As the last stage in my home transformation process I’m surprised at the level of disquiet and unease the change has caused. I’ve replaced the tired dusty 25 year old carpet with cleaner lighter tiles - marked out with cream white grout lines.

For the first day in this new environment I found myself gingerly stepping around and over the grout lines like a child or an OCD sufferer avoiding cracks in the foothpath. I couldn’t get away quick enough, away from the potential dissonance that comes with a big purchase or job. Was it the right choice of colour? Is the job a good job? Why do I miss the carpet?

I escaped to my sister’s house 2 hours away for Christmas and New Year. Normally a haven where the brain slips into neutral, the body goes into idle and the heart gently opens. Calming, loving, no disquieting elements at all. A fabulous end of the year. As the weather proved to be a delight, we swam each day in warm Christmas water, retired early and slept in late. And during each day, the most energetic thing we found ourselves doing was making a pot tea for whoever was laying around nearby. 

Only this year was different. There was a discontent, a restlessness, and the ever present grief. Old feelings in a reliable setting, not unlike my now defunct carpet. Comments in passing, spiralling thoughts on the eve of a new year: Why was I alone? Was I driving people away? Would my life always be like this? Why was I such a worrier? Why didn’t I have more friends? Any friends? Why did I have to invade my sister’s life.

On New Year’s Eve it peaked. Friends, new and old, were invited around. There was predictable conversation and brand new people. The house was squeaky clean, the windows glistened, the table was over flowing with our signature dishes, the garden awash with sand-bagged candles, glowing as the sun descended.   My wish for the event was that it heralded a new year full of wonderfully creative loving people, as well as  an open hearted attitude in myself to new adventures and experiences. 

There were 2 conversations that evening that proved to be testament to the wish. The first was with a long-standing friend of my sister’s – who is opiniated, funny, wounded and guarded. Having just broken up with her boyfriend, and undergoing profound family dramas, she was transmitting nervously most of the night, old scripts, old lines, sure laughs, side-swipes and commentary.  In truth it was exhausting to watch and interact with. But then again, I had a head full of grout lines and sustainable fear of the future.

The 2nd conversation was with the new gay girlfriend of  a (previously assumed straight)  family friend. She was affirming, interested, gentle, alive, abundant, happy and in love. When you’re in love – is there a sweeter place? I found her delightful.

I got what I wished for. It was time to let the old way go, the old friends or friends of friends; the old way of worrying about everything; the old way of standing on my turf. And it was time to embrace the new. But how?

To transform yourself is hard. It’s hard enough changing the external environment, but now I have to face the disintegration of my old self.  Luckily my best teacher of all (my sister Cate) rang me with the answer – Imaginal Cells.

When a Caterpillar turns into a Butterfly it has to disintergrate and disolve first. Then almost by magic, imaginal cells appear to help the move into a Butterfly. All of this is done, unseen within a chrysalis. There’s a period of waiting and a total surrender to the process. When the Butterfly emerges it’s hard to link the two creatures so tranformed is the shape, look, feel, weight and scope.

If that means I have to walk on the grout lines, I will!  Just Imagine then, what I’ll be able to do.

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A Natal chart shows the planets in each of the 12 houses governing our relationships, our careers, our family and our home etc. As a Libran coming up to a birthday this month, it was like listening to a report card at the end of term.

Am I doing well? Meeting my potential? Have things happened the way they should, the way he said they might? Is there anything in this science of the stars?

My own proclivity for things “other worldly” apparantly grows out of some innate skills I was born with – psychic and intuitive skills and a strong connection to higher learning or arcane wisdom. I believe these skills get a “kick along” as a result of events in life that skew, threaten or validate our belief system. Transforming events like marriages, like deaths, like separations, or fortuitous events that guide or help us further along the path and push us up or out to another level. Events that align us to a truer purpose or message.

Librans are all into alignment – we like to balance, straighten, organise and collaborate to get things right. There’s a bunch of us at work, all coming up for birthdays this month ( proof  that the traditional Christmas holidays, occuring 9 months before, are an annual festival of baby making across all generations).

Yesterday, I met with one of my fellow librans and 2 librarians to talk about a collaborative knowledge and research program using Wiki technology Our aim is to build on the information associated with one person and one event, so that the organisation creates a storehouse of connected ideas and stories, threaded together as knowledge.

Some spiritual practitioners believe there is compendium of arcane wisdom referred to as the Akashic Records. It is a warehouse of wisdom, life purpose, lessons and stories lived by the brave souls who trod the earth one day light years before and after us Yet, we get to tap into that shared wisdom through our dreams, through divination; they appear as flashes of insight, archetypal art and myth or random co-incidences and events of synchronicty.

I’ve always found Librarians to be a “higher form” in the workplace. I find them gentle, clever, kind, insightful and generous, in pursuit of truth and knowledge. There’s something noble about that pursuit.

Our librarians live in a glass library. Above the library a void reaches skyward, passing through, and surrounded by 3 floors of open-space-workstations, in other words, there are no walls anywhere.  Central to the building, the library is a testament to learning and education. In reality, these poor darlings who work beneath the void, are battling noise overload, as they sift  through the  brittle static and crackle that comes with worker conversations in the air above and around them.

So as I listened to the whirring crackling noises emanating from my car tape deck this morning, I sifted through the  information housed in this astrological reading. David, although a young man, has also died  in the ntervening years. And as his voice reached me over the air waves, making predictions based on my natal chart, I got a chill. Yes, he portentiously predicted the inevitable separation of a significant man in my life 11 years from the date of the recording. 

But in that whirring and crackling noise that accompanied this kind and encouraging reading, I realised we’re all connected in cycles, waves, sound, light, learning, truth and knowledge. The wisdom plays out through us, around us, in us and over us, again and again and again.

So to all my libran companians and all the splendid teachers and wise librarians in the world, may your road be wide and long and bring you home safely and wiser for the journey you’re on.

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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.

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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.  

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They are a fit metaphor for my program of personal change. It’s a multi-step program to correlate with my great age. So far, the program includes:

• A stepping out exercise component to move the lard off my arse
• A 12-step program to move the booze out of my larder
• A quick-step program to excuse my weird fascination with the TV show, “So you think you can dance?”
• A step-up-to-the-plate program to learn more about new media
• A one-step-at-a-time program to manage my stress levels
• A Steppenwolf program to explore my cultural and philosophical bent and
• A Russian Steppes program to facilitate overseas travel.

Of course, I’m not the only one undergoing such a venture. Like many other women our age, my own sisters are taking steps of their own.

Yesterday I watched my sister, Gabby record her first podcast about positive parenting and how to set limits with love, helping parents in what is arguably the most noble of all professions – bringing up kids.

And this morning I congratulated my twin sister, Cate on getting a sweet gig, doing what she does best - mediation in the courts. 

I’m using this blog as part of my watch your step program. Just watch what happens. With the help of a  great career coach and suprisingly non-neurotic therapist,  I’m submitting my own ”matters for mention”  about and in a process of personal change.

Matters Blue and MattersYellow.

Blue matters when you’re still, stable, satisfied, safe, secure and speaking your truth. Did you know that marketers use blue if they want to build trust?

Yellow matters when you’re changing, moving, altering, striving, climbing and creating new ways of thought. Did you know that couples fight more when living in rooms with yellow walls?

So as my mult-step program evolves,  I’ll be moving between Yellow and Blue moments. Sure, I’ll want more blue moments but I know I’ll have to have an equal if not greater number of  yellow ones. 

And for the significant moments  the “oh my god, of course!! ” moments, I dare say, there’ll doubtless be a story that makes sense of it all.  A story about what drove me in the past, and a story that reveals what the future is and what role I’ll play in it. 

So all I have to do is to keep writing up and down the steps, until  I get to the top or the bottom of what really matters. 

Be sweet.

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