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April, 2013:

Keep the fire Burning…. (REO Speedwagon)

“Keep the fire burning, let it keep us strong, the world will keep on turning, let it turn you on…. Let it non stop burning we can help one another be strong, let us never lose the yearning to keep the fire burning all night long” (REO Speedwagon)

Passion, purpose, power, these words are used in so many contexts – often inappropriately applied, but rarely are they as powerfully personified as in the rugby arena.

The very essence of the words, wholly and gut wrenchingly captivated in the Game of Glory and Guts.

And this, from a casual observer, who just happened perchance to be in a pub, when the atmosphere tangiably changes –  it becomes palpable .Electrifying. Such is the effect the game of rugby has on National Consciousness -  a South African psyche.  Charged with an energy that goes beyond a gender specific domain, or a tradition. This is an energy that pulsates – a  life force – a life defining energy force.

And it’s captivated in  THAT moment, that moment when the players run onto the field. The fire in their eyes.

But where does it come from? A locker – room prep talk? Hardly. It’s bred in the blood.  A tiny spark that flickers, unrecognised at an early age, a flame that begins to burn, a fire that becomes entirely unquenchable.

Fire that speaks of the passion of the game , fire that burns with a desperation to play the game with heart, because the player knows that if he can just play with heart, 100% heart, there is no possibility of any result other than success.

Sometimes strategies are analysed, technique is discussed, endless game plans made, but each player knows –  just knows that it’s none of those things that score the try’s. Its none of these that bring the game onto the field.

It’s pure guts.

Pure heart.

Pure passion.

Its an electric field, its a chemical reaction, it’s an equation as complex as Einstein’s E=Mc2. In combinations that have not yet been defined, or there would be a full proof winning formulae, Its guts, its  passion, its heart, that combine in proportions that erupt into pure power. Power in its most primal essence.

A burning fire. In the heart, in the guts of every single player, bred in their blood, since birth. Born on the wings of being South African.

Fire stoked at birth, flame lit in the cradle, kindled at the firesides of social braais, when as a “laaitie” your father reveres and speaks in tones of admiration and respect of the players, the game –  the guts and the glory. A flame that begins to burn brighter in the schools. The glory of the game begins to grow, the passion is ignited. The flame begins to burn.

The glory of a 35 000 strong crowd, that a player controls. Bringing grown men to their feet. The glory begins to grow in the heart of a  laaitie as he sees how a family, friends, strangers are brought together under the banner of the game. The energy, the pulse, the social structure that dictates a Sunday, that dominates a school, that draws a man from his mundane existence into one in which he is able to sweat, scream, feel, experience an energy that he is not able to muster in his own private existence,he  spends  money on game tickets  to be a little closer to this power, to experience just a little more of the passion, to feel  …. albeit vicariously.

The glory of the game – the flame is ignited when the boy sees the effect his participation has on his dad. His dad will leave work, will be there, will spend time and money on his son, to capture just a bit more of the taste of the game. Albeit on school level, it hardly matters, the taste is the same, the taste of the game, and all that is associated with it, the taste is in his daddy’s mouth. He sees how his daddy’s eyes light up, how his daddy salivates as he speaks, how his daddy burns with a boyhood yearning for more of the taste of the game –  unabashed.

And the boy begins to burn, to burn for a taste of the glory, the game, and commits within his heart that the very pulse that regulates his own heartbeat will beat to the rhythm of the game. That the passion that ignites his fire – is the game of rugby.

But what is not as evident is that behind the glory is the requirement  of guts that goes beyond the immediacy of the game itself.

The guts it takes to want. To want so badly that the very definition of your being becomes dependant on the game.

The guts to dedicate your boyhood to lust of the game, the guts to pursue the dream not possibly being able to anticipate the cost, the guts to take on not only the game, and the agony that comes with both winning and losing, the guts to take on the game and all the preparation that comes with it, the discipline, going beyond the burn of the body and the pain – both physical and emotional of injury, the guts to taking on the time required to be the best of the best in the game, the guts, like any athlete to perform at your peak, to throw yourself into this game with all you have. But rugby goes beyond that. Rugby, because  it is rugby, requires the guts to personify the hopes, the dreams, the expectations of a nation. Of your father, of generations before him who idolise the game and those who play it, of hundreds of thousands of men who place you on a pedestal, who transpose their opinions, loudly, onto your work, your life blood, the hundreds of women, who also want a taste, just a taste of that world. The guts, to know that everything you gave your life to can be lost in a season. The guts to return to the game – game after game… Keeping the fire burning, despite youth turning into age, keeping the fire burning despite turning into a man of your own, with a family, a wife, responsibilities, keeping the fire burning, despite it being riddled with politics, with opinionated, yet uninformed supporters, detractors, and opinions because opinions come so cheaply. Keeping the fire burning – despite – the glory, because it’s so easy to get lost in the glory, and lose the fire, lose the passion, lose the heart, and bask in the glory, when the glory is never what the game was ever about.

Being able to acknowledge at least to yourself, what the game is really about – passion, purpose, and only then power. Guts before Glory.  Guts  comes from the core, glory from so many external sources. If the core – the guts were not built on hard foundations, the glory itself would ironically be the very thing that blew the flame out.

Play with passion, play with purpose, play with guts. The power, the glory, flows only from the passion.

The Passion is in the desire to live, to eat of the flesh of life, to suck the very pulse out of life, to feed on life’s energy, to possess and experience all that life has to offer, to hurt, to win, to loose, to take on a challenge that seems insurmountable, and succeed.

Those who fall in love passionately (with life, a lover, or indeed the game ) are perhaps not the foolish, but the wise, for they want everything of life. No reserves, No withholds, no half measures. Those who crave and lust and long for, those who want – want with such intensity that irrespective of consequences, their very life force demands of them to participate anyway. Regardless. Regardless of the cost. Regardless of the pain. Regardless of the injuries. Regardless of the time. To participate fully – devoting and dedicating your every resource, spirit, soul, and body to the game.

This is the power of rugby. This is the passion that runs in the blood of every player and participant, spectator and supporter.

This is pure passion, to dedicate your being to a game, and being unsure at the end of it all whether it was life that made the game what it was, or whether the game made life what it was.

 

Liberate your mind from mental slavery (Bob Marley)

There comes a pivotal point in your life, a crossroads if you will, where you have to agree to look the truth in the eye and accept your most intimate thoughts – do not be embarrassed or scared about that. It is the only real way to live. Liberate yourself. Liberate your soul. From that flows the liberation of your opinions, thoughts, talents, your contribution to society. Your authenticity. You. Being you.

Oh My God! What a challenge! What a call to arms. How many of us do that, and on a regular basis. Look life in the eye. Look, With no prejudice. With no holds barred. With no where to hide. Brutal. Bare. Faced for what it is. Irrespective. Irrespective of the consequences. Irrespective of what would be required of you once you have the knowledge, or the realisation of that truth. Irrespective of the changes you would have to make. Always uncomfortable. Always deeply challenging. Because THIS is WHY you were called to look. To stare life in the eye. To see what you need to see. Because there is a requirement to move, alter, change, discard, renew. And it’s always uncomfortable.

So what will you do, if you look, and see. What will you do with the truth. And how could you live any longer with the fallacy. Only the very courageous look. Only the very courageous are willing to say, I will take the torment of having to acknowledge my life for what it is. I will take the proverbial bull by the horns, and hold for dear life onto those horns as they fling me through the air, as I swing, like a rag doll, from side to side, as I hold on with all my power to the solid. To what I do have. To the concrete. I hold and hold, and let my body and life force be swung at a force that I can not contain or control… until I realise that its futile, that to let go is more risk, but is the ONLY way in which I will once again land on my feet. Strong. Firm. Hard. Rooted. Ready. For life. For challenges. For the fight.

So let me open my eyes. Wide. Not just a slit, not just a peek, not just a surface surveyance. Let me see from every angle I am permitted to. Let me open my eyes and drink it all in. And celebrate that I have been given the privilege to do so.

Drink from the waters, the waters overflowing. (Parlotones) A thirst so deep.

Imagine a thirst so deep, it goes beyond discomfort, beyond parched, beyond physical demands, beyond physical symptoms like headaches, dry scratchy throat, swallowing with difficulty. A thirst that dehydrates cells, a thirst that is so intense it creates delusions and illusions.
I have known such a thirst.
A thirst to succeed. A thirst to be so much more than what I currently am. A thirst to live life to my own expectations, to the potential I know exists deep within my soul, it bubbles, it wants to burst forth, like a well, like a fountain,like a geyser.
Yet force of habit keeps my mind from believing, keeps me within limitations – imposed by others, imposed by time, imposed by the need to earn a living and put bread on the table. And so, a slow dehydration of soul ensues. Drought. Years and years of drought.
Any living hope that wants to flourish, any seed that lies buried within, the talents I know lie dormant, waiting to be watered – wither and die in lack.
Like being in the desert, searching for that ever elusive mirage, for the cool waters, a glimmer of hope. For the rivers, lakes and oceans, that I know, just know are there, that have dried up.
Parched, desolate, dry, arid.
How do those waters begin to flow again? How do we cool ourselves in this heated world in which we live?
Heated by traffic, by stress, by pollution, by hatred, by anger. Heated by demands, by relationships that are toxic. Heated, heated, heated.
Where are the waters?
How do I ever begin to distinguish between the mirage the world sells to me – have more, do more, accumulate, medicate….. and the real waters. The real waters that once I begin to flow in the natural rhythms that were created for me, the excessive thirst for more will be quelled, and I will find I have, and have indeed always had more than sufficient. How do I find those waters?
Take time.
Take time to appreciate what you have.
Take time to preserve what you need for your future and for the legacy you want to leave to your children.
Take time to understand, nuture, build, notice, conserve, plan, enjoy, utilize, sustain.
Your soul.
Your environment.
Your body.
Water it.
Water your soul with self reflection.
Water your being with forgiveness, love, compassion, towards yourself.
Water your talents with time, energy, resources, passion, that you so freely pour on others, yet don’t feel deserving enough to pour on yourself.
Water your body with the nutrients so freely provided by nature, that you may thrive and live on the resources most simplistically available to you.
Water – the very essense of life.
Water – the most vital resource.
Appreciated best when the thirst for it becomes so overwhelming that we never again – never again – take it for granted. Neither the literal not the figurative.
Water is life, so drink. Drink deep, drink till you have had your fill, but ensure that the overflow runs in streams, in rivers, in floods …. For generations to come.

Tears in Heaven (Eric Clapton)

 

There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition, and of unspeakable love. (Washington Irving)

Crying. It’s Primal. It’s instinctual. Its our first form of communication as we enter this world. A cry. A scream. Not yet accompanied by tears, but the tears soon come.

The cry of a baby as he / she enters the world, possibly the shock of leaving the womb, the altered temperature and light, the new sensations. But possibly a scream of power. An entrance that cries out – I am here, powerful,  bringing a message to the world. I am significant. Listen to me. Notice me. I bring a message. I bring a purpose. And damn it, I will be heard. Against all odds.

Why are we ashamed of tears? Why does the perception persist that boys don’t cry? Although beautifully and somewhat successfully challenged in the last decade:  big boys DO cry, can cry, should cry. That a real man cries. A lot. We should celebrate tears. To see a person crying is to me one of the most beautiful moments in being human. It’s a vulnerability.  It’s an expression of frustration, so deep that words are not sufficient. And lets face it, words are sometimes so very tiresome. I find it most refreshing when someone cries. No need for clever words, no need for emotional explanations. No need to display cleverly thought out coping mechanisms, taught to us by mental health professionals. We have the God given ability to just cry! For free. When no words are used to express our emotions, just a raw gut wrenching cry, why do other people feel so uncomfortable, so ill at ease, and so obligated to ‘say something’? Why not respond accordingly, with no words. With a light touch on the arm. With a warm embracing hug. With a squeeze on the shoulder. Nothing more. Just wordlessly loving what is wordlessly being expressed.

Tears don’t hurt or harm spectators. Irritate them, maybe, confuse them maybe, annoy them maybe. In the same way hysterical laughter may irritate, confuse or annoy another person. But we so readily attempt to quell tears, to stop them, to cut them short. Would we as readily try to stop a fit of giggles? Just as when a fit of giggles often occurs at most inappropriate times, and an attempt to supress them only results in an even greater explosion of the giggles, for now we giggle at not being allowed to giggle. So too, tears, in an attempt at being supressed cry to be released even harder.

When will we learn to allow both tears and laughter to flood our lives, to flood our societies? We might find far less need to rely on big pharmaceutical companies to regulate our emotions if we were more liberated in expressing and not desperately trying to supress them, because they may be socially inappropriate.

The mothers who want to cry out “God Help Me with this job, that is so difficult, so intense, and so exhausting. I love my child, but this is so hard!”  She daren’t. So she pops an anti-depressant.

The men who want to cry out “God I feel like a failure, I want so badly to be what my family needs me to be, but I am only a boy, grown into a man’s body too soon, and I don’t have all the answers, and all the solutions” He daren’t. So he pops down to his local pub.

The young girl who wants to cry out “God I don’t know how to define myself in this world. Where I want to be feminine, but also competent and strong, and playing both roles is so hard and confusing”  She daren’t. So she becomes cold and heartless.

The young boy who wants to cry out “God it’s so tough to establish your masculinity in this world of might is right. I want to be the alpha male, but not lose my sensitivity” He daren’t so he bullies, because it’s easier to bully others than work out your own truth.

I have never seen more strength in my son than when he is crying, unafraid to communicate with his entire being, his heart and his soul how he feels in that moment. Then he is cleansed, and can get on with play time.

I have never seen more beauty in my partner, than when he is crying. Finally able to release years of hurt, of pain, of anger. And able to let it all go, opening space in his heart for me.

I have never experienced more satisfaction when a young child I teach at school cries, as I see them negotiate the quagmire of school, friendships, academic stress.  I feel such relief at the fact that they take a moment to express how difficult they find this all, and then, having cried it out, breathe, and feel entirely capable once again to take on the world. The work. The microcosm of their society.

I have never felt more connected to humanity than when passing a stranger in a shopping mall, who (thus far my experience being only female) is saying – I can’t hide my pain any more, I can’t hide my hurt, my anger, my frustrations any more. It’s more than I can bear alone. I feel such a sense of appreciation for that person, that many times, I have approached them, and in an appropriate manner thanked them. Thanked them for having the courage to cry out loud, thanked them for being so bold as to cry out publically that the world is not always ok. Because we all know it’s not. Yet we live in the pretence that it is.

We are told there will be no more tears in heaven.

What a loss.

How very sad that is, just in and of itself.

For that dehumanises us. And caught in a body or not, surely, surely, we still want to experience joy. How can we know joy is joy, if we are constantly in a state of joy, with no comparative emotion. Would that joy not then become the norm and we become dull and unappreciative of it?

Tears do represent sorrow, or express it, or indicate it. But they are also healing. They are connecting, they are liberating. They are beautiful. Why deny ourselves that liberation, that beauty? Why deny ourselves that primal moment, as per our very first reaction to being brought into this world? Why deny ourselves a form of communication, that for once, breaks language barriers, cultural barriers, colour barriers.  What a powerful language, that can in an instant cut across age, race, culture. And we supress it??? Oh my God, what a gift we have been given – universal love, universal connection, universal compassion, universal identification with one another. Being to being.

Cry baby, cry.  Yes. You heard me, Cry baby cry!

Love, love me do, you know I love you. (Beatles)

The whole concept of unconditional love – where did it originate?

I recall hearing it most frequently in a Christian Church setting – come just as you are, God accepts you just the way you are. Thus it follows that your parents ought to also love you for who you are, for just being. For being you. For simply existing. Because God does. And we strive to be God like, so we should love as He loves, and He loves unconditionally. Right? Right? Wrong!

Does it use the terminology Unconditional love anywhere in any holy scriptures?

Yes, an enormous amount of love has unquestionably been displayed by Christ and other religious figures, political figures too, Ghandi, Mandela….but was the motivation primarily love, or simply being obedient to a life calling, which happened, coincidentally, as a by product to reflect or manifest love for fellow human beings. If a Ghandi, a Mandela, a Golda Muir, a Che Gueveria, displayed the courage to follow their convictions, their belief systems, regardless of personal cost, is that synonymous with unconditional love for human kind. No. Not at all.

Jesus references love so vast, so immense, that we can  not truly conceive of it. Love covers a multitude of sins.

Love endures all.

Love is patient. Love is kind.

Love suffers long, does not envy, does not seek it’s own

Love is not provoked, thinks no evil, believes all things, hopes all things.

Love never fails.

But Love is unconditional?

Where did that belief come from? It sets us up for all sorts of incorrect expectations. It sets relationships up for failure. It breeds  mistrust and false illusions.

My searching of the scriptures is riddled with conditions to the love.

If my people who are called by my name, will humble themselves …

If you love me, you will leave your treasures,

If, if, if.

How much more conditional are we as lower consciousness beings.

Parents love us if we behave  according to social norms and make them proud and fulfil certain expectations. Sure, being a parent myself,  I do love beyond that. But we constantly give the message that our love would be more, greater, better if certain conditions were fulfilled.

Be a good boy, make mummy happy.

I am a perfectly sensible mother and member of society, and do realise the benefits of the conditions. There is very little less tolerable than an insolent, obnoxious child, who has a sense of entitlement with no appreciation or understanding of the rights and sensibilities of others.

That is not what this blog is about.

Its about the fallacy of unconditional love,and how the very notion of that concept rips apart the very fabric of relationships. They are built on a false foundation. How can they possibly be expected to last, let alone have a fighting chance. At least if a person enters into a relationship on a clear understanding, the person is able to monitor, evaluate, adjust, correct, or accept the unfolding of the relationship.

We all know it, but we don’t have the social courage to confess it as so.

I will love you if you are attractive enough.

I will love you if you are wealthy enough.

I will love you if you are intelligent enough.

I will love you if you are socially acceptable enough.

I will love you if you are the same colour as me.

I will love you if you are from the same culture, religion, social standing as me.

I will love you if you have the same or better educational qualifications as myself.

Ooohhh and what about the negatives:

I will love you if you don’t drink, if you don’t gamble, if you don’t cuss, if you don’t lose your job,  if you don’t indulge in other behaviours that can impact negatively on my life.

And if you don’t make any changes to your opinions, thoughts, religious view points, life views that contradict who / what you are right now, if your personal growth does not outstrip mine.

I will love you if you are faithful to me, and earn an income that increases exponentially with each year we are together, and never ever look at another person from the opposite sex again, and think and believe forever more that I am the bee all and end all of perfection, and if you learn to do things my way, without complaint, and if you give me a family and if you provide well for us, and if you continue to look after your physique and and and, if, if, if…. And if you skip over the midlife crisis, and while you are about it, skip over menopause and child blues too…. Because if you cripple and buckle under those, I may just tolerate you, mostly for appearance sake, and because its too damn hard to make a change…but love you, properly love you, well, if that’s what you expect of me, then there are some expectations on you too!!!

Oh no? Not? Really not?

The divorce rate is what it is then because we love unconditionally, except when….. for better, but not really for worse. For richer, of course, poorer, not so much. In sickness, well now, that depends entirely on which disease we are referencing, in health – till death us do part. Physical death – spiritual death an entirely different matter.

The ‘success’ stories, of a marriage that has survived the ‘ test of time’ but the couple are so resentful, so filled with animosity, regret, bitterness, at years ‘wasted’ in the marriage, years of knowing they did not and could not love unconditionally, and that they  had in fact been sold a con. And bought into that fact that this complacency was in fact unconditional love.  Wanting to leave to correct it all, but not being able to for so very many reasons.

Wouldn’t it be so much more vital if we entered this game knowing the rules. Knowing that conditions – to a lessor or greater extent are indeed there. It would keep us at our peak surely.  Which, again, outside of the traditional response of ‘who wants to live like that?’ …. Consider that maybe, just maybe, that could be the best methodology. That entering a relationship knowing the truth is the most liberating experience.

Like the druids who marry for a year and a day. One year and one day, and the marriage is automatically nulled. The two parties are free to renew the marriage for another term, but if one or the other chooses not to, then the term has run it’s path and there is no obligation thereafter. In that time, would you not be your very best. I am aware of the value and importance of rest, and not having to display a showmanship type of attitude constantly. But even in rest, you would be the best, ultimate, truest you. You would value each moment. You would know this has it’s limitations and therefore should be valued deeply for each moment. You would never be second best. You would speak well, you would praise highly, you would excel at what you set your hand to. You would nourish, care for, gently caress. You would keep your health. Burn brightly. Nuture your talents. Not only for the person you value, but for yourself. Knowing you need to shine. For the person you love. And for yourself.

If we knew relationships were conditional, we could walk away if we believed the conditions to be too harsh, and find another love. But we enter a relationship, not even knowing there are conditions, although there are, let alone being able to evaluate fairly if those conditions are acceptable to us. For life. For ever.

Conditional love may be better, at least in as far as it is the truth. For now.

 

 

“You are all beautiful” (Parlotones)

 

You are all beautiful, you are all wonderful ….. deserve to be adored…. Deserve to be adored… (Parlotones)

It is beyond my comprehension how beautiful, exquisitely beautiful women, who have value and worth beyond the imaginable, weigh themselves at the scales of beauty competitions.  How, where and when did these awful contests originate, and how have we, as women permitted them to continue.  I don’t ascribe value judgements to very many, if really any persons, events, actions, since this world is a big big place, and as the old adage goes, ‘to each his own’. There are so many people, so many differentiated means and methodologies of living. A choice is never either or. Never. There are never only two options. A black and white. Roulette. Win or lose on the toss of one dice. Its never like that, there are a myriad of ways, of possibilities, of variations of right and wrong, of PERSPECTIVES.

And I do suppose, that this is indeed, just another perspective…. Yet, I am ever so tempted to ascribe the value judgement of ‘pure evil’ to the concept of beauty competitions. Evil in every aspect.

Imagine, if you will, for a moment, the concept of taking an exquisite, perfectly formed, happy, content, carefree little girl, with a body that she is just beginning to explore and appreciate, and enjoy and love, and strutting her on a stage so that a bunch of inadequate, plagued, cognitively contaminated  adults riddled, just riddled with their own sense of worthlessness,  can tell her whether or not she is beautiful. What the hell is that???? WHAT IS THAT????

Suddenly she is TOLD that she is or is not acceptable,  is or is not worthy, is or is not good enough, is or is not worthy of admiration, is or is not worthy of strong self esteem, is or is not worthy to celebrate her body. Oh my God, how insidious, how completely destructive, how entirely complicit we are in this sick society, in which girls sell their self worth so very very cheaply.

How do the judges live with the knowledge that they have willingly stood in this seat of power, to offer a young girl a completely false sense of self worth, a sense of self worth that her body is her value. That this is her most useful tool? That she should use her outward appearance to manipulate life, that she should be proud and pleased when people applaud the length of her hair and her body proportions, that she should be excited and happy when people stare at her body. And those are only the issues the winner has to deal with. Imagine if you will, the “LOSER”.

The loser may think – I have no beauty to bring to the world. I have nothing that is worth loving, valuing. Best case she may develop an anger at the judgemental process and build a life of value. Build a life in which she knows she is so magnificently beautiful, build a life in which her talents, her love, her passion, her compassion, her intelligence, her joy, her driving forces bring, like a whirlwind such intense and passionate beauty into her world, that those who have the ability to step into that are not only swept up, but bowled over by her indescribable beauty. That her exquisite laughter is contagious, that her ideas are so contagious, that her eyes that light up at the pure uncontaminated lust for life are so CAPTIVATING that no one can help BUT be drawn into her amazing circle of energy, of life force, of breath taking…. BEAUTY…. That her perhaps curly, unruly wavy locks of auburn hair, her slightly too large nose, her skew smile, her slightly overlapping front two teeth, are the most magnetic force field known to any other who at that moment steps into her world.

NOT because she holds some title, with a set of sugar coated photographs, and even a  little silver tiara, just to truly stamp the world’s approval of beauty on her head.

May the flowers of the field be the crown on her head. My she find a tiara, a quality one, and wear it every single day. Because she knows her beauty, not because she was JUDGED to be so by a panel of half qualified, unaware, lower order thinking, hypocrites! Not because some book described a heroine who had similar features to her own, thus giving her permission to consider these, and only these features perhaps beautiful, in certain settings, because someone in a book was described as attractive, having similar physical features. Not because she looks similar to a big screen star. So now, she can find a reason to appreciate and validate her features. Because someone found those features attractive enough to place under a team of makeup artists, who skilfully minimize the exquisite beauty of the spots, wrinkles, scratches, and highlight a slightly unusual quirk, that if they play it just right, can possibly become a characteristic that could endear her to the public, and thus  sell a product, story, concept, thought, look.

Where is the soul? Where is the SOUL? Where is that woman? Where is SHE? Is she living in her skin…. Just in her skin. How awfully uncomfortable it has been for so many woman!! When will we ascribe more value to ourselves, to the women who rock the cradles and thus, rule the world?

So stand girls. Stand. Stand on the stage of life. Stand and be judged. But God forbid it be for the dress you are wearing, or your current dress size. Or how still you can stand with your hands on your hips, a desperate nervous smile plastered onto your face.

UGLY!!! You UGLY ugly girl. There is no beauty in that smile.

Stand girls on the stage, with the wind swept through your hair, laughing and out of breath the smile on your face barely part of your consciousness, just there because it is a reflection of what is bubbling unhindered in your heart, your smile an outward expression at the thought of the flowers that you have been running through, your smile an outward expression of the laughter you saw in another’s eyes. Of the child you saw tumbling and yelling in delight, the look you saw in your lover’s eyes. The giggle you heard spontaneously erupt from his lips. Let THAT cause you to smile. And smile girl. It’s beautiful.

Stand, on that stage, and RADIATE your beauty, because you have and contain and own all that is wonderful in this life, all that is truly beautiful in this world. Its in your be – ing. It’s in your eyes, it seeps from your very pores. It saturates those around you, so much so that it is almost tangiable for them. Smile girl and you are so much more beautiful at that moment, that the spot lights and tiaras and glinting white colgate smiles from other contestants. The sparkling bling on their dresses dulls , turns to a green copper, fades into the murky filth as your beauty takes over the room, engulfs all that is in the room, and instead of a sense of inadequacy experienced by not only other contestants, and a sense of jealousy from audience memebers, they will not be able but to help themselves basking in your glow, sensing it to such an extent, that they want to leap up and celebrate on your energy, celebrate LIFE , the VITALITY thereof, health, the body, the spirit, joy, the captivating power of dance, of laughter of freedom with you.

So you bring out of them their true beauty too. Girls, stand on THAT stage, and you will never make a wrong decision in your life. You will be with those who can swirl and twirl in the current of your beauty. You will be dancing in  life with those who know how to dance, who can flow in your rhythm, it being no less their own rhythm too. They can feel the beat, and build to the crescendo with you. They come to bring you energy, and life, not to admire you as a porcelain toy that cracks over time, that yellows as it ages, and that pitifully smashes off the shelf at a breeze left open from a window nearby. In your world of beauty, the more the wind comes through the window, the more exquisitely gorgeous you become, because as the wind blows, you move and twirl, and get swept up in it so powerfully, and you dance till you become part of the wind. And land, entirely spent, entirely happy, having experienced and been true beauty yourself.

Be beautiful girls.

It’s who you are.

Simply be who you are.

And don’t ever stand on that filty false stage of extreme lower order perception of beauty. Don’t do it. Swirl onto it, sweeping such concepts entirely away. Girls …. YOU ARE …. ALL BEAUTIFUL.

 

Step into the Waters.

 

Step into the waters, the shallow shallow waters, wade a little deeper, wade a little further in, don’t mind the waters lapping at your ankle, they are cool and harmless, if anything, refreshing, don’t mind the waves lapping at your calves, the temperature is regulated now.

Step into the waters, step right in, as it rises to your hips, swirling, sense the waters around your hips, your waist line, and want to drink it in, want, want for it, want  it to swirl, to submerge you in your entirety, into its own entirety.

That thirst for and lust for the water to raise shoulder height, and then to take a breath and submerge your entire being, give over to the coolness, give over to the weightlessness, give over to the sensation of being part of something so much bigger, so much more powerful than you.

The waters, the waters of the ocean, that can wash us clean, that can  heal, with their properties of salt and other minerals, the waters that can take us into a world of escapism, the waters that can get rough, and dangerous, and beyond our control, that can drown, and cause panic, and fear, the self same waters… step in, for you can not select one and not the other, you can not step in only at low tide, nor only at high. Its one body of water. One life. One experience.

You will crave the high tide, and appreciate the low tide. You will find the low tide calming, able to see the fish in the still, clear, beautiful waters, but bordem comes easily.

As the tide rises, the swells add some anticipation, the sense that something is happening, the excitement that you may need to test your body and participate in this game. You may need to use your body to interact with the waters. And as the swells come you develop a rhythm for the waters, and a sense of satisfaction and the desire to take on more. And in a moments passing, you are in too deep, not able to contend anymore, not able to master nor negotiate a way out, not able to control, direct, enjoy, or even participate, you are at the mercy of the waters.

But participate anyway.

 

This time fully.

Because this time you have no other choice. This time, participation is not optional. Its mandatory, it’s the only way out. This time participation is not only for possible gain, possible pleasure, possible experience. This time participation is for the right to life. The very privilege of survival. Participate. And participate fully. With every resource. With every fibre of strength, with every connection you have.

Fight, and float, and swim and surf, and rage and rest. Tumble and twist, take it on the chin, breathe, be buoyant, and take the waves right back to the shore line. Where, hopefully, you will lay, depleted, gasping for breath, but laughing, exhausted in the most satisfied manner.

You took on life.

Participated fully.

You rode the waves, you rose, you fell, you took on the ocean. The tides of life, you took on the depths, and the shallows.

Ride.

Ride the tide.

Ride the waves.

Surf. Play. Engage. Feel. Feel the sun on your face. Feel the water in your face. Feel the spray on your body. Feel the swirls, feel the tides, feel the currents. Feel. Run with, run against, submerge yourself.

But be. Be in. Be involved. No excuses. No fears.

Play the game. Of life. Fully present.