What is this 'Goddess' stuff?

She is physically the female, feminine form. She is the land. Her body the earth, fertile and giving, warm and lush. Cold with harsh stinging breathe, taking back into Herself and giving death to what She gave life. Cold as stone. The water, the rivers, the sea her veins of life. Curving hills I see swell. tears of rain. Secret nooks and valley's spread like Her legs. Curving labyrinths of wonder and mystery in every part of what lives and dies. The darkest shadows and brightest fire, warmth, breast milky-way night sky.

The physical then. The form my own body takes with all of it's blemishes and dimples and (unwanted! Why?) extra curves. The form of my son's lithe, lean, silky soft limbs. The hair on His chest. The green stem pushing upwards, the brown leaf crumbling downwards.

But also this- not destiny. Not fate. But intuition. The knowing bit that chooses, whether we listen or not. Out truest voice that tells us no. Or yes. Or my heart is wavering and I am not sure, I need to wait. This too is a choice and a good one. When I say to myself 'as the Goddess wills it' (which I rarely do but I sometimes feel it). I don't mean Inshallah (God Willing) what I mean is - what my heart decides, what I feel to be right. I see this all as the Divine Feminine. Nothing to do with bra burning. But a holding up of the earth, of life and of death and of free choice. Respecting the choices women make, unselfishly. Guidedly. With true feeling, heartfelt. Whether or not I understand or agree, with this I can respect and see the Divine Feminine. The Goddess. I see it in tiny girls and old crumpled women. I see it in strapping, oiled youthful males and sad middling men. I see the lines the age, the flesh, the choices. Truth being made. When we choose from the heart (not from desperation, or sadness) but from considered thought. Or from what comes through a flash of knowledge. This very deciding process and knowing seems to me to come from the depths of our being and that which makes life truly living. Land, earth, all One. Feminine. Life giving/taking. Her form in our actions, deeds, bodies. Inner. Outer. Shot through with ribbons. A maypole. Cascading through everything.


When I turn clay into a female shape, I am not excluding male. Male always comes from within that which is feminine. He always sits in the lap of the Goddess. When I look at the clay figure I am not praying to the obscure 'God' of the sky. I am thinking passionately about the women I know. Or a particular woman. A woman (or wo-man (does this mean man who came from womb?)) who needs good thoughts. This 'pray' is never wasted. It doubles and gathers speed and seeps into the pores of the earth and air. I don't know if I believe in such things as an 'aura' but some people do exude sadness or joy, or despair. It leaves their skin and heart and you feel it and smile (or turn away). Maybe this is an aura. If the way we think and feel can be seen like this then it can be changed by the kindness of someone external. Some one who can make us feel happy. Unknowingly through our thoughts I belive so too.

The Divine feminine. The land. Intuition. Truth. These are all the 'Goddess'. What is this Goddess stuff? Someone asked me. It is just another word for life. Living truthfully, honestly and with respect. Bodily, physicallly with eyes and heart open. This is what I would have said had I been given the chance to think about it. And more.

Winter Warmer

'Winter Warmer' is the name my son has given this soup. I had to make it today. It is so cold. I wore my wool socks. My wool jumper. My sheepskin slippers. I cooked soup. We flew our kite. Then we hurried indoors again to eat. Winter makes me eat. I think my body conveniently forgets I am living in the modern supermarkets-open-24-hour, abundant food everyday modern life. I eat like - oh this is winter, maybe food is scarce, better eat whilst I can. My body is clocked onto an ancient time zone where I need to keep warm with food (rather than central heating). No matter that I tell it otherwise. It ends up slinking back to the kitchen to see what my hands can rustle up. My boys eat this way all of the time. All three of them. Seems churlish not to join in I suppose.

Soup

Bone broth
Soaked mixed soup lentils
Grated carrot
Chopped and softened onions
Tomato puree (lots of) or tin of toms
Squeeze of chilli paste (of dash of sun dried chilli's)

Very simple, thick and spicy; sticks to the ribs for hours.

When I crave apple cider vinegar (isn't that a strange thing to crave?) this is how I get my fix; grated carrot mixed with a cap full of the vinegar stirred and sprinkled with spicy pumpkin seeds (I soak them in cayenne pepper before drying them out). This is my half finished bowl.

Lots of red and orange and fiery colours to visually induce warmth. I think I'd better make this again on Tuesday, my sister is visiting and tells me my house is cold. Everyone tells me my house is cold. They are either wimpish poor circulation type of people or maybe my house is really cold. It might be. I open the windows everyday for some time regardless of weather. Otherwise I feel closed in and suffocating. Imagine living in a hut all winter, or a cave! Although I suppose plenty of ventilation (i.e drafts wafting through hanging animal skins)). When I visit other people's homes I can hardly breathe the heat is turned up so high. Certainly no need of animal skin. Sister dear, I will lay out some wool jumpers for you - PS) Don't forget your slippers!

What happens when watching The Lion King

Oblivious to all but the TV and each other; big brother comforts little brother during the scary bits.

Doll

My first attempt at doll making for my little Felix:

The body is made from moss green cotton velvour and is super soft. It is stuffed with my own washed and hand carded sheepswool. The head was my favourite part to make, very satisfying to get the shape right. The hair was tricky to sew on but is lovely, like real hair. It has been put to 'sleep' now in the cupboard until his birthday....shhhhhh!

This is a tiny hand size doll that I made first to try out doll making techniques (they were much liked by my boys and I had to make a few!)

Visuals: Scotland

Ten minute walk from Edinburgh centre is 'Arthur's Seat'. That's Don lifting Isaac on to his shoulders.

Don Isaac and Felix admiring the sunset, I of course am the cows-tail; too busy looking at rocks to keep up!

After swimming: Isaac and Felix climbing over a cannon.

Behind the boys - Crumbling castle at the edge of the cliff.

On the Beach, East sands;

The beach below the castle ruins:

Old stone coffins, playing in them too (urgh!)

Being Potato Yin

Last night I had one of my strange dreams (note, I have these very odd I-am-another-person type dreams fairly regularly). Here goes:

I am sat waiting waiting with other women in a staggered seat audience and am called down. This does not feel like a good thing. I am aware of feeling scared. I am also a small boned and fair skinned Chinese woman.

Later. I am trained and ready (for what I never know). There are many of us women, maybe ten gathered around Her. We are nervous. We know that after this gathering, some of us will die. I am feeling desperate, searching for a way not to go through with this; I know I will be one of the unlucky. I am wearing wine red robes with elbow length draped sleaves. We all lift our arms to show pouches strapped to our right wrists. They are delicate and embroidered with familiar looking Chinese flowers. We all must unfastened our pouches and empty the contents, mixing them in a heap and re-selecting the tiny instruments/tools within. This is for fairness - for an equality: we made these instruments ourselves. It is my turn to hand over my pouch to be emptied and when She takes it, inside amongst the carved penny sized tools is a small ragged ruby. I see it anew and remember He gave it to me. It is taken and held up, Her eyes narrow and She gives me my new name as I knew she would - as my sisters are being named. She tells me I am now 'Potato Yin'. I am frightened, this ridiculous name I know, somewhere in my mind, the future me has read all about, and this mysterious event too. I know this woman, me, Potato Yin, will die tonight. There is noise from somewhere outside of this small arena, confusion, a sense of danger and we scatter outwards seeking safety. Political unrest. I know this. I take my ruby and slide into a shadowy lane near a huge towering wall. He is there! I knew he would come. The me I know does not recognize this Chinese man, but the eyes I have known from the beginning of me, of time. When I kiss him there is no emptiness, only a forever and a knowing and understanding of life. A happiness and joy that transcends the body and soul. There is a man's voice behind me, prophecies future wars of which are so distant form this now, they hardly seem to matter. Another me knows I should remember this. It is important.

It is weeks later, maybe months. I arrive and it is dark and wet and my hair is slick and I am shiny with rain. I am torn and ripped, my hands, my clothes and feel I have been running from something for a long time. She seems to be an empress. She recognizes my skin tone, angle of my face, embroidered cloth and I am led by a man servant away to be re-robed for a ceremony. This is why I am here I know now. He dries me. He ties white cloth around me. He take a rag and cleans my teeth with powder. He holds my face and rubs oil into my skin. Behind him is a vast open shuttered window looking over mountains. We are so very high up. As he puts down the bowl of oil I see his eyes and know I have known since he led me away from Her - it is Him. He has resisted looking at me for this whole time of dressing. But then we look, and look, in shock and remembrance and there is no time. We kiss and I am home and complete and everything is dark.

It is later and we are stepping from a vast raft onto the darkest of black, a steep and porous looking rocky mountain path. The procession way is flanked by peasant women in white and coloured cloth moving too and fro. She is ahead of me, striding forwards, desperate, strong and determined to prove herself to someone. I feel she is my enemy. I stumble and fall and in cracks through the rock, my face pressed low I can see down thousands of feet to waves crashing upon rocks. A hand on my arm to steady me, it is Him.

Then I wake up.

Seeds are just enough

We are holidaying in our 'Scotland House' (as my boys call it) for a week. It is such a strange holiday because at the end of it we go home and Don has no job. And he needs one. We need money to live on and pay our bills until his course starts in September. I wonder that we even came away to have a holiday actually (!!). It is different than our usual windy and sunny and free-for-all-spend-a-thon. It is February and we are in Scotland so yeah, I hardly expected blue skies and sun. It is blue though, but freezing and damp. We are hesitant about spending money... wondering if this book or horse ride might mean no food at all next week. So it is a frugal holiday. Holiday on a shoestring. I can do that. It means we don't stop at the delicatessen and buy turkish flatbread with olives and sundried tomatos for lunch every day. It means I don't make my usual swoon into the lushous wool shop, falling in to a pile of rainbow dyed silk hanks and untagling notes from my walllet. It means I have to avert my nose as we pass the rank smelling cellar-like cheese shop with a the wonderous counters piled high with the soft palleted creamyness. The treasure-chest book stores; jewel like covers glinting in harsh winter light, faded yellow pages. Someone elses find this time.

But actually I don't care as much as I thought I might. We walked through a wood carpeted with snowdrps, water gushing, pulling us down to the sea shore. Piglets! Piglets the colour of my hair; warm balls of rust hiden in the trees and roots, trowelling back the earth. The giant gull perched on the roof of our car, too tame to be afraid of flapping boys, wanting a morsel of our salty fish lunch. Miles and miles of beach all to ourselves, sky and sand. I think everything is grey, then I look. And look. And the sea is green, up to here and then changes to the deepest blue. The rocks, the subtlest grey, merging with the sky which suddenly cracks open to a slice of blue. It is beautiful. I have my pile of soft wool here when I touch the capped heads of my sons. I see the pink when I see my own reflection after a day of hard (unused legs!) walking. I don't have the cheese but still there are spicy seeds drying out in the Aga. We have a giant bowl of eggs that I artfully placed on the counter at just that angle that looks abundant. I have enough. I have enough and today I don't want any more.

The Perfect Lunch

Chop an onion. Chop a sweet potato. Fry both on the lowest heat with some VCO and covered with a plate or lid until the sweet potato starts to soften (the onion should be clear and starting to get sticky and sweet too). Add a sprinkle of sea salt and black pepper. Shred up some savoy cabbage and add that to the pan plus a few spoonfuls of bone broth and a crushed clove or two of garlic - cover again until everything is tender and juicy. (Maybe 30 minutes in total for the whole thing).

To the left of the pan is my dessert: chopped apple and grapes with very sour and tangy yogurt. So delicious I am salivating again with want of it.

Shade of Purple

The secret yearnings of my soul
-that dark and shaded lining,
speaks of a song my mouth can never voice.
That I will never have to make that choice!
Easier (by far) to live with the crushing heaviness of your own heart
than to see bitterness
destroy others. Still dear.
Cherished. Loved. Differently.
The shadowy lining
-that wispering,
is quiet
but sometimes fierce. There are moments when I lean towards it,
straining for memories.
A pale green stem, slender and wavering toward milky soft sun.
Otherworldy enough to be moonlight now.
I forget that part of me is always slightly shadowed, in darkness.
Then I feel I have been moved,
repositioned in full glaring sun.
Illusion. Maybe hope.
Some hurts stretch beyond this life and merge further back to another.
Twined within the eyes - as you recognise your past.
Self. And future.
In the depths of dreams it is another life playing out without flesh.

Giving up desire.
Not trying to take what is not mine to have.
Fitting into a body long moved on.
This is the deepest betrayal. The longing.
It does not feel like honour. In honour of self.
Or of now. Of this life.
Giving up my desire for 'more'.
General and specific.

What is your 'more'?

Mine is a shade of purple that moves in the light. It is specific.
Pinpoint, arrow-like.
My elf-arm fails to shoot this bow (weak, resigned or seeking fresh target?)
My destiny is shadowed but
giving up the desire is easier than seeing in darkness.

I think this may be the secret to our fleeting, human happiness.
The giving up of what was never ours.