blessings to my body

blessings to this body that walks me up the hills

blessings to this body that sees the sunrise

blessings to this body that magically forms these words by dancing over these plastic squares

blessings to this body that gets rid of waste

blessings to this body that takes in nourishment

blessings to this body that lets me sleep and wanders in its' sleeping through places unknown

blessings to this body that replaces itself and knows how

blessings to this body that circulates, replicates, ennervates, salivates.

blessings to this body that creates life and celebrates the passing of the possiblity of life so redly.

blessings to the pleasures of this body.

blessings to the pain of this body.

she has loved me well.

stories

"Knowing that we are made up, not of atoms, but of love and stories is also vital. When we die what is left is love in the form of stories"



Love can be such a tangled up thing, the unsaid, the over talked, the misconstrued.

Love can be so trusting, so open, so closed, so fleeting.

Love can just be a part of our cells, a knowing that is so deeply a part of us that we never have to question, sometimes take for granted, treat badly and then when the truth of it is blindingly obvious, we scrabble for its repair.

But all love has a story.

Some of those stories are sad.
Some of them are simple.
Some of them are only revealed after they have passed.
Some of them are so blindingly beautiful that even if they are short they nourish us beyond our days - into the days of our children, and their children...

We all carry stories about love. About how love shaped us, built us up, or carved us out...

It is the way we treat those stories - the compassion with which we recount the stories in our heart, with which we allow our versions of the actions of ourselves and others to change over time - it is this compassion that shapes our lives...

Do we see ourselves as deserving of the kind of love we got?

Do we see ourselves as requiring more? Less?

Because as the wonderful Patty Digh says at the end of it all we are just stories...

while i am thinking about measuring...

i realise that while i am measuring i miss out on what is actually happening

for example

while i was reading the girls' reports i realised i was measuring in my head how many other children in the class would have similar results

how much better L would have done

whether L got the same result for that ...

on and on the measuring went in my head until i realised that what i was doing was cheating my girls out of the authentic pride i had in what they achieved

i was cheating myself out of honouring their efforts

and their growth

and their achievements

all this sodding measuring was robbing me of the very things i want to achieve in life

connection

tenderness

love

acceptance

belonging

joy

i feel ashamed to admit these ugly measurings here... but they bubble up from some deep place in me (the hungry hominid wanting their share of the mammoth at the fireside???)

but they are part of me so i will love them and see them

and talk with them next time "I see you measuring, i hear your need but i choose love instead"

Let's see how they like that....

PS I HAVE BEEN UNABLE TO COMMENT HERE FOR THE LONGEST TIME
PLEASE KNOW I REALLY LOVE AND APPRECIATE YOUR COMMENTS AND HAVE ASKED BLOGGER FOR HELP.....

measuring

today my girls recieved their school reports.

today i spent some time with a friend.

my girls and i went through each section of the report talking about what the teacher was getting at, whether they felt it was fair, what had contributed to that mark....

my friend and i spoke about her anguish about how her life is working out, how she feels she has worked hard, done as much as she could to make things happen the way she wants them to.

and her utter dismay about how that is not working.

all our lives we are taught to measure up.

Measure up is a term that makes me stand straighter and suck in my stomach, like i am about to undergo room inspection in the army or hanky inspection at kindergarten.

A bar is set and we strive for it.

If things don't work we work harder.

If things aren't measuring up we push ourselves more.

If I don't measure up to expectations - my own and other's I am more and more hard on myself.

I am all for the reward in having to reach past our percieved boundaries.

But this constant measuring,

this constant need to gain more,

achieve more,

is killing us.

The only way i really "measure up" is when i take time to soften,

to listen to the tiny whisper inside me that tells me what i truely want.

And there is no measuring in this - only allowing and opening...

I am making a concious effort to get away from all yard sticks and listen instead, to whispers

will you join me?

the hard stuff

the hard stuff is the stuff that makes us squeeze tighter

the stuff that makes us tighten our jaw,

or our gut

or our sphincters.

The hard stuff is the stuff that makes us run into the dark corner of our minds and recite the mean stuff we have learned to say to ourselves,

the not enoughnesses,

the uselesses,

the uglinesses.

The hard stuff is the stuff that makes us deliver a little peice of our succulent soul on a plate to those who deserve it the least

makes us craven,

makes us self sabotage,

makes us resolveless.

The hard stuff makes us take our dreams and push them far out to sea in the worst weather,

without a captain

without an anchor

and without a bilgepump.


The hard stuff is where our treasure lies.

tools of my trade

my eyes - what they see, what they shift away from

my hands - what comes through them, what they feel

my big, ancient cracked heart which i hold out into the world in all it's wonky glory.

the green all around me- the natural world filling me up, sustaining me

and the courage to know when to pounce and when to lay in the sun and the strength to carry them through into the world