Archive for the ‘Children’ Category

Christmas Competition Results

December 27, 2013

Are amusing.

*Santa* having a good laugh at the results

*Santa* having a good laugh at the results

So: NO-ONE entered the competition, is the result of it, lmao.

Disappointment, necessarily, was the first reaction of *Santa*, for he loves to surprise and delight and so he felt a little put out of a job.  But a little reflection soon reassured him that children write to him through the chimneys (a bad idea for him, though a great one for parents etc) and adults parade their wishes to partners, friends, relatives, (some even shovel them into their own childrens’ minds) – and that’s fine for the non-magical christmas that most people enjoy (or despise).

Disappointed *Santa*

Disappointed *Santa*

*Santa*, however, is a specific variant of the ‘Father Christmas‘ symbolism. He is magical. He has certain very vital corporeal needs in order to operate his work, and certain quite unusual powers enabling him to ‘make dreams come true’ in a way that most people simply don’t expect to occur at all.

Thus it was a slight shame that no-one entered the competition despite one of them being explicitly invited to do so, because now, Zoe, your long yearned for dream holiday lies in your own hands and can only come true if you create its manifestation for yourself. It shouldn’t prove much of a problem in truth; obviously, had you entered the competition it would have been a dream holiday laid on without a hitch or worry but = hey, Rome will still be there next year… 😉

Meanwhile we will now announce *Santa*s gifting for this uncompeted competition:-

Julia will take a trip to Paris in the summer of 2014. She exemplifies the virtues of determination, courage and fellowship.

Paris Chilling

Paris Chilling

Mr Glenn Miranda will drive a mini-bus to a conference venue on a voluntary basis during the summer of 2014. He exemplifies the virtues of determination, perseverance and humility.

Decorated, but not this particular one ;-)

Decorated, but not this particular one 😉

and

Isabella Jakeman will enjoy a very, very, special 10th Birthday. She exemplifies the virtues of faith – and faith is all any of us need.

Cinderella goes to the Ball: (we don't do pumkin magic, bella ;-) )

Cinderella goes to the Ball: (we don’t do pumkin magic, bella 😉 )

Finally, we shall be delivering a christmas wish to Jamie, who lives somewhere in Redditch. He risked his life to save his 6 year old sister on 24th July, 2013 and this is merely one of many symptoms of the fine and noble character of  this 12 year old boy.  He will probably need to see this post and contact Janie to ensure that his wish is relevant, pleasing and in fact, life changing.

It’s an unexpected, yet particularly fulfilling turn out for both *Santa* and Baboushka (who has been very busy with her home this christmas): a unified response to wishes has been created from a delightful absence of demand, and thus they have been able to listen to that small still voice within that speaks from and for faithfulness of being and honor of action.

Messy New Beer everyone, it’s time for Benjii’s tea.

[contact-field label=’Name’ type=’name’ required=’1’/]

Welcome to Christmas and our *Santa* mission-competition :-D

December 13, 2013

If you click on the link that follows this sentence you will get a christmas song on you tube to have in the  background while you read this entry: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZoxQ4Ul_DME

So – we’re well into advent and children world wide are posting their letters to *Santa* once again.

All singing All smoking

Festive Spirits – *Santa* in disguise

We at MissionMiraculus are unofficial agents for *Santa* .  We act on *Santa*s behalf without even *Santa* being aware of it, though we do intend to correct this anomaly at the earliest opportunity.

This year we have a particular focus. We are delivering a wish come true to one or two of  you.

So first of all we need to hear from you about your dearest wish.

We operate by strict adherence to the promises of *Santa* , by reading every letter or email, by listening carefully to what we hear, by planning a response that optimises satisfaction, and then by planning out methods of procuring the ‘wish come true’ factor, before delivering the ‘gift’.

Our methods are not strictly conventional. Our deliveries are putatively satisfactory at least for all of our target individuals.

We would urge you to take advantage of this service.

Every ‘validated wish’ will receive a response. Every ‘unvalidated wish’ will not.

gifts of *santa*

We vary from *Santa* in one key respect. We do not offer to respond to every wish received. We offer to select 3 particularly deserving wishes and to respond to those within 6 months of receipt. The remainder of wishes will be given serious attention, however, and, in direct negotiation with *Santa* proper, we shall co-ordinate and contribute to eventual delivery of all other validated wishes expressed to us.

Don’t worry unduly if you miss the deadline: next year is a new year and you can write to Santa then. – Though we’re the Baboushka end of Santa’s work so our style is Moscow-Mayhem, lol – but we nonetheless clean our act up in time to be efficient in delivering joy to all we find ourselves among – so worry not. We think *Santa* will be proud of us and begin to pick up on the equality of women and men. MissionMiraculus has been the energy of a woman and of feminine energy sourcing.

gifts grow on trees

gifts grow on trees

Here are the methods of responding to this Christmas Wishes Competition:-

1. Write to The Editor,  MissionMiraculus.Com , 199 Easemore Road, Riverside, B98  8HF

2. Write to mmeditor.jg@gmail.com

3. Post a message to the editor on this site

4. Express your wish via the commenting option on this site.

5. Write to MissionMiraculus on Facebook – on our wall

Santa's reading job - b4 planning n producing 4 delivery

Santa’s reading job – b4 planning n producing 4 delivery

Get writing!! You’ve got until the 24 th December – be sure to let us have the details of your wish, your name,  contact details and your delivery address   😉 We also need to know your age range – for example, we need to know where you are in your childhood- 0-10; 11-16; 17-30; 31-70; 71-100 etc. All over 100 are registered as ‘adults’.

Janie claims to be 126, and is thus the only adult in close range.

 

Windows, Mac and Linux Battle – as rap (Jobs vs Gates) for the weekend ;-)

December 12, 2013

At the weekend we will be producing a christmas edition of this site’s home page.

There will be an announcement regarding the sliding in of our commercial site around the til-now personal blog, which will be renamed once this transit takes place.

Charles Harrison

Charles Harrison: he inspired Janie

The new home page will be more like a magazine front page + contents page in format, with basic information there to inform visitors about different choices and options of content across the site. Parts of it will be based on private subscription and there will be a ‘shop’ option. However there will be publically available content too.

All singing All smoking

As did her dad

The date of transition is planned as 6th January 2014.  It may be moved to 11th of January to coincide with the official launch of MissionMiraculus Ltd.  This event will take place at the Malt House in Birmingham. and will be strictly invitation only.  A public launch will follow date & venue tba.

Leamington Road2Recovery Show, June, 2010

Leamington Road2Recovery Show, June, 2010

Janie has been in London this week and mid-month she’s heading for Leeds & Keighley, to attend an awards ceremony and visit friends,  before returning  to North London to spend Christmas with her family.

family love

family love

She’ll be nipping back home to oversee the work being done to the front of her house on the way though, and hopes to catch up with a few friends then, and maybe even have an extremely small party, with food and music, to which she invites no-one at all but herself!! 😉

See you over the weekend probably 😉

Video Weekend: Arrabbella Faith last year.

November 16, 2013
English: Robert Plutchik's Wheel of Emotions

English: Robert Plutchik’s Wheel of Emotions (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Today we bring you a light, yet incisive blurbling by Arrabbella, played over a track by Example – girls let’s unite: we WILL express our feelings, we WILL laugh, cry, shriek with rage, whenever it comes upon us.  We carry emotion for children and men – children lead us, men come kicking and screaming behind us moaning ‘what’s all this emotion – wtf – why can’t you stfu and be like us?!!’

This is why, darlings: we live longer than you do on the strength of our openness – we’d love to see you opening up – it will clear your chest, energise you and lead you into your passions – hurrah!! Go with it (but don’t hit us – that’s a step too far lol)

Now: press the link below.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XLfIniLlQu0&list=FLceNkauRdv7SWP627v0qIWw

Stuck in a Quandary

October 28, 2013
…in relation to last year. Action needs taking in relation to what happened to Janie Greville between February and April 2011. The mental health services listened to protests and anger from distant members of her family  in relation to a blog she was publishing.

They took notice to the degree that they persecuted her until they had actually broken into her home in the middle of the night where she was in bed, frightened of this invasion, and took her to Worcester Psychiatric Hospital where there was no bed for her to rest on.

THIS REPORT IS AN UPDATED VARIANT OF THE ORIGINAL, PUBLISHED ON ‘SILENCELOL.WORDPRESS.COM’ IN MARCH 2012.

The ‘interview’ that took place in her home was a farce driven by a foregone conclusion.

Cheers - Crisis Over, Champagne Living Beginning

Cheers – Crisis Over, Champagne Living Beginning

Her crimes had been to write the truth about a man where truth didn’t flatter him, and to have treated an uninvited ‘home treatment team’ member as if he was someone she was familiar with (she was – and the treatment was mutual, with one difference. He thought he had the right to decide what should and should not constitute the content of the visit. He decided that his boasting of his music should be concealed, and she did not. He reported this as ‘inappropriate behaviour’ and as a ‘symptom of mental illness.’)

The decision to imprison her had already been made. The ‘assessment’ was a mere formality.

Janie has ventured to ask family members how they feel about her going back, now, to complain in formal terms about this appalling incident and series of incidents around it. They are frightened. Every time they hear ‘mental health services’ they picture Janie being bundled into a hospital and then emerging from it in a suicidally depressed state. They just want to forget it.

Will they ever be able to, when Janie can be incarcerated at the call of anyone who doesn’t like what she says because it’s both true and inconvenient to their reputation? Or because they don’t like her un-English open-ness, or her ‘arty’ self presentation on occasion? Or her forthright manner, or her sharp tongue?

Isn’t it time she did stand up for the truth, for justice and to demonstrate the absurdity of psychiatry, at least in relation to her case?

What should she do? Your comments will be most welcome.

Dancing in His Grave

October 24, 2013

Dad’s safest where he is just now…

I wrote this entry, originally, in November 2012 last year, shortly after my father died. Of course, as you will see, it’s a ‘parochial’ piece, pertaining to specifics within my own life and family in the extended sense.

Looking back on this, as I approach the first anniversary of my father’s mortal death (don’t think there’s supposed to be another kind, but I felt like my father’s body survived his spirit by several months, really – he’d lost the will to live earlier in the year when he ‘failed’ yet another ‘tribunal’ held at St Andrew’s Hospital), it strikes almost an orchestral chord with me. This time last year I was a mental health patient (and had been one since 1997), I was ‘incapacitated’ beyond all expectations of sustainable recovery and I was alone, without a partner to share my life with. A year on I am an ex-patient; I am constructing the underpinnings of a successful business; and I am delighted to report that I have been reunited with the partner who appeared in my life, for the first time, back in 2006.

This entry should be read to the song ‘What a Wonderful World’ by Louis Armstrong.

My lovely Dad must be dancing in his grave. It’s what he did on top of the soil so presumably he’ll be doing it even more now. He won’t be feeling too hot or too cold, he won’t be feeling too happy or too sad, he won’t be feeling too amused or too enraged – he’ll be as serene as ever he could have felt in this life. That’s a good thought, a good feeling – he’s past pain and past pleasure – a state of utter peace.

Those of us with breath in our lungs and blood running through our veins can’t genuinely imagine this state. After all, our very capacity to experience ourselves as living is dependent on this constant state of flux between various potentially opposite extremes. I can’t offer to throw light onto the matter either, because I don’t remember anything until I was about two so I’m blind and deaf to the eternity I was in before I was conceived and presumably that’s the same space he’s returned to now.

Of course in another sense he hasn’t because a fair few people remember him and hold him in their minds eye and fewer still, in their heart. I hold him in both, and let’s face it, I hold him in the length of my arms and legs, my addictive love of music and my sense of humour. Oh – and in my insistence on personalising anything and everything that comes within my sphere.

I want to check with St Andrews if there are any audio or video recordings of my dad performing to his peers and carers. It would hardly assist me to show the world what a gifted man my father was but it would warm my heart to see anything to keep him alive to me.

For the time being I have his order of service card, young soulful photo at the front, heart warming image of his birthday party in July on the back. To me he’ll never die.

Father of Mine

Father of Mine (Photo credit: Just Us 3)

Which is why I’ve only sobbed about his concrete death a few times so far. I feel like he’s still with me somehow, so most of the time I feel he’s actually closer to hand than he’d been for some years.

Oh what a lovely outlet this is. To speak what’s in my heart in an environment stripped of people who intrude to corrupt it.

The corruption is coming from matters of estate. If you have ever been named in a ‘last will and testament’ or have ever read a novel by Jane Austen you’ll immediately know what I mean. At death the vultures appear and hover – where the body disappears they gather to feed on the living grieving.

Makes you shudder doesn’t it? I’d experienced it in Austen’s novels, and I’d seen it over a meal in Dover when my grandfather died when I was eighteen years old. At the time my Uncle Ivor tried to soothe me by sympathising with my feelings while assuring me that I would feel differently when I got older. But Jane Austen’s novels are about large estates, my grandfather was a millionaire over twenty years ago – it doesn’t make the hovering or the lip slapping or the blood dripping claws any nicer but at least you can see why the booty looks so appealing and unmissable to vultures. – Oh – and I am older now, and I haven’t changed my feelings one iota. Nice try Uncle Ivor (now also in the ether) – I love you for doing your best xx.

My Dad’s estate, after costs, will probably be worth £115,000-120,000, Maximum.

Yet, so far, three people have applied to my Dad’s solicitor to find out the contents of his will in advance of his funeral, have sat together and have left several abusive voice mails on my mobile phone and one has informed me that I am personally responsible for some terrible recent misfortune in their family, all on the grounds that I turned out to be named in my father’s will. Most of the abusive phone calls were made at around 11 O’clock at night on the day of my father’s funeral. A funeral to which these people failed to appear on the grounds that they feared they had not been named in my father’s will and needed to have hard evidence about the matter before deciding whether or not to attend.

Have we left earth and headed for terra-ghastly or what? I don’t know. I only know this: ‘there ain’t nout so strange as folk’.

Feel free to comment dear readers – I’m genuinely perplexed.

Empty Soul Smile: Vultures

Empty Soul Smile: Vultures

To vultures if hovering over my blog – my words are backed by evidence so please leave me alone now.

My Dad spent a lot of his life persuaded by the 18-20th Century obsession with Love as a reference to ‘romantic’ attachment. He was fully capable of loving beyond this – he loved his little dogs; he loved music with a passion; he loved photography and colour, pattern and arrangement; he loved ‘the high life’; he loved conversation; he loved fine food; he loved good people; he loved laughing; he loved cups of tea; he loved glasses of wine, sometimes bottles of the stuff. I could go on. My Dad was a loving guy.

My Dad also loved his children, his acquired (by marriage) children and his natural, ie blood, children. This last was a passion of love that showed in letters he wrote to my mother many years ago but which he was discrete about in his day to day existence. He largely accommodated his second wife’s wishes in where to live and what to do, and he did this for a range of reasons, not least that he loved her very much.

There was a strain in him that somehow connected money and possessions with love. I believe that isn’t uncommon although I tend to think that it’s a good idea at times to stand back, notice that the one doesn’t equate with the other, and then take actions in relation to money that make sense and actions in relation to love that make sense – and somehow or another the relationship between the two can stand in a form of conceptual and defensible harmony if not equability.

I think that this paragraph is relevant to my father’s last will and testament. It reflected the passion of his love and it reflected his customary tendency to equate money with feeling. Had he been like me he would have adjusted his will to bring a ‘better’ balance to a wider approach of his loving. But he was not me. He was more impassioned than I am, less ‘dispassionate’ than I’m inclined to be.

Who knows, however, that he didn’t also know in his very bones about this difference in our natures and entrust me – and/or my sister and I, with the responsibility to ensure that peace shall reign in our lifetime? 😉

If the vultures will just shut the f**k up for a while, behind my back as well as by diversionary routes, and turn back into human beings – I shall have some peace in which to think!!!!

English: Back View of Jane Austen, Watercolor

English: Back View of Jane Austen, Watercolor (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Art & Economy

January 14, 2013
fighting over toys

fighting over toys

A letter I was writing today in relation to the death of my father led me to develop some more thoughts about a topic that has been swirling a little in my inner mind of late.

Money to adults is as toys are to children. Not the objects they represent – well, that’s a lie – even these aren’t lost on the adult kid.

Money is all about ‘having’ and ‘being’. ‘Having’ a source of regular in come is called ‘I’ve got a job’. It’s the first hall mark of the satisfied customer – my income comes from me is what this statement say’s – ‘i’m independent’.

It’s quite funny really: in the 19th century ‘having a job’ and ‘earning your own keep’ was the hallmark of poverty and lack of social status.

Even in the novels of PG Wodehouse this marker of the older system can be seen hanging on by the faintest of threads and an amused Jeeves.

Then there’s the ‘I’ve got a jaguar’ – usually by men, lol, boasting about their ‘what I do and how much I get for my job [=earn my own keep]

Of course there are people who don’t appear conscious of or make reference to their ‘possessions’ but where this is completely genuine they are so used to it they don’t notice it and it is the landscape not the object of their living.

As it should be.

Aesthetics by all means converse on and if something of beauty comes within range of the conversation or even triggers it – then discuss it at length if need be.

But ‘monetary value’ what’s that about? To discuss the issue of monetary value by any means do it immediately. But to judge a thing by its monetary tag appears to be a little bizarre.

The wonderful thing about money is the way that when you have some you are happy in the knowledge that at your whim you can go and exchange part or all of it for something you want.

It is like having a vault of possibilities stored easily in a tiny box outside the house.

And we need to remember that, some of us, in case we get carried away.

That is: we should remember that some children are greedy and selfish and boastful because they haven’t been brought up very well, some children are very naughty and jealous and deceitful because they’ve been brought up badly – and some children play by the rules dutifully without love or mercy… a few play by the spirit of play – and enjoy the fruits of their labour 🙂

NAOMI WOLF.. ‘VAGINA: A NEW BIOGRAPHY’

December 20, 2012
Love, Love, Love..

Love, Love, Love..

..Sounds very interesting.#

I haven’t got a copy – if you have – fancy lending it to me when you’ve finished it?

I have trawled through a few articles by this journalist today, in the online Guardian pages, pursuing more information about this little ditty, and I have been favourably impressed.

That doesn’t mean – ‘I’m impressed – quick everyone, get your visas out and make a purchase’. It means : mmmm…. now this sounds worth a look…

I was looking up ‘neuroscience’ in relation to a conference I’m thinking of sending an abstract for ‘Understanding Human Flourishing: A Postgraduate Medical Humanities Conference’ (CfP, Durham University, 16-17 May 2013) [in case you’re interested yourself] and somehow or another – don’t ask me how, because I can hardly recall, I ended up via a host of other articles I read during the hunt-down, coming across a couple of articles by Naomi – a far cry from my original intent.

But hardly a far cry from yesterday’s entry so – it must have been a case of serendipity.

The first thing I have to say to Naomi Wolf is : Brave Woman!!! In a world where, outside the (un)adventurous boundaries of the Guardian and the Independent, English society is terrified of the word ‘Vagina’ (though thoroughly comfortable with words like ‘shag’, ‘slag’ and ‘cunt’) (the last rather ironic of course as it usually is used against men as a term of abuse) here is a woman who happens to be at the forefront of the public eye and doesn’t cringe to admit that – she has one.

Quite a lot of us do, I hear rumoured.

I know, I know.. If you’re a man it’s a harsh thing to hear. Your mother has one, your daughter has one, the little old lady you passed in the street has one. Every other person you ever see has one.

How fucking outrageous!!!!

And it’s the reason why Feminism was fated to make such a shit job of improving our world.

Don’t get me wrong. Of course – women had to find a way to get seen, heard, valued in the world we found ourselves in: a world in which we frequently found ourselves valued as less than the cattle we slept with.

Sure things had to change.

Apparently they needed to change in this bizarre manner. With ‘feminism’ standing for ‘women’s rights’ to become ever more like men.

Ouch!!!

Who won then?

Who’s winning now?

The ‘femininists‘, that’s who – who love and adore men, who love and adore them – those whose object is to integrate and complete the human circle – by entering ‘woman’ as the equal and different partner of ‘man’. Ie:-

Those women and men who are beginning to wake up to the differences, that’s who. Those men and women who are learning to heed the sound of softness, of feeling, of tenderness, of subtlety: who tire of the call of gongs and trophies; who wear of the demand of competitive success; who notice how vacuous is the grand title, how precious the arrival of a new born baby.

Who notice how precious is the touch that is made for love, how futile the touch of coins and bedazzled, camera driven lust.

When will we ever learn… When will we ever…

Oh – I have to share with you the huge pleasure writing this has given me. A long time ago I was a post-grad at Leeds University and was privileged to be taught by two people I rapidly grew to love – Griselda Pollock and Fred Orton. Each of these individuals were exemplary examples of humanity at its best – warm, passionate, alert, sincere, determined – that must surely be sufficient attributes to win anyone’s love? I didn’t agree with the feminist part of my ‘social history of art’ nor did I feel qualified to disagree with anything.

But – if you get wind of this as it moves through the www air, Fred and Griselda: I want you to know: you did me the world of good: indeed, together with Charles Harrison, a man who grew to detest me but who I loved to and beyond the end: you made me who I am today.. Just because you never heard from me again doesn’t mean I lost ambition or drive. It means I walked my own path. And that ‘as they say’ – is the record of a fully achieved student. 😉

Primary and Secondary Sexual components.

December 20, 2012
Thanks to sarahstitely

Sun Bejewells Water

How absurd. Even to identify ‘primary’ and ‘secondary’ sexual characteristics.
What is the masculine ‘secondary’ sexual characteristic?
A Deep Voice?
I haven’t googled it.
I only have my surface impression. That breasts are a female’s ‘secondary sexual characteristics’.

How fucking ridiculous.
They are not primary or secondary.

They are essential sexual characteristics.

Find a man who is capable of lactating.

You will find a few.
However – you will remark every single one.
Every single one is gifted. They have the characteristics of both sexes, assuming they are characterisable as male.

Or as female despite possessing a ‘male member’.

The fact is that possessing lactating organs – in the arena of the breast region – is characteristically feminine. Female. It is where the feminine links up with the female.

It has nothing whatever to do with the ‘size of breasts’
I have absurdly minute breasts unless I’m breast feeding.
I breast fed between 1990 and 1992. I could have fed the nation of infants.
Though frankly that possibility didn’t occur to me. I simply fed my own til they were obese and then leaked – pints.

It was my happiest time.

I was ‘huge’ – overflowing with the love of motherhood caused my breasts to swell and provide more than twins or quadruplets could possibly have managed to consume safely.

I did so despite working full time, despite attempting to transfer my surfeit to them for whenever I couldn’t be with them, despite demanding of my body that it respect my ‘normal professional life’
I couldn’t be more delighted. I felt proud at the time. I feel delighted still.
Me. Tiny me. Sliver of an item of humanity, featuring some hip bone and little much else; a tiny waist (til the kids distorted my rib cage) and breasts as flat as they could get short of a nipple or two…
I’ve seen men with needs for a bigger bra than I who wouldn’t even need a bra…

So I knew and know for certainty that breast size has nothing to do with functionality – from 32 aa to 38DD in a few months – all for the love of babies

And that is why I have an issue with the pathetic (in the sympathetic sense) followers of ‘Jordan’

Oh how I regret, on her behalf, the passion she has brought about to emulate the passion of men for huge dick.

When she could have taught men how inappropriate, irrelevant, senseless was/is the fetish of ‘size’ – power is not in ‘size’ but in character and disposition:

How long will it take humanity to learn this lesson???

Why: Thank You!! Unexpected Gift :-)

December 13, 2012
Even the Smallest Signal of Life - Is Life

Even the Smallest Signal of Life – Is Life

Suddenly today, after couple of weeks lull, there was a little flood of visitors to this site.

Thank you so much. I’ve never worked out why sometimes literally thousands of people potter over to see what I’m thinking and other times I find just one lonely soul checking in.

Well – that’s not quite true. Sometime ago I noticed that the more danger I put myself in, the more controversial my actions, the more intemperate my emotions – the more popular my blog became.

Ultimately, though, that almost appeared to be some appetite for a ‘true life suspense thriller’ in which I was always the loser lol, so – on balance I decided to take my risk taking ‘off air’ so to speak.

And invest my very soul in the task suggested to me by a book I bought a few years ago. ‘Pronoia’ it was called. I.e., the opposite of ‘paranoia’..

Paranoia comes easily to me. I am easily taken up by fear driven scenarios. In relation to which my defence is often anger – well, at least, if I want to defend myself against my worst fears, anger becomes my first defence. My second is paralysis. I believe that this would translate as the ‘flight’ variant of the ‘fight’ response to danger.

My first response to danger in my life was ‘flight’. When my mother began to shout at me I stood like a moron before her, shaking, and sometimes with an expression on my face that she took to be a ‘smirk’ but which was, internally, my involuntary expression of terror. She would then ‘lose the plot’ and begin slapping me, pretty hard. I would offer no defence apart from beginning to cry and then to sob. Eventually the sobbing would stop and she would continue to remonstrate with me as my sobs became more and more uncontrollable until I began to hyper-ventilate (a term I learned much, much later at Leeds University).

At this point she would calm right down and inform me that I had now shown sufficient remorse for my wrong doing.

I never had a clue what my ‘wrong doing’ had been. I seem to recall that on one occasion it had been laughing and joking at the dinner table when a school friend had come for tea and I was nine or ten. It’s the only occasion I remember with that degree of clarity.

I expect my poor beleaguered mother felt desperately guilty about my hyper-ventilation episodes (at times almost daily). I wasn’t a very naughty little girl – just plain stupid I suppose, because I never caught up with her issues. I just knew that she routinely lost her temper, shouted, started slapping and then got left with this hyper-ventilating little wreck.

She was an ill-educated young woman, an immigrant from afar, with a husband working round the clock to keep us all. She saw him between 2am and 11 am – most of the time they were asleep – not very supportive, when you’re exhausted, young and anxious. With language challenges.

….Where were we… Oh yes – paranoia – vs PRONOIA.

Yes, pronoia is much the better option I find. Goodbye Fear. Hello Hope. Goodbye regrets. Hello Anticipation. Goodbye Yesterday & Tomorrow. Hello Today.

Today I learn that it is OK to mourn losses I haven’t yet come to terms with.
to
1. I haven’t come to terms with the loss of my unborn baby from 1994. I lost a baby in 1989 and because everyone knew about it, I was allowed to grieve, I was allowed to talk about it, I was allowed the time I needed to come to terms with it.

Luckily for me, two beautiful daughters followed this loss, and there is no doubt that they have more than compensated for the loss of my first baby. The child died within me quite ‘naturally’ and miscarried within 7 or 8 weeks of conception and I found it possible to ‘fit in’ with the convention of perceiving natural ‘miscarriage’ as a ‘sign of nature’ that the baby is not ‘meant to be’.

My second ‘miscarriage’ was no such simple matter, as you will know if you have read the entry immediately previous to this one. S/he didn’t leave my body naturally. S/he gave me no sign that s/he was dead until nurse told me this had been shown on a scan. Following the operation to remove the ‘debris of a pregnancy’ I found myself in an invisible capsule of enforced silence. Indeed – let’s go further and ‘tell it as it was’ : I was expected to emerge from a hospital bed in excellent spirits for a New Years Eve celebration.

Thanks for listening. No-one in my palpable life has any interest at all in knowing of my private griefs – some don’t know anything about it; some don’t realise I still have needs to express my thoughts and feelings about it; some don’t think it at all appropriate that I experience grief around this topic; some I wish to protect; … Funnily enough – this weirdly anonymous vehicle of fully ‘public’ communication has become a place of ‘sanctuary’ for me.

Yes – as usual I forget the season. I don’t actually: that’s what is so damned inconvenient about it. I remember the season all too well. This is the wrong mood and the wrong topic to be choosing for Christmas. ..I want to say ‘I didn’t choose it, it chose me..

And in the one clause I have my thinking matter… if I didn’t choose it and it chose me – I need to meditate on that.. I need to derive something positive out of this.. Something about ‘aborted beginnings’ and ‘auspicious births’…

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