The Blue & Yellow Post

Counting down to our evening flight off this magnificent island of Keffalonia, one of the Ionian Islands off the coast of Greece.

I’ve been on Kefalonia for two weeks, and was lucky enough to see Myrtos beach, arguably one of the most beautiful beaches in Europe. I also visited Ithaca, a blessedly beautiful place with tiny beaches, emerald turquoise water finished with chalky clean-white stone edges, and countless tavernas and fishing boats, ancient men on scooters, minis full of coptic priests and menus that had half the items unavailable, and chilled golden beer, mousakka and calamari - all for 10 Euro. Actually every lunch and dinner, by the way ended up costing about 10 Euro - wierd!?

Ithaca is an island made famous in and by Homer’s myth. See Ithaca and find peace. I think that’s true actually. I put it down to the  fact that Ulysses wife, Penelope wove the qualities of fidelity, love and peace into her tapestry and in doing so formed the sustainable bones of that Ithakan myth. At the heart of this peace is trust that the future would bring the return of her wayward husband.

Our Ithakan guide for the day, unfortunately lacked the charm of a greek accent, seeing as though she was from Britain. The Island of Keffalonia seems to have more Brits than Greeks. Myrtos beach was full of them, baking themselves with a frightening lack of sun-screen and if I might add, good taste in swim-wear. But there you have it. These British holidayers seem to have made Shirley Valentine a new religion.

Ithaca had a different feel to Keffalonia. It was peaceful, it was also picturesque, full of tiny protected harbours, pocketted by a soft palette of stone buildings, overhanging bouganvillea, faded shutters and spilling over rusted balcony railings. Everywhere you look was a blinding chalky white stone path leading further on to a vista of unspeakable beauty.

On Keffalonia, yesterday we found ourselves driving one way up the back passages of Assos, a tiny village built beneath a ruined castle. Looking up the steep sloping road, it took approximately 2 mintues to decide that the icecream was far more appealing than a sun-drenched climb up the fortress road. Yes, Castles and Ruins can lack both intrigue and the necessary charm late on a hot day especially when competing with Norgen-Vaaz tirimisu and rasberry ice cream.

So packing all our travel gear, our books, our sun tans and our hangovers (yes if you do drink toooooo much Retsina you will get a headache!), my sister and I are visiting an internet cafe prior to the trip to the airport.

Lasting images of our stay: goats with bells herded by wise and thoughtful dogs; old women in black who didn’t need to be costumed for their extra role on the 1940’s Captain Corelli’s Mandolin filmed a few years back on this island; Onassis style boats moored in tiny harbours; white stone roads that are impossible to traverse without at least one stumble; cypress pines that reach up into a star-filled night like cathedral spires; siestas where the shops shut for 3 hours after lunch; olives and fetta, Retsina and cool clear deep still water where the colours make you laugh out loud with heady delight.

Yassoooooo.

The scene was unlike any I’d seen or painted before. The structure was drenched in sunlight. Sharp shadows were cast by the gnarled olive trees, and dappled light defined a myriad of stone walls that ran in random lines

 I had no idea what part of the structure was what as I tried to capture the scenes punctuating points; A collapsed roof, arched windows framing bold stone wheels and fragmented wooden presses, rusted gates, broken steps and rugged stone walls.  

How many years before had a family run this Olive press? Who was it that had lived in the   adjacent homestead?  When did they close shop and in what circumstances? Now the home was boarded up -  its green wooden door and shutters, faded and stripped of color, were banded by steel cross bars. Intruders like myself could only guess what lay behind them. The many memories, stories, dreams, history were forever locked away behind resilient sun-drenched stone.

Was the Press in operation when Byron walked these island roads? Was the press as old as Francis of Assisi who had also lived on the Island?

The white chalky stones and terracotta tiles now fallen and almost embedded in the ground, are now awash with tiny white flowers, as abundant as the butterflies and bumble bees that traverse  them. There is continual movement in this still stone ruined landscape. The wind now and then carried what sounded like laughter and the wonderful whooshing sound of the greek language.

The Press stands near the villa where my family and I are holidaying. It is one of many ruined buildings that seem to characterize Greece. From the splendor of the Acropolis and Delphi to these tiny roads around the Islands, the land seems to be at peace with transience.

Sometime later in the week we’ll travel to Ithaca – a destination that has been on my wish-list for many years. From the villa we can see Ithaca. On Friday, we will catch a small boat from the town of Fiskardo, 10 minutes away. We will walk on the ancient land trodden by the Greek hero, Ulysses and we will see what he saw. And will we go the land of the lotus eaters, and stay away as long as he did?

When I was little I pored over the Greek myths of gods and heroes. I watchd the movies in the 60s that tried to recreate the stories of Ulysses, of Jason and Argonauts and the Trojan War; the struggle between destiny and a personal hunger and striving for love, for eternal glory or to meet your destiny – no matter what.

A few days ago, I was at Delphi, beneath the mountain of Parnassus. Our guide told us myths and stories all the way from Athens. And as we passed the intersecting roads where Oedipus met his fate, and killed his father, I cried.

I cried because there as an actual road from which this extraordinary story took seed. I cried because there is something extraordinary about stories that last as long as that. I cried because I was now walking the same path that many seekers had walked. It was the Delphic Oracle that told Alexander the Great he would conquer the world. It was the Oracle that foretold of wars and caught Nero out on his plan to murder his mother Agrippa. And it was the Oracle that was built from bees wings and wax.

I could do with much, much more of these Greeks.

I had a farm in Africa…  well actually I had dinner in Athens, in the Plaka, with my most extraordinary nephew!

We are  thousands of miles from home. I am holidaying in Athens with my twin sister and her twins, Michael and Georgie, our closest girlfriend Rosey, our beautiful niece madeline and tomorrow my sister Gabby.

So wer’e here miles from home and we are counting every blessing, every sight, every sound and every part of the story.

We spent the day in Delphi. Well my sister, Cate, Rosey and I went to visit the Oracle, whose advice “know thyself, and “no excess” (what dumb advice is that!) made us gob-smacked with awe, so much so that all we could do - on the return to Athens was retreat to a quiet taverna, order a gin and review the photos and mental shapshots of the day.

How do you explain  to your dinner companions what it was that made you cry at Delphi? How do you translate that moment of gob-smacking, oh-my-god-I’m really here- response to hearing the guide say “down to your right is the road where Oedipus met and killed his father”. How do you explain why you want the Oracle to tell you, in 2008 what you you should be doing  with the rest of your life?

It was my nephew who asked me “what was it that was so special about delphi”?  

“It was my nephew who “twittered” with me today - and read what I saw at Dephi (while I was seeing it)

It was my nephew who offered to show me and Rosey around Lycabettus Hill tomorrow,

And it was my nephew- who at 4 years old told me to “go home to Australia and find myself a husband” (which, for you disbelievers, I did!).

It was my nephew who get’s what moved me today, who sees me in pursuit of gnosis and beauty.

I love you kid.

Before I do anything I must blog! I am facing the usual list of things to do before one goes on holidays, but I don’t want to start any of them, until I dump a yellow post.

It’s strange that I’ve become so dependent on the feelings I register after a post. It helps make sense of stuff. And that’s just what I need right now.

This morning I’ve been at sixes and sevens. I missed an appointment - even though I was on time! Caught the wrong bus which went on a wierd route to finally drop me off at my childhood neighbourhood of all places, after which I then had to walk 2 kms to get to where I wanted. And I haven’t even left the country!

It’s as if I’m walking in a parallel place, where everything is upside down or back the front and time seems to accelerate and stop at once. So in this state, I’m increasingly confused and unsure of just about everything. There’s an astrological concept called “Mercury Retrograde”, where things get mixed up and go wrong. It feels like that, but I expect it has more to do with the anticipation of and distractions about my impending journey to the other side of the world.

Yesterday I was lunching with a good friend who is also preparing for an exciting new opportunity to do with work, and we were talking about baggage, shadows and expansive mind-sets. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a woman who seemed so familiar it stopped me in my tracks. I realised it was my cousin Cath who I haven’t seen for years. She was walking past the building that now houses Dairy Farmers, my late father’s employer.

It was a lovely conjunction of the past and future, and I took it as an omen and message from Dad that he was watching out for me, and would watch out for me on the journey ahead. As we spoke, I noticed how my cousin has the features that mark our family: the sort of nose or forehead or eyes or smile, voice, earthy nature and shared memories that connect us in a single blood line. And once in that space, you immediately re-connect to that time of childhood and family gatherings. It’s a very comforting feeling because it is so familiar.

So, this morning, as I found myself accidentally deposited in the streets I used to walk as a child, I said a silent prayer to all those in that familial bloodline who have always watched over me. In particular my granny, my aunts and my 2 mothers. One blood mother and one step-mother. As it is mother’s day tomorrow I have decided to  place a flower on their graves in thanks for the time we spent together.

Time is so fleeting that we often have to run to keep up with commitments, appointments and tasks. Have I done all I should do? Will there be time to fit in another…? Perhaps I should pack an extra….? What if I get caught out without a ….? The list is endless, and the anxiety intense especially when travel is involved.

Time get’s all out of kilter on a trip. Time differences, cultural differences, language differences heighten the experience, and much of what we achieve on the travels are relished more after we return than when we’re in the middle of them.

Right now my darling sister Gab is in Romania and emails us her fabulous impressions spelt out in a paragraph: so few words but packed with remarkable vistas and visuals. A sort of 10 second grab. I know, though that behind those grabs are the normal anxieties that come with not understanding the language, missing the hotel because of the signage, hoping that the train will arrive in time to make the connection you need in order to arrive on time somewhre new.

So it goes and this time next week I’ll be in a completely different place and space. Walking down neighbourhood roads a light year away from those I walked down today. And I’ll see and smell and hear a miriad of new impressions. But before all of that, this yellow post is one of prayer and thanks to my ancestral and familial line, and in particular to my darling parents for their generosity in affording this remarkable next journey.

Bring it on.  

Once upon a time a simple little family lived deep in the woods of a land far away.

The husband was an old wise man. He had 2 children who were simple of heart and mind, called rooney and trooney. His much younger 2nd wife he named Beauty. He died in tragic circumstances and around the same time his simple children disappeared never to be seen again. So Beauty was left alone in the world.

She decided to pack up her possessions and leave the wooded house she’d known for the last 13 years. Her only possessions of worth were the cloths she had woven since being a little girl. She came from a long line of weavers and each generation added something unique to the craft. Beauty’s talent was an ability to weave almost intangible cloth, as light as wind, as soft as water and as bright as the sun.

Beauty could also embroider the cloth in such a way that it came to life and anyone who looked on it felt a deep longing and was immediately transported into the scene itself. Why it was even said, beauty could embroider feelings, such was her skill.

Most of beauty’s work had been sold at market. But she packed up what was left of her work into a parcel which she carried on her head. And she set off on the northern road. She walked most of the day, through all sorts of landscapes until she saw some farming lands in the distance. Coming closer to the verdant fields, she noticed a single cowherd and some dairy cows. He was herding the cattle into the barn.

Beauty asked the cowherd if she could spend the night in the barn along with the cows. He simply nodded. Beauty was touched by his gentle nature, and felt sorry for the cowherd who only wore the flimsiest of cloth. She reached into her pack and handed the cowherd a fine blue cloth the colour of midnight. Embroidered with the sun, the moon and a thousand tiny stars, the cloth was large enough to envelope the young cowherd, so that he disappeared into the night.

Beauty settled on the warm hay in the barn and was so tired she fell deeply asleep the moment her head touched the ground. The last thing she heard were the murmurs of the night and a single voice singing softly to the moon.

The following day there was no sign of the cows or the cowherd – for they had set off at first light to graze on other fields. She ate some cheese and bread from her pack and walked further on the northern road.

The road turned and twisted into a deeper darker wood. The ancient trees reached towards the sky, forming a cathedral like canopy above. She looked upwards marvelling at their grandeur and missed her footing, tripping on an exposed root. Down she tumbled – flat on her face in the mud.

Oh dear oh dear, said a voice to her left, what a mess you’ve made.

Beauty looked around for the voice and saw an orange dog and blue lynx.

Blinking twice at these strange figures, she heard the lynx chortle,

What a fine mess you’re in – you should have looked where you were going.

Beauty scrambled to her feet laughing, you’re right of course lynx – but if you could show me the way out of the woods I can dry off in the sun, and it will brush off – you’ll see. Perhaps, if you could also show me a river, I could wash my face and hands as well.

The lynx laughed, and pushed past her so quickly Beauty almost lost her footing again. But she chased after lynx until they emerged in the sunlight.  Before she could thank her guide, lynx disappeared.

Beauty looked at this new vista – a field of wild and splendid poppies, as red and bold as the eye could see. Overwhelmed by the sight and the warmth of the day, she surrendered to the impulse and lay flat on her back gazing up in wonder at the sun above her. She was soon asleep - dreaming of embroidery the colour of crimson blood and rubies. When she awoke the sun was low in the sky and she knew she needed to quickly find another place before night fell.

She walked down to the river that ran through the poppy field and saw her reflection. Beauty laughed so hard at the messy sight she saw, she lost her footing and fell headlong, pack and all, into the fast flowing river. Beauty grabbed at overhanging branches but was unable to grab hold of anything for any longer than a minute – for the river current was too strong.

Just surrender, the water murmured, just go with the flow.

Beauty could do nothing else but give in. The river raced past fields of lavender, of sage or rosemary of thyme of sunflowers and finally a field of cotton, with their puff ball flowers she knew so well.

The river finally slowed and the water became golden and shallow. Beauty was able to stop and stand up on some rocks.

Thank you river, for I would never have made it this far without you. But the river was silent and she started to think she imagined hearing that voice earlier.

With the sun almost set, Beauty made her way to a nearby Cotton Mill. The door was open and inside the millers wife was setting the table for dinner. Beauty asked if she could dry off by the fire.

Well you’d better, laughed the miller, for you are drenched through and you’ll catch your death if you stay like that.

Beauty sat by the warm fire and unpacked her fine cloths – spreading them around her to dry as well. The miller’s wife watched all of this with greedy eyes – for she could see how valuable the cloth was. Beauty turned to thank her for her hospitality and the miller’s wife quickly set her features into a smile, hiding the greed and envy behind a warm and generous grin.

She fed Beauty a fine dish and poured goblet after goblet of wine, drugging the last goblet with a sleeping draught. Beauty was so hungry she ate it all and swallowed all the wine, marvelling at how wonderful it made her feel. She forgot all her sadness and fear of the future. Before long, she was sound asleep snoring as loudly as the pigs outside.

When she awoke she was on the side of the road with a very sore head and no parcel of cloths. Realising the miller’s wife had stolen them, Beauty started to wail and cry for all that she had lost and for her own stupidity.

So loud was her wailing that a passing tailor heard the din and stopped to scold her. Now the tailor was a wily fellow with a ready smile, a quick wit and big heart. But he had a twisted leg and walked with a limp. It certainly didn’t slow him down for he was born like that.

Now stop it right now, he scolded Beauty. Not given to self-pity himself, he said, why you have your health, you seem young and healthy, what could be so bad? You can come with me and I’ll put you to work in my shop.

Beauty was so startled by the tailor’s abruptness, she agreed and followed him to the next town where his shop was already set up and well established.

And so they worked together for many years. She embroidering and weaving cloth finer than ever before, with images of poppies, and cows and fields of sunflowers.

The tailor grew to love her and she him. Eventually they married. And people came from far and wide to see their fine work and buy as much as they could make.

One day many years later they heard that a miller’s wife had been robbed and murdered.

And of the cloths she stole from Beauty? Why some say one cloth forms the sail on a pirate ship, another forms the tent of a gypsy fortune teller, and another hangs in the queen’s own chamber. As fine as ever before.

Life goes round in circles.

It is this process of repeating things that creates the pattern of our life.  Some of those patterns are unique, but most are reminiscent of other, collective or universal patterns. In these we share histories, geographies, myths and dreams. They may have a different personal colours and shades but many of our life patterns are similar to other people’s. I find this immensely reassuring.

As individuals we repeat certain lessons, behaviours, or thoughts for as long as they serve us.  Even negative patterns. After that, we try new ones.  Now this is nothing very earth shattering, but it always surprises me, in those unguarded moments to actually see the patterns - like wind washed sand,  circles within circles of filigree lace.

We repeat patterns because they are reassuring and sustain the image we have of ourselves: as successful, caring, creative, provocative, entertaining, funny, serious whatever.  They’ve worked before and will work again - for this is the concept of self-efficacy. 

One such useful technique I have is to write my way into new life situations. I have done this a couple of times in the past, and I believe I’m doing that now, with this blog. The result of the writing will be known much later.  18 ago I was in a bit of a mess. I was depressed, alone and retrenched from a job I had enjoyed immensely. My brother had just been married and following the wedding I decided to go home to the USA with my sister Cate, her husband and their twins who were 3 at the time. I stayed there for 6 months. Blissful and joyous.

Over that time, I wrote. I wrote 2 stories. One was called “How to make a career out of choosing a career to make” and the other was a stream of consciousness, regarding my own fecundity and depression. In that second story, I played the central character who thought she was a turtle, who deposited hundreds and hundreds of egs, and the second character was a psychologist called Stephen who tried to address this psychosis.  This story I kept private and no-one knew of it at all.

It repeated itself, however in the following way. 5 years later I married a psychologist called Stephen. Like the theme in my story, we had trouble conceiving. As one of many treatments we visited a chinese herbalist who prescribed - you guessed it, crushed turtle shells. Of course I discontinued treatment and alas remained childless.  At the same time Cate sent me a postcard out of the blue, with a picture of a turtle. This turtle was part of a polynesian myth in which she gave birth to all the peoples of the south pacific, hundreds and hundreds of eggs.  Neither Stephen nor Cate knew of my story. Nor had I read the polynesian myth before. 

I love that sort of synchronicity. It doesn’t change the outcome, but it does change the energy around it - marking it as moment of significance.

Several years ago, a psychic I have seen several times, told me my life was an open book. The first half was written but the second was completely blank. I asked if this meant I was going to die.  She told me that it was blank because that half had yet to be written.

So let’s see where the Blue and Yellow Post ends up. Perhaps a year or two from now, there will be a pattern, like another pattern, reminiscent of a further pattern. And I’ll know it had served the right purpose.

See you in the next chapter

I paint. I paint with oils, acrylics and watercolour. I guess my favourite medium are oils - because they are so seductive. Depending on the medium you use, you can get all sorts of transparent and rich colours.

Right now I’m wrestling with 2 paintings. Both are based on photos I took on a recent trip. The wrestle is with the process and I guess the outcome.

My problem is that I don’t want the work to be a replica of something I saw, yet I do want it to replicate what I saw - if that makes sense. The images that are pre-occupying me are steps that lead into the water. In both, the water seems so mysterious: one is slightly more bouyant or playful and the other receding with the tide - revealing the rich variegated stone patterns beneath.

I work with the forms yet all the time resisting them. I want to shape and push the forms, to stretch them so they don’t resemble the starting point, and then reconfigure them to make sense of the whole picture. This means continually massaging how they relate to each other on the canvas. I enjoy the colours, the balance, the solidity and fragility of some elements - and have immense fun with the texture of the paint itself. Yet I wrestle with the fact that it should look more like life, more like the original picture, more like reality.

People who see my work - describe it as impressionistic.  Is that because I can’t reproduce forms realistically? The reason they say this is because each painting has a feeling of transience and movement.  I also think they are impressionistic because I use the knife more often than I do the brush.

Another pecadillo, if you like is a lack of planning. I prefer the painting to emerge as I go along. I like to be suprised at what the painting process delivers - almost magically. It may not resemble the starting point much at all, but it comes to a point when the work is finished and I’m happy to let it go as an impression of the starting point.

Nearly every time I look at my work I feel good about it and about myself. Which is a world away from what I was like when I was a teenager or young adult. In fact, I would recommend painting for all depressives and those working on the renovated self. It’s a great way to fall in love with life and with your participation in it.

I knew a woman once, whom I thought was quite a gifted painter. I couldn’t understand why she judged her work so harshly, refusing to pick up the brush for many years after a “bad” experience (ie a painting she didn’t like). I’m not saying don’t strive for perfection, but really - the world is full of critics enough, why would we add another one to the equation?

Yes, I love the process and I do like the workat each iteration. I like its boldness, the “painterly” (as a teacher once described it) style, which I think just means the fact that I’m not afraid of using a variety of and large amount of paint.  In fact I relish in it. Bloke used to find the “mark of bubba” everywhere around our house. A smear of paint on the light switch, on the fridge, on the phone and of course on every wall along my path.

He would be frightened of the work. Not because of the mess, but rather frightened for me I think. He’d notice when the perspective was wrong, or the composition didn’t resemble reality. He thought I’d be disappointed at the end. Of course he was projecting, and when I asked him why he didn’t paint, given that he was an excellent draftsman, he told me that he was too scared. He would spend so much time planning what to paint, that he would become too intimidated to begin - in case it didn’t work out.

I guess I get scared too. Scared that it will end up looking like crap. But I push on through that, it happens about a third of the way through the painting’s life cycle. And I remind myself that crap is all relative. One person’s crap is in fact another person’s delight. Last week I dreamt someone commented on my painting to the effect that “It looks like shit”. “Exactly what part of it and what sort of shit?” I asked in the dream. At the time, I put it down to a heavy night on the turps (booze that is)  because the painting resembled a truncated intenstine, and I did feel like shit the morning after.

So I’m writing this while my two (yet to be finished) paintings dry. I’m writing it to remind myself that the process is incredibly rewarding - with fresh discoveries all the time. And I’m writing it to remind myself that the process itself is a way of wrestling with my own way of seeing the world - ”In real life” or in my head. The view in my head is like “real life” but is mixed up with all the excitement of other inflluences.

Farewelling my sister on this morning’s flight to Hong Kong, and then onto Budapest; cleaning the house and washing the linen in preparation for interstate friends; getting ready for dinner with a close friend and her guests tonight, and remembering how sublime the Merchant Ivory production of “Howard’s End” was last night.

Yes, all of that has an effect on whether I see the water as emerald or mauve, and whether I paint the stones with a dab or a dash and just how much paint - that I’ve just plied on  do I now scrape off - in order to give a sense of well trodden steps.

Magical.

A long time ago someone took this photo. It was the week after the death of our mother. They say a picture is worth a thousand words.

Just as a picture records seminal moments like these, those same moments highlight the essence of who we are.

I believe those moments of death, birth and marriage highlight a hunger for certainty and meaning.  We make meaning of things with the head and the heart, and for want of a better word, with the spirit.

How much of our spiritual skills are handed down and how much do we acquire? Can we acquire any after a certain age? And do seminal moments up the ante at all?

My own seminal moments include:

• The death of my mother when I was four years old
• The death of my father when I was 30 years old
• My marriage when I was 37
• The death of my husband when I was 48 years old
• The death of my stepmother when I was 48 years old

The primary death of my mother was the defining one.  As one of four siblings we each had a different way of responding to that event. These responses set in motion an entire approach to the way we live our lives.  And this approach is well explained by a particular spiritual system.

The Enneagram has gone the farthest to explaining what these responses were. All of the family is into the Enneagram. So much so, that we’ll describe the behaviour of a family member as a typical 6 or that’s a 3 for you!

The Enneagram is based in a Sufi practice and is a dynamic program to define the spiritual self in relation to others and the world. The system went through a number of iterations to become what it is today.

The system is good for our family for a number of reasons: it is dynamic and inter-related. In other words, we are who we are, in relation to ourselves, to others and to the world. And the best part is that each type is in the process of change and growth. It perfects itself in movement towards or away from other types. 

There are nine types. And each type is defined by a reaction to an impulse (in our case this was pain and fear). No type is any better than another. There are ways to find out what your type is, but I always believe that when you find out your type, you are invariably embarrassed and or humbled by the insight.

We four sit together. We have a 5, two 6s and a 7. Each one of us reacted to the pain of losing our mother in a slightly different - though connected - way. One retreated to the head (5) to find an intellectual explanation; two joined a bigger system (6) to offset the anxiety and belong somewhere and the last one chose the path of sensation to feel alive and to avoid pain (7).

I wanted to write a book with my sisters. Gab was to write the path of epicurean delight – food and pleasure; Cate was to write a dissertation on sense-making and intellectual control and I was to write the third path on myth making and imagination. In the middle of the story, a fairy tale would link and explain the three types. We got so far but no farther.  As it matters more to me, I will pick it up again one day.

The dynamic process of the Enneagram means that as a 6 I have the potential to move towards a number 9. I am not changing types but, if I continue to grow, I can develop a new set of spiritual skills, represented by the number 9.

When I am at my best as a 6, I am self-affirming, trusting of self and others, independent yet symbiotically interdependent and cooperative as an equal. A belief in self leads to true courage, positive thinking, leadership, and rich self-expression.

Number 9, at their best are self-possessed, feel autonomous and fulfilled: have great equanimity and contentment because they are present to themselves. They are intensely alive and fully connected to self and others.

One of my nieces is a 9 so I can learn from her what it feels like to live like a 9. Another one of my nieces is like me, a 6. So if I can live well and fully, I might assist her in understanding herself a bit better.

We are attracted to other types and can understand them. I have a penchant for 5s (given that my twin sister and husband were both 5s). I certainly understand them and I lean on them to make sense of the world inside my head. I also ‘get’ 7s and lean on them when I nudge the bottle or cook up a feast to comfort myself.

So way back when I was 4 years old and the worst thing in the world that could happen did happen; I assumed the mantle of the fearful loyalist. To face whatever it was I had to face, front-on; counter-phobic and confrontational. Confined by and in this awful situation, I was wrapped in a straight-jacket of anxiety. My twin sister, also 4 years old followed another path – one of the eremitic Investigator; equally valid, but different to mine.

Neither of us could tell where the paths would lead. But they were set in motion by this momentous event, and they would diverge many times in the years that followed.

A picture does indeed tells of a thousand worlds still to be lived.  

Once upon a time, there was a fortress like castle that stood tall and bold in a verdant countryside. The castle could be seen from miles around.

It was home to lots of  people: travelling merchants, artisans, storytellers and adventurers, cooks and wine merchants, blacksmiths, jewellers, dressmakers, butchers, grocers and all those in service to the family in charge of the castle. The castle was responsible for the well-being of so many. Each night it hummed with the sounds of songs, music and hard work of those who called the castle home.

The castle was secured by locks and chains. There were chains on the front door and chains on the bridge over the moat.  Throughout the castle, there were chains on all the doors and windows. And down in the dungeons, there were chains that kept the prisoners under control. The chains were a part of the castle. They made the people feel secure. 

The castle was surrounded by a moat. The moat appeared serene and still but deep below it was teeming with many fish and plants. Now and then, one could catch a glimpse of something moving - a shot of blue, a spark of green and a streak of deep and wondrous bronze - colours of a beautiful untouchable world. 

Part of this untouchable world was the most beautiful fish imaginable. With scales the colour of moonlight and a tail the colour of falling stars, this fish had always lived in the moat. Its ancestors had swum up the stream that fed the moat a long time ago.  But this fish had only known life in the moat.

It had been hatched from eggs deposited in a broken crystal goblet. The goblet had fallen to the bottom of the moat many years ago. The gold that decorated the goblet had long since tarnished. The crystal, so brilliant in the past was now embellished only by green algae. The fish and the goblet were one, linked at birth it was to the goblet that the fish returned each night.

Then one day the world changed.

Illness came to the castle. No one knew where it came from, perhaps a traveller, perhaps an animal. Like a wildfire it raged through the castle and the people became feverish, half mad with a desperate thirst, the people drank water from the moat. But it did no good. No soul was saved - children, women and men all died.

The castle chains were broken by desperate people wanting to get away. Even the prisoners were freed to take the dead out of the castle to bury them in the meadows. But once free, the prisoners ran away, and the dead were left to pile up on the castle keep. The family who owned the castle also died from the illness. The last person alive lit a fire on the keep and then left the castle for good. 

In the days that followed, the fire burnt everything in the castle. Even the strong castles walls began to crumble in the inferno. The ash from the fire was blown into the low-lying moat and poisoned all the remaining life.  The beautiful fish tried to hide in the goblet for as long as possible. But soon the dry winds, the harsh sun and smoke sucked up all moisture from the moat. With nowhere left to hide, she floated on her side in the broken goblet and looked up at the castle. What was left of the burnt and broken castle looked back at the dying fish and they watched each other die.

Some time passed.  The winds blew the dust and ash away. The castle was broken down by the elements and soon became just a memory. One wall remained however, but only half as high as it had been. The moat too was barren and bereft with only dried cracked earth in its place. 

Day after day, the sun swung over the desolate scene, alighting momentarily on the gilded edge of the broken goblet. Some seeds from the nearby meadows were blown on the summer breeze to land in it’s upturned cup.

And then the rain came.

It was soft and fragrant rain that continued for days and washed everything, making the world fresh and new. This rain felt like a blessing. And although it was too late for the castle and the fish, it served to cleanse and revitalise the land around. It fell into the moat, and on the seeds that had blown there.

And in the fish’s goblet, the goblet where she had died, a seed took hold. Kissed by the blessed rain, a tiny fragile blossom emerged shaded, in part, by the lone castle wall.  Although it was black and broken and only half as tall as before, the wall was high enough to protect this new growth.

So now, in this land grows a beautiful and rare flower; with petals the colour of moonlight and leaves the colour of fallen stars. It grows in the shade of a broken castle wall and smells in a strange way like the sea. 

I did a reading this morning. A tarot reading.

I’ve read the cards for over 30 years and use them to focus and believe.  Not because they have any power, but because I believe in the combined wisdom and history they represent.

I used the Grimaud version of the Tarot of Marseilles. A modern issue of the deck that evolved in the south of France in the 18th Century. The oldest deck is from Italy and dates back to 1450, drawn from a number of fragmented decks and commissioned by the powerful Visconti-Sforza family of Milan. I’m very excited to be visiting Milan soon, and hope also to visit the Accademia Carrara in Bergamo to see the oldest deck on display.

My reading this morning though was done with the simple blue yellow and red deck of the Marseilles variant. I like their simplicity. I think it makes it easier to focus on the associated and traditional meanings rather than battling some obscure symbology stuck on by a well-meaning occultist who had a penchant for wolves, blood, Indian headpieces or fairy wings.

The Tarot of Marseilles requires an unguarded approach. I started the reading with the Emperor and finished with the Empress. No prizes there for the question I asked was related to the work I need to be doing in the world.  The Empress is my card of choice, the self-sufficient artist at home creating from the earth what she needs. Gaia, Mother, delighting in her own creations - giving birth to her future.

The next card, the 4 of Pentacles was matched on the other side of the reading by the Moon. On the conscious side, if you like, are my preoccupations with security and stability. A sense of place in the world. Finding my place. Owning my place. On the unconscious side is the dreamer, the psychic, the madness of loss and grief, the lonely path ahead, but also the creation at night from the deep well-spring. Of course I want to feel safe, but I also want the psychic freedom to create my own way forward.  In fact I dreamt last weekend of a new job (but that’s a topic for another blog).

Then I laid out my favourite Queen. She of the Cups. The manifester, the lover of the unseen magic and other realms. I think she’s  a mini-version of the Empress, though she has more of the moon-mood-altering madness than her older sister. She’s the reason I get depressed, but she’s also my muse.  She sees things as she wants them to be and intuits the next step. It seems magical from outside but its because  in sync with her own process. Matching her in the reading is the adventurous energy of the Knight of Wands.

You’ve got to love this guy. He’s the journey expert. Off on another trip, this time to Greece, Italy and Croatia. This is the optimist, the expansive energy of hope and self-belief. This energy of adventure will play a part in the quest for my work. I will journey to the work. I’m on a journey for the work. I work right now and that work is my journey.  This card always comes up when a journey is imminent. So no surprises there.

My final card - the answer card - was the last one I pulled out this morning. It was the Hermit. The hermit - me now in the middle of my life. The hermit needing to focus on what has meaning and what matters to me. The hermit, alone, and forced back on my own resources, free of demands, save those I set for myself.

The Hermit and the Moon are friends. It used to be my late husband, Bloke’s card.  He pulled both several months before he died. It is also the card my twin sister invariably pulls out of the deck when I read for her. Father of prayer, meditation, deep solitude and reflection.  The Hermit, representing a new way to think. Uncluttered, crystalised this sort of thinking will light the way I need to go.

Normally I’d lay out another card over the top of this one to find out more. But I think I’ll just sit with it and meditate on it. I won’t rush in to fill it up with the wrong, empty, clanging thoughts that sound like; Move now, Leave the job now they don’t deserve you, choose another job out of the paper, Seek is a website not a way of life,  that one will do - it’s close enough.

Instead, I’ll sit with it. Being still, being alone, being focused, getting clear about my way of working in the world. It will be partly magical, partly dreamy, part adventurous, part secure, part creative and part controlled. With perfect stillness and peace of mind.

Doesn’t sound half bad.