Posts Tagged ‘Faith’

Enter the Oriab Mountain Dreamer…

December 1, 2013

 

Be yourself:- a beautifully ridiculous genius.

Be yourself:- a beautifully ridiculous genius.

 

Sent to me by Anita, on 9th august 2009:

 

‘Wondered if you had read this rather aptly titled poem… It’s by Oriab Mountain Dreamer…..XXXX’
 
“Cultivating Courage in an Uncertain World,”

It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living.
I want to know what you ache for
and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.

It doesn’t interest me how old you are.
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool
for love
for your dream
for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon…
I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow
if you have been opened by life’s betrayals
or have become shrivelled and closed
from fear of further pain.

I want to know if you can sit with pain
mine or your own
without moving to hide it
or fade it
or fix it.
 

inner pain, outer glimpse

inner pain, outer glimpse

 

I want to know if you can be with joy
mine or your own
if you can dance with wildness
and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes
without cautioning us
to be careful
to be realistic
to remember the limitations of being human.

 

fun and joy unhampered by fear

fun and joy unhampered by fear

 

It doesn’t interest me if the story you are telling me
is true.
I want to know if you can
disappoint another
to be true to yourself.
If you can bear the accusation of betrayal
and not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithless
and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see Beauty
even when it is not pretty
every day.
And if you can source your own life
from its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure
yours and mine
and still stand at the edge of the lake
and shout to the silver of the full moon,
“Yes.”

 

Stuck in the mud; trying to get clear again

Stuck in the mud trying to get up again

 

It doesn’t interest me
to know where you live or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up
after the night of grief and despair
weary and bruised to the bone
and do what needs to be done
to feed the children.

 

Peter Greville, Photographer, Drummer, Granpa

keeping up the grin for the kids

 

It doesn’t interest me who you know
or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand
in the centre of the fire
with me
and not shrink back.

It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom
you have studied.
I want to know what sustains you
from the inside
when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone
with yourself
and if you truly like the company you keep
in the empty moments.

 

By whom was this poem written? I have never before or since heard of  ‘The Oriab Mountain Dreamer’: The text, however, resonated and resonates, powerfully, with me. I hope it resonates with you.  Tell us what you think and how it relates to your inner life experience and outlook.

 

Steve Jobs Inspires Us Still

November 15, 2013
Janie in 2009

Janie in 2009

Well, we haven’t dropped by to update you of late, and we don’t want to update you yet lol. But we DO want to inspire you!  And we can’t think of a better way to do that than to send you to a video of Steve Jobs addressing some graduates from Stanton University, USA back in the ‘noughties’.

We, by the way, are ushering in the ‘naughties’ – sounds the same, feels a bit naughtier, lmao.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gO6cFMRqXqU

Maya inadvertantly embodies MM-us values; Aesthetic Science in Motion.

November 3, 2013

The values of MissionMiraculus Ltd (= MM-us) have been articulated across a range of documents authored by MissionMiraculus & Janie Greville. All of this material is Copyrighted with All Rights Reserved. Today, in particular, we would like to draw your attention to the term ‘Aesthetic Science’. Although Janie Greville has coined this term originally, together with a concept of meaning that refers in and outward to a deep and wide network of knowledges and affective references; it is not the first usage of this term.

One company offering cosmetic surgery have misused the term vis a vis the dictionary definition of the term within The Shorter Oxford Dictionary, a common reference manual for such disagreements, and therefore we anticipate this commercial concern will shortly be renaming their company.

A book as been edited by Arthur P. Shimamura and Stephen E. Palmer, with a telling subtitle – ‘Connecting Minds, Brains, and Experience’. This sounds as if the focal zone for the collection of authors in this volume is subjective experience, not including the subjectivity of the  material body – I  may be mistaken, but I shall order and read this volume within the next month and let you know – if anyone else would like to do likewise that would be great.

For the time being I believe we are the first collective genius to create the new theory of ‘Aesthetic Science’ which will literally, in one swoop, demolish both western science and Modernism, with it’s ‘Post-Modernist‘ spin offs. It will in fact a cosmic blow to post Newtonian Britain and the entire world, but especially USA; UK and Europe (including Russia/USSR).

In addition, quite by accident it will lead to an open and forceful alliance between Sweden & the UK – two unusually strongly independent states / countries within the larger territory of Europe, stretching from Norway and Ireland across to Russia, down to the mediterranean shores of Cyprus, Turkey and Afghanistan.  Communities within two latter, and other ‘borderline’ states,  to have both European and Asian identity issues cheek-by-jowl.  Previous efforts to quell the squabbling have been led by the highly warrior spirited USA and UK organisations; notably, the UN is largely USA controlled with UK support and encouragement too often.  The Teutonic inclination to fire before thinking is balanced by the Viking soul of the Scandinavian’s (including the ‘netherlandish) post-imperial wisdom of taking the following approach to trouble: ‘Think about it, map it, analyse it; reach for the most effective, economic, humane, solution.’ We believe that the ‘nords’ have it sorted. War is no more in these lands. Let’s spread the joy, is what MissionMiraculus thinks.

The theory of Aesthetic Science created, constructed and in the wings of publication, is the brain child of MissMiracle’s MIC & Friends; sister company to MissionMiraculus Ltd.  Though the theory in totalis is not yet visible, it exists. Any use or misuse of these concepts with this name or any other created via MissionMiraculus.com; Talkheals.wordpress.com; facebook pages for missionmiraculus, Arrabella Faith & Janie Greville or referred to or discussed across her networks of colleagues and private friends, will be pursued actively in relation to Copyright Laws. Many thanks for your co-operation.

 

 

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)

Good Night Out?

October 13, 2013

Mine was. My friend Julia who usually lives on the south coast on a state of the art house boat is spending a few days with me – so that’s already heaven in the making; her bloke has joined in with us via skype the last couple of nights, which enhances the pleasure; this afternoon was spent in charity shops and primark (for me) which resulted in a few purchases at very little expense; bf is being challenging but then a whole janie-community conference took place today and found that I am almost impossible to tolerate when I am ‘hypomanic’ because I’m not ill enough to shovel in the nuthouse and not sensible enough to put up with if im at large lol – what can I say?

“Sorry” suggested Julia. So I did. She gave me a stern talking to and I have been the picture of obedience all day long until I bubbled over on the phone to bf. He clearly agrees with Julia cos first he put down the phone and switched the device to ‘don’t respond to janie’ and then on fb went to bed. I think I’m in disgrace….

He’ll come round… I realise that I’m something of a nightmare just now and I’m doing my very best. Julia is teaching me but she’s such a strict teacher that I end up with constricted bubbles from presing myself down so hard in order to win praise from her. It simply meant that I mistook bf for a softer taskmaster and got it all wrong lmao….

Where on earth am I to go to be tolerated when I am in this state?

I’ll tell you: Work. Work is going swimmingly lol

Everyone is trained in some way or another to be kind to nutters there. So there I’m able to be myself without fear of offence 🙂

When will my friends and family catch up? :-S

Passing Strangers

February 1, 2013
Mr Fox

Mr Fox

Started this entry and lost three paragraphs immediately. How infuriating is that!!

Well, as I was starting – I met with Nicola Bate today for the last time.

As the woman who has worked with me for two years to adjust my identity toward self acceptance, embrace of my womanhood, ego-stabilisation and recognition that ‘no man is an island – nor is any woman’ and, even, that this was a lesson I needed to learn: it was not an occasion I necessarily looked forward to. She has become my ‘internalised mother figure’ and it’s always nice if you have an external figure to attach to your internal registers.

Still, I have memorised her image quite well, I doubt I’ll ever forget her face or her gait, indeed, I’ll never forget anything much about her. To her I owe my entirely novel state of wellbeing.

It is an achievement that would not have been possible, however, without an entire network of friends and associates in my life echoing her acceptance and positive regard.

Is this the point at which I list all of the people I regard as contributing to my recovery, indeed, not mere recovery but progress toward what Mike Smith and Marion Aslan define as ‘Thriving’?

Is it too soon to make such an announcement? After all, I’m sitting in a kitchen that defies description in any civilised terminology – my entire home is reminiscent of anyone’s concept of ‘hell on earth’ – boxes, bin bags full of books and clothes, portfolios, canvases, ‘people’ every inch of the place – it’s barely safe to walk to the front door, so likely is it that I’ll fall over something leaning in my way. Loft insulation wonderful, preparation for it – nightmare!

But also – preparation for it: miraculous: down fell so much art work I thought I’d binned many years ago.. Of course the larger part was binned and this is merely the smaller stuff the ephemeral stuff that was easy to chuck above myself out of sight. Still, it’s been a treasure of wonder to me that I can only feel deeply grateful for. How to proceed from here, though, is another question. My father’s will to furnish me with sufficient fund’s to see me out of financial distress after his death was an unexpected privilege I still haven’t got over, any more than I will ever get over, past, or want to move from his words and look on the last day I spent with him, five days before his death. The cash is not in sight as yet, however, and won’t be for some time. The house needs to be cleared, cleaned and repaired before that can occur.

I’m still accepting incapacity benefit/esa and ‘therapeutic earnings”supervised’ by a woman who seldom offers any supervision, and I remain in the dark regarding how or when a more dignified alternative to this plight will arise as an unmissable opportunity.

Yet, such an opportunity is what I have some sense is absolutely predictable for me within the year.

So, again – is now the time to announce my transition to health or is now the time to remain a little wary of such open optimism?

On balance I’ll stick with just a little wariness. Whilst also thinking it’s high time I thanked endless characters from the University of Birmingham – Jerry, Maureen, Kris, Ann & Alex, Dee, and from MHRN, Sonia, and Paul McDonald, for a culture of acceptance and tolerance in relation to me that has made a big difference to my life in recent years. To Paul Roberts and Gordon Parsons, Becky and Bella I owe my sense of security in possessing a local friendship circle and to Glenn Miranda I am ever grateful for his unswervable faith in MissionMiraculus. He, I and Gordon alone, I suspect, remain enthusiastic adherents to the mission and values informing that eccentric little group. It’s never been smaller or less active, officially than it is today – other than that ’til 2009 it had remained effectively a concept in my head and a few bits of paper since 2000 – so it’s made progress since then.

It surfaced in my mind today after seeing Nicola and having my eyebrows threaded (not simultaneously). I sauntered into Cafe Nero, my favourite Redditch coffee bar (there’s a really cute little girl who works there, same age as my own daughters, and I tend to buy her a chocolate each time I go there, though today, after the expense of the threading, she had to go without). I sat down and within minutes the owner of the cola on the table I was at appeared and sat beside me. His name was Mr Fox and he was 26 years old and he suffered from the kind of restless, nervous leg movements that aren’t unusual amongst young men. It transpired that he has suffered from mental health distress and that he attended Kings Norton Boys School. I add in these details because, if anyone recognises this description I’d like you to urge him to come along to Suresearch and find some peer support in Birmingham. In the absence of any organised peer support in Redditch it seems the best thing to do.

Suresearch has a website and the address and directions to arrive at the right destination will be on the site. I go to these meetings so he won’t arrive and find himself isolated in any way.

It made me think. Maybe I need to localise some of my energies and organise some kind of peer support group in Redditch that isn’t paternalistic and boring as hell but appeals to young people being casually written off by a cynical social infrastructure.

That’s it for now.

I need to brush my hair and dash along to Birmingham to get another hepatitis jab for my honorary research contract.

Toodle Pip,

Janie

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’…

Dancing in His Grave

November 11, 2012

Dad’s safest where he is just now…

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 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; my temptation to hedonism and my sense of humour. Oh – and in my insistence on personalising anything and everything that comes within my sphere. Oh – and one more thing he gave me – a ‘bloody good brain’. He had a very high opinion of his own, so when about a year ago he conceded that I’d inherited one of my own – well, I knew I’d ‘arrived’ 😉

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.

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. Particularly because during the last year for some reason I felt on and off that he was ‘coming back’ mentally, though of course physically he was getting frailer by the minute.

During my last seven hours with him, well, it was more special than I can say. I didn’t properly realise that he was approaching his last breath so rapidly, I thought I had a few months left with him. He, I think, had a different more accurate sense of matters. And so he was an unadulterated delight throughout and we smiled and laughed almost non stop for the whole time.

And there was a special moment when he looked into my eyes and said something that healed a thousand years of pain within me. What he said was ‘You look beautiful today Janie; I’ve never seen you look so beautiful’. It was a father’s flattery that you could discount but he and I knew just how profoundly it would get under my skin in a good way. I wasn’t ‘ugly duckling’ any more. And recently I’d stopped dying my hair dark and red so it was light and blonde like my sister’s, so I felt like he was looking into my eyes to see both of us. I hoped he was because I know how dearly he’d have treasured seeing both of us there. I’m sure he was.

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.

Clear the air again with a rendition of Louis Armstrong and ‘What a Wonderful World’.

A Funny Thing Happened Yesterday

September 21, 2012

when  I opened my door to a caller by.

A stranger stood before me wearing a bright yellow safety waistcoat. A friendly man, broad smiles before long, slight hesitance before enquiring what I was doing with the two spare cars in my drive.

Opportunity sang in my ears leapt in my heart. The girls’ cash register began sounding out ‘kerching, ker ching’. I needed to keep reserve but this man appeared to be the answer to my prayers – to get shot of my kids cars effortlessly whilst finding some dosh for one of them in dire need of it.

He on the other hand seemed to feel he’d found a car for his own daughter following her successful driving test. Plus a little more perhaps, since his father knows a bit about cars apparently and so – who knows – by buying both vehicles they might just make a bit of profit as I saw my children out of a dilemma and cleared my front space.

Win:Win.

My favourite equation.

As it worked out I was so delighted by the hope and by the guy’s demeanour that I happily parted with the vehicles’ log books and car keys before he went, oh and my telephone number. In return I got a leaflet from the company he represented and his mobile number hurriedly scribbled along the side.

Come on. Admit it. You think I’m a stupid, over trusting moron. ‘Danger, Danger’ is sirening in your head on my behalf. Too late, the other part of you is thinking – she’s done it now, silly cow. Act in haste, repent at leisure.

Only guess what? You’re wrong. It was totally kaucher, whatever that means (but it’s a jewish related word isn’t it so I think, with a sideways glance across the family noses, I should use it). The man is who he says he is. There are no guarantees he’ll take the cars because he may go away and decide to offer me less than we agreed yesterday before he noticed the bash on the side of one of the cars.

I knew about it so my price is staying where it is. I know that in this ‘credit crunch’ market these two cars are worth more than they would have been ‘when times are good’. They’re small, they have low mileage and they do infinity to the gallon – what’s not to love?! As to the bashes – it’s all a question of marketing. Like odd socks – market them well enough and they’ll take off – customised markers, that kind of appeal.

My eccentric spin could lose me the loss of the cars, the opening of space in front of my house. But who knows – we could agree to agree and then we’ll remain win + win = WINNING

I didn’t mean to go into such detail.

I meant to share with you this experience because within  me I experienced it as a gift from god, a visiting angel, a serendipitous occurrence flowing from an ‘excess’ of faith

Faith Happens

Faith Happens (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

What happens when faith becomes ‘excessive’? I suppose it  must transform, like water transforms – becoming, when excessively hot,  steam and then, apparently, nothing at all :- So faith,in reverse order, is  ‘invisible’ to begin with and  transforms,  into appearance by manifesting, appearing, solidifying the focii of faith, moving through faster and more easily by sustained faith, getting broken up and delayed or even reversed by attacks of doubt and undermined hope. And it isn’t the action of ‘I’ll focus my faith on that so I get it’; faith goes deeper and more joyfully than that – something some of these American so called New Age websites fail to understand.

Of course, where the processes of water as liquid, solid, semi liquid (steam) and full dispersal (return to constituent parts) are relatively simple and interpersonally measurable, the processes of faith are so complex that they defy all human measurement instruments – and rely on faith, circuitously to affirm them.

How infuriating is that for the scientifically minded? Simple scientism must simply reject faith (ie the power of belief and the presence of a pan-human, pan-life energy connecting everything) out of hand as superstitious nonsense.

Why not? After all – you can’t put a ruler to it. You can’t put a thermometer to it. You can’t weigh it. You can’t determine its age. You can’t detect its trajectory. You can’t see it, hear it, smell it, taste it, touch it at all. Any more than you can do any of these things with ‘love’, for example.

Anyhoo – I’ll write again soon and tell you more about my experiences of faith

Toodle Pip

Janie

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