are we raising a generation of Draino Killers and Hickocks and Smiths?  Sadly I suspect we are as, for more Darkness there must be more Light, we are raising a generation of animal activists and peacemakers, and volunteers, and holy men and women.  It's an enigma.

Life coasts along and all is well and then something happens to shake things up.  It's always the way.  Loretta passed away so the inheritance saga is almost complete after completing forms and sending things off.  Natalia got sick and wound up on a drip at Laidley Vets and yesterday while bending down with secateurs to cut some seed heavy weeds for the galahs my back went - not spine, muscle.  So now, while waiting for it to heal, I wonder why.

There is, at least in my opinion, always a reason for things.  I have been  brought to a figurative standstill.  Why?  And while I pondered that question I played 3 games of Mah Jong.  THAT is not the answer.  What did I read this morning? 

Death twitches my ear;
'Live,' he says... 
'I'm coming.'  -- Virgil 

Live.  Seems so simple but it's incredibly complicated.  Or at least I make it so.  I DO know when it is least complicated is when I am simply in the moment.  My latest mantra?  Everything is okay, right here and right now.  I use it when I'm trotting on the hamster wheel of worry. 

At least Natalia is better.  She's sitting on the wood stool in the sun with her large chartreuse eyes slitted against the glare.  Despite a diet completely composed of Hills C/D she was found to have crystals, blood and leucocytes in her urine.  She's lost weight and is not quite back to her old self but is improving.  Especially glad to see her appetite begin to return.  That was the first clue something was wrong.  That and the cessation of her morning run.  Throughout it all - and it was quite an ordeal; xrays, having blood drawn, being put on a drip and kept in a small cage in a windowless room with two clinic cats checking you out and a chocolate labrador (that I saw, there were probably other dogs as well).  Throughout it all she kept her purr.  

One of the nice things which happened is the resolving of the accounts between Tam and I.  All these years Tam hired and paid for the attorney which accompanied her to emotionally fraught meetings with Loretta, her sons and their lawyers.  (Tam said she used to dream about Loretta, her greed and machinations wore Tam down).  Now that it was finished I asked what my share of the fees were so that I could reimburse her.  Rather than have me send her money she asked if I would donate it to a cat rescue.  I immediately thought of the Cat Protection Society of NSW where I adopted two cats so many years ago. 

Sending them a bank cheque for $6000 was one of the nicest things I've done.  Felt wonderful.  Of course it was Tam's doing.  I wouldn't have sent them that much money without her prompting.  Nevertheless the sense of satisfaction was genuine.  Sent Tam copies of their letters to me.  Pays for lots and lots of desexing.

I spend alot of time vacillating between calm acceptance bordering on a simmering joy and a low grade anxiety bordering on fear.  On the one hand I know that I will never be given something I can't handle.  Even death.  Death has only one outcome and you can't fail.  On the other hand, I am afraid, just afraid.  I suspect Richard not only has Parkinsons but the beginnings of Alzheimers.  There, I've said it.  I've made manifest my deepest fear.  By saying it do I make it true?  Of give it more of a reality than it has now?  Conversely, to pretend I don't notice how he has changed isn't very smart either. 

The changes are little.  Forgetting to close the feedroom gate so that the horses have a real feast.  I furtively check that he's closed it now.  Not rinsing his toothbrush so food debris is stuck not only in the bristles but on the handle.  Asking questions he has always known the answer to, that he hasn't even had to question before.  Asking the same question several times.  Needing reassurance, lots of reassurance, about little things.  Also, a kind of turning inwards.  When we walked yesterday (he's coming part of the way now, just past the Pedersens's) I pointed out a sun dog.  Did you see it, I asked.  No.  Did you look?  No.  Do you know what one is?  No.  So I explained (again) what a sun dog was and pointed it out to him.  Richard wasn't really interested. 

On the plus side, he is building an aviary.  That require math and measuring and accuracy and he's doing a brilliant job.  No major mistakes, it's coming together beautifully.  Since he's started it he's napping less.  He complains about chores and jobs and projects but I suspect he needs them.  He needs to be needed.  So, I'm going to keep giving him projects.  There are lots of them.  They aren't as major as the aviary but anything to keep him involved with life. 

He's very chuffed because on Sunday it's Grandfather's Day at Marnie's school.  He's going.  What do I have to do, he asked.  Just be there and love them.  He does get anxious about things that didn't used to bother him. 

It's odd because sometimes he's so engaged and energized, he is as he always was.  Other times I want to shake him and shout, "Wake up!"

We will make a final decision about the house on July 31.  Shanahan is putting the quarry up for sale.  That would be good news but if someone with lots of $$ buys it meeting the imposed conditions won't be an impediment.  The inheritance is coming through (the timing of that seems to indicate it's time to move on) so we will have a few more options of where and what kind of house we live in.  Moving may be the best thing to do for Richard too.  Out of a rut with new sights and sounds and people.  Might make a huge difference.

I know I'm up to it.  When I'm tired I don't feel as optimistic.  Usually, however I trust that the Universe provides me with everything I need, including strength. 

Learned of my step mother's death today.  Haven't seen her for many years.  Mixed emotions.  She made Dad happy and my sister unhappy.  There was shenaigans with Dad's will and obfuscation and roadbloaks that were probably unnecessary.  Loretta wasn't my kind of person.  In a way she was the antithesis of Mom yet she was vibrant, funny (often crudely), enthusiastic and loving.  I know she was in love with Dad and Dad wasn't an easy man to live with.  I think he was sometimes unkind to her because he could be.  She was a smart business woman and a great help with the airport.  I suspect that although the final say always remained with Dad she was the boss in day to day matters.  That was definitely true as Dad became ill and weak.  Sadly her last 10 years were in a fog of Alzeimhers disease.  A sad end to a sharp and savvy lady.

Her death means Dad's will comes into play.  What was once a possible inheritance of $750,000 each has dwindled to about $300,000.  Less now that the Australian dollar exceeds parity with the US.  But the timing is perfect.  We are nearing the end of preparing the house for sale.  Have the verandah to paint as well as one section of the living room (final coat today and tomorrow!) then it's ready.  Richard is building an aviary so that the flighted verandah birds may be moved allowing for the repainting.  Then we wash the outside of the house and de-cobweb and it's done.

I am torn between loving this house, this 10 acres and these surrounds and being ready for a change.  Was a bit depressed about the idea of moving.  Just all too much trouble and bother when we have everything just as we like it here - but then, this may be the best thing that could happen.  It will force Richard to re-engage (even building the bird aviary has made him more lively, less likely to sleep away the day).  With the inheritance we will have a bit more play with what we can afford to buy.  If we can get somewhere near the sea, all the better.  Richard can take up kayaking if he pleases (and I hope he pleases!) and I can get involved in whatever's too hand - yoga, art, horse stuff.  Anyway, that may or may not be in the future.  I definitely don't want to be too old and frail to move and suddenly find the quarry is in full swing with the 160 trucks a day past the front door along with the visual agony of watching the slow devouring of the mountain by heavy equipment.
  

In twenty minutes I have to take the dogs for their daily 6km walk.  I've been such a good girl lately.  Time weighs heavily - rather the lack of it.  Late 50's already and so much to do.  I've been drawing quite a bit.  Have just finished another pencil drawing.  Will load it onto deviant art eventually.  Have to set aside some time to tackle the photography and uploading (usually, not always, but usually have some issues with the technology which is why I procrastinate).  I've been consistent with riding Balthazar, doing yoga, even painting the last section of living room.  Today has been an off day however.  Rode and yoga'ed and meditated and cleaned but didn't paint.  It's our anniversary, two anniversaries actually.  We've been married for 23 years and we quit smoking (although I think we quit on May 2 actually but for convenience sake we'll call it today, so much easier to remember).

I've made an appointment with the doctor to discuss Richard.  Unbeknownst to Richard as yet.  If I have to tell him I will but I'd rather not.  It scares me although I try not to be scared (am I okay at this moment?  Yes, so don't be scared!  Is he okay at this moment?  Yes, so don't be scared - that's the metaphysical answer anyway).  Still, if he can suggest something I'd be grateful.  I had another 'moment' with Richard when I was absolutely honest about what I saw, what I felt and he has picked up his game.  Again.  Told him he had no hobbies, no interests, that half the time I wanted to yell at him to Wake Up! that he slept too much, was he depressed? at his age he should sleep less, not more, that a million things waited to be done and he seemed to have no motivation to do any of them.  Not that he's lazy.  He's not lazy.  If anything he works too hard (and I think he misunderstood and was hurt by my comments).  He's slashed the paddocks and fixed fence and mown the lawn but there's something missing.  I was going to ask him a favour, that he go to The Shed, a meeting place in town where men get together and make things and mentor  young men.  But we never got that far.  Naturally and quite understandably he gets defensive.  Even so, I think he needs to be stimulated.  He needs male company, not just me.  His world is getting smaller.  Now of course, he is concerned because his sister is having health issues as are his very elderly aunt and uncle.  When he is needed by someone he blooms.  His whole raison d'etre is being needed.  But he has to be needed by himself too. 

It's not just me imagining this.  Helen was here for 2 days.  Was such a relief to discuss this with her.  She noticed how Richard has aged, how he's physically changed, mentally too.  Her mother noticed.  His family has noticed.  I believe it started after he had the hernia surgery when he wound up in intensive care because of some 'reaction to the anaesthetic'.  Something else happened.   This half a heartbeat crap they trotted out - was he starved of oxygen for awhile?  Did he die on the table and have to be resuscitated?  Having been a vet nurse I know stuff goes on in surgery which stays in surgery.  I understand.  They don't want trouble and of course nothing can be changed.  What happened happened.  But the man I married 23 years ago, is only partly present.   And it breaks my heart.

Love and Fear, Kiwi and Yankee Style

A letter to my sister.

Hi Tam:

Today New Zealand voted for love, 77 to 44 in favour of same sex marriage.  Today America voted for violence, 54 to 46, against background checks for those wishing to buy guns.  In New Zealand the gallery spontaneously erupted into a traditional Maori love song.  In the US Senate gallery there were calls of 'Shame on you!' as the vote was counted.  To me that about sums it up.  The US has lost its mind.  Some American said something about how the rest of the world looked at the US with bewilderment - how it seemed quite crazy, this fascination with guns and gun culture.  He or she was right.  Can't speak for the rest of the world but here in Australia, the US appears as though it's gone collectively off its rocker.  Madness twinned with paranoia fueled by testosterone and steroids.  Hate fueled by fear.  Why so frightened?  What is everyone afraid of?  Retribution? 
When Martin Bryant shot and killed 35 people and injured 21 others at Port Arthur in Tasmania the then conservative government was galvanized into action.  In order to own a gun you had to have a license.  Hundreds of thousands of guns were surrendered (there was a recent amnesty of unlicensed firearms in which even more guns were surrendered).   The keeping of guns in strictly regulated.  Richard has (licensed) guns which he keeps in a secure padlocked cabinet.  Ammunition is kept separately.  The police have been out to check that he adheres to the regulations.  Richard is very much in favour of gun ownership but accepts with not too much grumbling the way things are in Oz. 
And then of course you get the homegrown loonies like the Boston bomber.  I suspect you are right, Tam and he or she is insane.  There's a grown man up the road.  He's in his 40's and lives with his quiet and unassuming parents.  His dad is a friend of ours.  When this 'boy' gets agitated he gets scary if he's not on his medication.  The neighbour brought Richard his guns for safekeeping when the son was having an episode (over an aged  cat that desperately needed, for humane reasons, to be euth'd).  That's all it takes.  The parents are rightfully frightened of this big burly 'kid' but can't/won't have him committed.  Is the bomber such a person?   There are so many 'mad' people out there.   Mad people that are afraid and therefore find reasons to hate.  Hate comes from fear, don't you think?  You can't hate unless you're afraid.
It's all so sad. 
One of my favourite movies is Love Actually.  I'm sure you've seen it.  During the opening monologue Hugh Grant talks about how when the planes were going down during 9/11, the passengers, knowing they were going to die, rang their loved ones to tell them they loved them.  They didn't ring their enemies to tell them they hated them.  Love is our natural state.  Despite all the madness in the world, I still believe that.

And I love you,
Holly

Wishing the Guilt Away

Was reviewing things I have wished for (with the sudden ownership of three Art Deco Club Chairs years after accepting I would never own one).  Found a notebook with a pretty cover entitled Day Dreams in which I'd started to write a short synopsis of my life, desires and wishes.  (There are many many notebooks with many many beginnings jotted down that never see a finish - a sad statement on my ability to commit).   Several times I wrote that I would like to have a published book, a strange statement because I no longer write.  Finished one novel and got halfway through another before being permanently distracted.  Another thing I keep referring to is the need for solitude.  I am my mother's daughter after all.   Went to a neighbour's 21st last night - didn't want to go, wanted to run home and play with a new drawing instead of making small talk perched on a bale of hay. 
     Yes, a new drawing.  I've felt the need to sketch.  The pastel isn't finished.  Haven't touched it for 2 days.  Feel it's safe to leave it for awhile as I've got a handle on where it might go.  Nevertheless I wanted a doodle.  Something which I could play with without so much at stake.  A pastel seems SERIOUS, while a graphite drawing is more PLAYFUL.  Which illustrates a basic fault in my perception.  There is no reason why a pastel can't be playful.  I know from past experience that seriousness, the thought of consequences (what if it doesn't turn out?) freezes my ability to do anything.
     At least something is being created. 
      Created.  Isn't that a miracle?  Making something from nothing, something which has never existed before and which will never exist again - whether it's a loaf of bread or the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.   That need to get something out which was in, even if what's in is only an itch which must be scratched and hasn't got a form as yet beyond the desire to do SOMETHING! 
     I beat myself up (what an odd picture that statement creates!) because I don't do more.  Have to remember that because I sleep so poorly now (a side effect of menopause I suspect) and am often tired, I won't feeling like doing much.  Despite this, when I stand back and look at what I accomplish I actually get quite a bit done.  Guilt is just a natural part of my make-up.  Where did it come from?  I'm not Catholic.  Sure would like to get shot of it.  It's not helpful. 
     Maybe that will be my new wish.  I wish to be free of guilt (not conscience, only guilt).  After all I got a couple of club chairs.
     

I've joined deviantArt.  Will take photos of most of my work and upload it.  Why not?  Be nice if others see it.  Have already learned something.  If it's going to photograph decently will have to make my darks darker and my lights lighter.  Wimpy in life, wimpy in art.  Make a statement!
     Severe and damaging storms yesterday.  Lots of damage in Logan Ipswich area.  While walking the dogs watched the back of the storm  march away to the east.  Don't think I would've wanted to watch the front bearing down on me.  Even the back of it was huge, terrifying and beautiful.  Stark clenched clouds slow exploding into cerulean blue.  In the distance wet clay slabs of grey rain pressed upon the land.  On the way home we were helped along by the wind being sucked into the storm.  Isolated groups of clouds joined forces, became one huge front.
     When I got home, after feeding everyone, looked at the radar.  Scary.  Angry red splotches like sores scratching across the map.  All to the east of us.  After dark we got a downpour, 14mm in 15 minutes.  Very pleased as we needed the rain but we didn't need damage.  Lost power for an hour.  Read The Jane Austen Book Club by Karen Joy Fowler by candlelight with a glass of red.
      Overcome by gratitude while watching that storm.  Beauty, incredible wondrous incandescent beauty surround us  if we only open our eyes.  Standing beneath overarching wattle trees watching a dozen monarch butterflies flitting between the branches.  Don't know what attracted them but what a sight it made with fluttering leaves and fluttering butterflies with roiling white clouds overhead.  Didn't loiter long.  Thunder coming from the west as well as the east.  Don't mind walking in the rain, do mind getting caught in hail.
     Dice-ing yesterday and again today.  Repotted mature adenium plants.  Amazed at what was hidden beneath the soil - huge hard yellow white, can't even call them roots, more like storage tanks with filigree roots sprouting off the sides.  Had no idea.  Repotted the remaining 14 baby adeniums.  The table is groaning under the weight of baby adeniums.  Have given away dozens.  Overloaded friends and acquaintances with adeniums.  Worse than giving away kittens. 
     Dice had me on the yoga mat during the hottest part of the day.  Cleansing sweat I guess.   But as I hadn't eaten I wasn't attempting a headstand on a full stomach.  Eased back a bit on a few poses.  Very sore lower back and pelvis.  Don't know why.  Better today.
     Carry a small sketchbook in my purse.  Used it to draw Natalia.  Her upside-down-head-under-paw pose and mature-cat-dignified-nap pose.  Caught her too, at least in the upright pose.  Not just any cat sleeping but Natalia sleeping.  The other sketch, as most of her face is hidden under her leg, isn't as clearly her.  Pleased with them.  Fun to do too.  Only 5 minutes or so. 
      Conversely haven't touched the pastel drawing on the easel.  Like the bird, like the horse...well the horse is okay, not perfect, otherwise stuck.  Have these elements that don't work but don't know what to do instead.  So keep retouching horse and bird and leaving the rest.  Waiting for inspiration to bite. 
      Have a egg yolk painted gesso primed canvas waiting.  No tooth.  Need to make a mark and see what it looks, feels like.  That will determine, in part, to what can be painted on.  If it doesn't 'take' the medium, will have to keep it simple and sketchlike.  If it does, what fun!
    

Mental Housekeeping

Overcast.  A soft day.  Later it will be hot, sticky and uncomfortable but this early (7am) it's still a balmy tropical morning. 
     There's something wonderful about being alone for awhile.  Moving to my own rhythm, listening with an undistracted ear, moving through space without the gravitational pull of another person.  I love it.  I need it.  Not forever.  I want him home but the novelty is luxurious. 
     So what to do with this day?  Not eat is one thing.  I've learned to love cooking.  What I cook I eat.  Will be nice just to have liquids today.  Plant the Black Bean tree in the yard where the summer heat and drought killed a small tree I'd planted a few years ago (put a dripper on it too late).  Repot some other plants.  Take Balthazar out for a pick.  No work for him, just pick.  Work on my painting?  Read a book.  Do yoga.  Have another coffee. 
     Decided after my little scare of a few days ago that it was time to reassess what I was feeding my mind.  Every day, through various email subscriptions, I was reading about the horror in the world; the cruelty, the mindlessness, the greed and because that was my steady diet I was, in a way, perpetuating it.  There's the voyeuristic quality involved too - why people slow down at a car accident - which had me reading crap I shouldn't have.  I know how susceptible I am.  I know once the image is there I can never be rid of it.  Animals Australia sent me a membership kit with flyers depicting, with graphic photos, the barbaric treatment in factory farms.  Glanced at it, saw what it was and threw it away. 
     When I was 12 or so I saw an image of a starving kitten, dirty and abandoned on the street.  The image was from some animal welfare group.  I cried and cried and cried - and am tearing up now thinking of that long dead kitten.  I can't take it.  The wall is breached.  The filter faulty. 
      So yesterday I unsubscribed from those groups.  I kept Greenpeace, Animals Australia, IFAW and a couple of others but the worst ones (as far as my oversensitivity goes) are gone.  I then subscribed to planet affirmation and good news stories. 
     I do believe we hide our Godlights under the delusion of matter.  Our corporeal form comes, we think, with a license to behave like barbarians.  Because we can affect matter, I suppose.  It's more accessible than our Godlight or at least more easily perceived.   We shove matter and it moves.  Suddenly we have the illusion of power.  The power of life and death, the power to cause pain, the power to accrue 'stuff'.  But it's an illusion.  But such an illusion!   Yet the illusion is maintained with lies.  I know the cruelty in the world is also an illusion - but it's one I can do without.  Call me a coward.  It's true.  I am a coward.  This small corner of the world I can protect - to a point.  So I do.  I love what is mine to love and  for the rest of it, drape the world in imaginary skeins of kindness.