Counting to 50 July 12, 2008
Posted by Liz Mead in : Matters Blue , add a commentThis afternoon I took tea at the Queen Vic with my gorgeous gal-pal-paola. What a well spent afternoon.
Paola is a gifted film maker, writer and human being. She is also – and I’m sure she’d concur- a little on the looney side; mind you no closer to or farther from madness than me. A delightful divine madness in pursuit of pure spirit, less ego, forgiveness, truth, patience, authenticity and lasting love. A quest to last a life time.
I asked to meet her because I am nutting out an idea of interviewing some people for a book. It was a fruitful meeting where she helped me understand the logistics of delivering and shaping a potentially great idea. In other words, she kept it real.
She’s in love – which provides an inspiring and delightful mind-set. All possibilities are welcome, all dreams are possible, all reality is sweeter, finer and all feelings are transcended. Of course one also resides in a state of suspended horny-ness. I wish her much of this state, much lasting love and a strengthening belief in her self as a result of the alchemy.
The stories we tell ourselves about the lives we lead can provide a rich vein of wisdom and analysis. They become heightened with seminal moments such as falling in love. What a great way to find out more about each other – “Tell me the story of your life”.
But Is that story of that life of interest to others? Is all of it, or part of it more interesting. Does it make the “big” lessons more understandable because of the narrative? 
There’s plenty of research that such a process provides insights into thematic “clusters”, trends, blocks, oversight, obsessions and the great “unsaid” of our lives. How splendid to gather the stories of others. And is it possible to then re-tell them and keep it honest. Don’t we filter? Dont we assume? Don’t we cloud it with presumptions of what would be interesting to others – clinical analysis of someones disclosure.
This was the challenge I set my darling Paola – and she came up with some very profound insights – I expect because she’s living her life - in line with the “narrative arc”. There is the right amount of drama, challenge, quest, faith, longing and inspiration.
When in Milan June 24, 2008
Posted by Liz Mead in : Coming Back , 1 comment so farThis is my last post for this journey overseas and as such there is a need to make it significant or full of insight. Alas with those compelling needs it might fail. If Ekhart Tolle could hear me – he’d remind me to live in the now and forget what you need or want. Just enjoy now.
The trip has been extraordinary; brilliant new vistas, challenges, laughs, delights, colours, smells and a light that is completely different to the one in Australia – home.
Milan is the last stop on this 7 week trip. I chose it for a number of reasons – not least among them was the fashion and the architecture, Castello Visconti-Sforza and of course, La Scala. Well I have 
seen sooooooo much architecture including some fabulous Art Deco and Art Nouvea balconies and iron work. I have been overwhelmed by the heat! frescos, statues, reliefs, mosaics, bells,cafes, good looking men, chapels, basilicas and the duomo which takes your breath away on first sight.
I have tried on every bit of outlet-worthy-last-season’s-oh-why-have-I-let-myself-get-this-fat piece of clothing;have walked every bit of shopping street,corso,via known to black belt shoppers:have worked the metro to within an inch of its red,yellow and green directions, and have found a few pieces that I will look at and sigh – Oh Milan.
One day I journeyed one hour away from gorgeous Milan to the small town of Bergamo. I was on a mission, to find and see the Visconti Tarot deck, which was, I understood in the care of the conservators at Acadamia Carrarar. I went up and down, in an out, around and about Bergamo on a gruelling 32 degree day, crossing bridges, climbing to forts at the top of the hill and ceremoniously saying good bye to Blokey, and then reaching finally the museum only to discover it was closed for renovations (for 2 years).
Having this disappointing sign translated word for word by a charming Italian, I traversed yet another 
knee breaking hill to find the palazzo de Regina (the temporary home of the academia collection) was also under renovation. I was so despondent I cried.
Just a bit, because someone was playing Ave Maria on the Flute outside the Basilica Maria di Maggiore. How can you be sad? On a beautiful day, in a beautiful town when that happens?
Remembering Gabbie’s and Cate’s advice not to get attached, and realising how many other fabulous places were yet to be discovered, I stopped that course of thought, dusted myself off and planned the next adventure to take place back in Milan.
Now those that know me, know the passion I have held dear (more than any other) has been the threatre. I went off to la Scala to be delighted by a view from a box, a tour of Callas’ wardrobe and memorabilia from this remarkable place of dreams and music. And to my great delight and surprise I saw some tarot cards (collected from the theatre stalls over many years). The only Arcana card – the judgement card from the Marseilles deck- smiled back up at me from behind the Scala museum collection; as if to say, Be surprised by life, now that you have made the right decision to move on with things.
The Judgement card has an image of people being called up and out of open graves (for the last judgement). Most pictures I’ve seen of this card, shows the dead to be quite chipper, having been dormant for so long.
So there you have it. I got my Tarot message after all, that it is good to move on and let the dead bury the dead. Blokey would want that for sure. I also got to see so many more things than I would have – because I had an intention to try as hard as I did and to hope and to care and to be disappointed (so take that Tolle!).
And, I got to see Milan in all its size 8 splendour. And if I don’t fit into drop dead tiny Italian state of the art fashion, do I care? You bet your size 14 arse I do! But that’s up to me to change and let go of that extra baggage.
Ciao Milan and thanks
Beauty and the cloths May 6, 2008
Posted by Liz Mead in : Coming Back , add a commentOnce 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.
Dreaming the Blue Lynx March 7, 2008
Posted by Liz Mead in : Matters Blue , 1 comment so far
The best time of the day for me is early in the morning. At the still point of time between waking and sleeping. And a time I spend in quiet thought – usually on a dream I’ve just woken from.
This week I dreamt of a blue lynx, nudging me as I walked alone along a path in a forest – archetypal and totemic for sure. It was a lynx with its characteristic flat face, tufted ears and big paws. A lynx just like the one I thought I saw in Canada last year.
On the Icefield Parkway in Banff National Park, Canada last year I saw a wolf. It walked past the car I was in. It was so close I could have easily touched it. It eye-balled me so calmly I stopped scrambling for my camera and just looked. My first thought was that it was a lynx even though I’ve never seen a lynx or live wolf before. When the French first settled Canada, though, they too thought a lynx was a cross between a domestic cat and wolf. So no surprises there.
But here I was dreaming of it. Why? I’ve been confronted and comforted many times by my dreamscapes. Some portend events, like swirling rivers in New Orleans or crashing planes into towers. Others simply process information and food! The difference seems to be that the ‘big’ dreams occur in times of personal change or crisis.
I did a Google search which revealed that a multi-lingual recruitment agency, called Blue Lynx operates in Europe. This was strangely comforting given my desire to change work. I wonder if dream language qualifies?
The Lynx symbology, my second Google search revealed, was probably more useful. The Lynx is honoured in a number of mythologies in Finland, Africa, Greece and the Americas. It is a totem of clairvoyance, vigilance and personal power. Because of her beauty, the African Lynx was beloved by the Northern Star who assumed human form to marry her. In 17th Century Italy the Academy of the Lynxes, of which Galileo was a member, was dedicated to the search for truth and the fight against superstition.
This totem Lynx teaches when to speak and when to hold silence – a great lesson for me who is figuring out the right level of engagement in my current workplace.
Mythology tells us Lynx got her flat face when she tried to jump through a wall chasing one of her forest buddies, another pertinent lesson for one who keeps hitting her head against a brick wall at work.
Wolf or lynx, dream or waking doesn’t really matter. My blue moment lynx reminds me to trust my intuition and inner eye more than surface information. Although vigilance and suspicion are valuable tools, the secret for me, right now is to just slow things down so as to really eye-ball the events and people that cross my path.
Once you really look at a situation you can see everything as it is, not as you wish it to be. I am where I am because I’m meant to be here.There’s no hidden meaning or reason for things that I can’t figure out for myself. This lynx dream also reminds me thatI have all the personal power I need to do just that.
And for the record, I do believe it was a Lynx in Canada just pretending to be a wolf.
Sweet dreams
