Toes as Scouts

rain and wind  - storms without as well.

Yesterday was therapy and art therapy, me tired. Yet, for the first time, I think I finally succeeded in grounding myself, bless my little feet of cocktail sausage toes for their infinite wisdom. They are my advance scouts (is that redundant?). It was soooo slow, the movement and it moved throughout my body, this slow, settling calm. Unreal and, finally, real. How quiet, lovely.

And we laughed and caught the moments whenever I went to my standby, my head, forever the explainer of all things (known or unknown so it would seem) and this was very good practice of being present. Then it was on to the art therapy (insert dramatic music).

Painting, to Enya (she [art therapist] had my favourite CD of Enya). Now I usually am too distracted by music to really connect to making art, but I went for it, I guess the word for yesterday was "Try" (and thank you dear old friend CH for your message: "If you don't know what to do, do something, see what happens". So I did, almost 3 hours of talking, painting then dialogue with what I had painted. Skeptical, quasi-detached then fully committed and connected, it was a moving and helpful experience. She helped me identify when the creative "block" happened, and at first I didn't know, but now I do, I was in full flow and then felt the world slammed shut in my face and the message I heard was "We don't want you". Sadly, a familiar message, harsh and powerful, felt like truth. No one said this, what they said had nothing to do with me, I know that in my head, yet my little sweet self who only wants to be loved despite her/my strangeness, decoded "you do NOT belong". Yessirree, that there's a block.

So there is movement. Despite my jadedness,  it did feel good to talk to the paintings and see what I had inadvertently made, there was a glorious yellow bird (well, pterodactyl) soaring, there was a recumbent (yes, super-chill) dragon helping me understand the possibilities and limits of fire, and some walls and a sweet little turtle swimming in joy. It was all me, all of them, all with messages and encouragement and reassurance and support, yet all from me. Glorious indeed. Thank you L.

Then this weekend I am going to  a friends to maybe make music, but at least talk art. So feeling most fortunate.

Music and Art are crucial for my survival and sur-thrival (ok, made that one up)

OK

Brutal Black Comedy.

morning
rain  and mist, winter on the island. I do love to live here. possibility surrounds me, opportunity keeps knocking, maybe I'll answer. The kicker is it's up to me to knock on my own door, it's not that I don't hear myself, i"m not sure why I do not answer. I wonder if it's the fog of meds. Don't know.  I feel mostly detached. It's a brutal black comedy when my therapist oh so gently invites me to sense wherein in my body is the source of the pain. What sensations am I feeling. It's like I'm not even in there.  She is very kind and encouraging. Yet I am a ghost haunting this poor organic missive.

I am looking forward to being in the water, how I have missed it. And like my art friends say, maybe it's where I need to be for now. I love the support, the freedom it gives me, the power I feel. Already my arms and legs are stronger. It's helping my shoulder too, which is gratifying. It is a challenge to be around so many other people, all in the same water, but that is where we all exist ultimately isn't it?In the water we are all a massive misaligned battery, imagine what we could generate if all at the same pave and thrust, none of us know our real power, or perhaps a lucky few. Channelling that into creative thought and action and creation, how wondrous would that be for us all, what an earth we could be? Like that planet on star trek TNG where the people live for hundreds of years and they spend their vast time as apprentices; learning an art, a craft, and these pursuits are valued.

Get strong I guess. Get stronger. There's a storm here.

Peace in.

Scrape the Mould off the Cheddar

in trouble again, just an endless line of self-bait and switch. Now I'm binge watching, I mean I'm still bingeing, tv shows. what a waste of time, what others wouldn't give to have the precious left to them, time I squander endlessly, 10-12 hours then to bed, ill sleep, rise, repeat.

I guess this is me choosing the easy thing, poor impulse control sure, how about don't get hurt? I'll spin it that way. I'm full to brimming with hurt, and haven't been releasing it. Except in ill-chosen bursts fuelled by the catch basin of anger. Filling my days with some small brights spots, walking the dog, without said dog I would be in bed or sitting 24/7.  I guess this is depression, I guess this is being on meds that keep me safe.

I want to be safe and I understand why that it, yet I am lifeless and dull. Not showering as much. Drinking more. Yes, that's right because I don't have the consequence of instant brutal headache as with previous meds. sigh.

Writing to reach into my feelings , ease them into the air. Typing instead of picking, jabbing, cutting, tearing. It's all the same source, all the same driver. It's like seeking out the correct printer driver. I can feel them there, beneath my skin, swarming, vibrating, seeking and exit, now I've disturbed the hornet's nest.

I could just start walking and it would be the same source. Numbing. the great ebb and flow. sines waves of feelings, of activities and utter stillness.

where is the drive that others have seen?commented on? admired even?  it's blanketed , it's in sedimentary layers of protection.

deep in my head I lurk, waiting for the danger to pass. danger lurks within too. it seems I must enter into this great ecosystem or die. It will kill me, we all will die, yet this current choice of the slow death is outside the growing forces of the universe. I am instead the unnatural scum, the dust settling, the mole to be scraped away. "Scrape the mould off the cheddar Manuel".

Time to shower then walk my dog.

peace out, or rather in, for a change.