Bittersweet Bravery and the Ballad of a Broken Heart

Your very soul stirs the shift of a season...
And in the winter of your absence...
I find a comfort in the summer of your memory.

Bittersweet

/ˌbɪtəˈswiːt/

Adorned with the quality of awakening a sensation of pleasure, tinged with traces of longing and heartache. The description given to that indescribable mix of emotion that preludes the dichotomous state of heart.

He stepped out of his car in a sizzling vibrancy. The very air was permeated by his presence, and it felt almost electric. A high voltage of anticipation coursed through my frame. His intensity was tangible, even in the dark. The sun had long since set behind the high hill in the distance, and thus was lent a mystery to the way the night draped itself over our awaited encounter.

As he closed the gap of the few feet that lay between us – which but a moment ago still felt like a thousand leagues to gather myself in a single functioning piece – my ribcage nearly bent with the rapid pounding of my heart.

Get it together man! It’s just a date… Adjust your petals, and stop blushing. You’re not a damn rose…

But a rose by any other name could be as red… And as he offered a hand in greeting, I organically leaned forward instead to draw him into an embrace. Well done Wallflower… way to start it off on a good whiff of your savvy!

I could not help myself though. I was immediately drawn to him, and somehow I did not mind any awkward first impression at all… But he gave a playful smirk, a deep chuckle and then was more than willing to return the gesture.

… a moth drawn to the flame…. and I hoped that, whatever the consequence, I was not about to burn…

He took a few steps into the alleyway leading to my front door as I closed the gate behind us. In that momentary solace where I had my back turned to slide the bolt back into place, I caught my breath and turned down the heat a bit to help me get through this not-so impromptu date. As a wallflower, my sensitivity to minute detail was functioning at an optimal level tonight, and boy… my feelers were just picking up all kind of wavelengths from this guy that I had not anticipated. He was on a completely different frequency than I was ready for, and his radioactive presence was unraveling the DNA of any cool composure I had hoped to maintain during the evening.

In the stairway light that illuminated the climb up to my first-floor apartment, I must have seemed all a fluster with a freshly formed flush and audible palpitations. Because clearly the episode earlier was not to be an isolated event! My feet felt like lead as I dragged them up step by step in the small perpetual ascent to what would truly be our first face-to-face encounter. The landing brought us to the kitchen, and as he stepped around the counter to stand on the side facing the living room, he turned and we locked gazes for the first time that evening.

He was casually clad in a windbreaker, a pair of blue jeans and a NYC baseball cap that shaded a playfully knitted brow and dark mischievous eyes; and with his slightly crooked smile that was a one-way ticket to my wildest fantasies, I knew I was in trouble. F*ck… this was going to be hard… He was all at once the man I would introduce to my father and the man I wanted my father never to find out about! A chivalrous bad-boy, with ambition and courtesy, who speeded across the spectrum of stereotypes and enigmas within the realm of dating types. It made me dizy and made any coherence to my free flow and façade evaporate in the heat of his wisecracks and warm eyes. I think I was so deep in the seductions of his sorcery that any resistance was futile from the get-go. And we had not even sparked up a flow of convo yet.

Now for a wallflower like myself, dating pretty much comprised of a careful and patient observational game. One develops a sharpened eye for bodily cues, the shape of social exchange and that overall intuitive feel of the other’s presence – rich sources of information that undergo any number of layers of processing. Paradoxically, your date is not an objectification of your interest, but yet they are an anomaly that is novel, different, and ready for exploration. So, metaphorical notebook in hand, one steadily soaks up the complexity of their character and prods their personality, testing how well it meshes with your own. And if by some divine providence or stroke of luck you come across a handsome, tall drink of water… you may want a refill of their company very soon. But being introspective, high-reactive, sensitive and perceptive, your multidimensional spirit becomes selective in matchmaking. You are open-minded to the nuances, yet at the same time you have a fine-tuned set of filters in place to simplify the great volley of observational input. Pretty empirical for a common game of courtship, right? Well, for a wallflower, the quest for love can be an over-stimulating odyssey, so having some way to map the matrix is pretty handy.

It was not about to work on this guy though… He was entirely non-reducible to a set of simple descriptive mental shortcuts. The great irony was that he was a pretty straightforward kind of shooter stitched together from an open-hearted and direct demeanour. And his judgment was undeviating and honest. Simplicity was certainly an architect to his pedigree. Yet, I had hardly met a man who filled me with a more complicated kind of reaction. And damn, I was so shy when he glanced my way… In his way…

I was possibly his opposite in nearly every aspect, but that merely bred a magnetic attraction that was steadily growing unchecked and much faster than my proud pondering self could keep pace with. I was certainly fast becoming a moth drawn to the flame of his wildfire suave; and I hoped that, whatever the consequence, I was not about to burn…

A defence was but the delay of an assault…

But I had taken a keen sense of foresight for such predicaments early on. I had a nice little DMC and sit-down with the Universe, and set the record straight as only a gay man could. She was not about to make my love life a divine comedy! That was simply not the constructive approach with me. She had to understand that the Karmic bus was going to require a renewal of her driver’s licence before she came speeding through my parade!

But I think my well-positioned pleas and plans got lost somewhere in that little spaced-out encounter with this guy. The tell-tale signs were rapidly becoming red flags waving frantically and it brought my soaring ideals in for an emergency landing. So I had to fall back on that beautiful prehistoric programming that imbued us with a deeply innate ability to navigate human courtship: instinct.

Little did I know that was like bringing fire near gasoline…

I had this little habit of downplaying emotional intensity with a little bit of humour (well… a lot, actually). I was a little queer (pun unintended), weird, imaginative… living it up in my inner world. I could throw a quip, even a little bit of playful banter. It just helped to steer the situation a bit and keep things lighthearted and amicable, while not displacing the topic.

The tables turned however, when the metre of his jokes seemed to match my own, and we realised that we had met an interesting predicament where we played set match on the sarcasm scale of our deflections, serves, and verbal volleys. It was like an immovable object meeting an unstoppable force, and the titanic clash left us with long silences which teased at our composed temperaments. The tension was tangible, and it oscillated between the small gap that separated us on the bamboo-framed two-seater that was digging into our backs through the cushions (he was too much of a gentleman to ever attempt to address that uncomfort).

God he was handsome… he drove me crazy, he drove me wild… and I wonder if he ever really knew that I had already succumbed to the siege of his smoulder.

Hours had passed in which we had carefully trodden this situation. Refined and reserved: that was my way of approach, but for all that was good and sacred… I wished so desperately for a misstep or a Freudian slip that would give away my patient game. And that got me thinking… why was I playing a game? Why was I so intensely focused on this process of self-monitoring?

A defence was but the delay of an assault, and I was clearly feeling heavily bombarded by this situation. I was myself, and yet, so unlike what I felt I wanted to be – around him. Some deep part of me yearned for him to see that the blossom was not the bud – that this wallflower was already blooming in the shadow of my own hesitations. He was living proof that chivalry was not dead, and yet he was an unapologetic bastard at heart (God I loved it!). A diamond in the rough for sure, but a priceless rarity amidst the mining ground of male eligibles. He was not about to overstep in any way, but the gleam in his eye spoke of a playful side that could take you for quite the spin on the playground. But did he even comprehend the precise allure of his personality? His charisma was a flame that licked at my defences and melted my cool exterior like so much ice. And perhaps, just perhaps, I was trying to futilely postpone his near effortless victory.

Your pattern will be broken…

Another awkward moment seeped it’s way into the exchanges. Nearly every story ended with a deep moment of contemplation, a placid pause or an amiable look that left us both grappling for words. My mind raced desperately to look for another hot topic to play with, but he looked at me again and snatched my mind in another direction with that cheeky smile in his eyes. “Hey, what’s up?”, he teased (not for the first time). God this self-restraint was unbearable! And all at once the elastic tension that had stretched past its cue for the night forced some action, and finally snapped. I gave a final quiet laugh, amused by my out-of-character bravado which was making me turn toward him, and then lean over…

And somewhere during the evening, navigating past the thorny silences and the ridiculous amount of terrifying attraction, a kiss was planted that would grow to encumber any other hindrance to the inevitable affinity of our desiring spirits. My hard-earned strategems were undone. My petals were pried open. In all the ways of a wallflower, no hidden wisdom prepared you…

It did not prepare you for that realisation… that:

Among an infinite set of impossibilities, you will meet a soul – a being who will unravel the cosmic stitching within the fabric of your life. Your pattern will be broken. It will quake you to the core and force you from the toppling walls of your inner fortress. It will force you right into the arms of the most familiar stranger…

…and oh the force behind that collision. For it sent us both toppling backward and blind into the unknown ether of our unconscious wishes. “The heart wants what it wants” they say.

We drowned despite the warning…

And when his kisses spoke of a requited desire to be closer, to feel more connected, and to break the barriers, I could not help but feel a surge of joy as our bodies talked with a similar cellular diction that made every nerve ending spark with excitement.

But a veil hung over the already rosy hue of the scene that had begun playing in all its intensity, and further obscured the logic that remained to keep those same hearts intact. It loomed at the back of our minds even as we allowed ourselves the sweet surrender to feelings we had long since forgotten. Beyond this moment of chaotic perfection – beyond this new impenetrable space created with one another – awaited an inevitable parting. It was this moment that was about the only thing we had foreseen before the dice were cast. Yet, we took the impulsive plunge into the depths of each other’s eyes. We drowned despite the warning…

He was not from here. This town was no longer his home. Long ago, he had sought out his adventure in the great wide somewhere. And we knew, that a goodbye was an imminent reality that neither of us could truly change. We knew we were lost amidst the oceanic vastness of this encounter, and if anything…we circumnavigated the Bermuda triangle of our denial in a desperate hope to be lost in that moment forever.

We were caught in the throes of a bittersweet impasse.

How exactly do you resist the call of passion, when it is crisp, clarion and clear. We sheathe our souls under layers of refinement, ego deceptions and self-doubt to ultimately restrain us from our natural affinities. So often, we miss the call of passion. We miss the chance to become ridiculously infatuated with all it’s beautiful and disastrous consequences. Consequence is, after all, a harsh, yet nurturing teacher; a teacher that imparts its lesson to a degree measurable to the act that preceded it.

We knew all to well the shape of the consequence that lay before us – me and him – yet the result was not one of immeasurable heartache. It was a parting made bitter by the very injustice of having to say farewell; but a parting tinged with the sweet knowledge that such a stir of emotion is, in fact, possible – even if rare. It imbues your outlook with hope. It is restorative to the cynic disbelief in an emotive magic. And it reawakens the romantic that you had long thought to be exiled from your forced maturity – a maturity validated among a generation that relentlessly strives to rationalise all affective repertoire.

We were caught in the throes of a bittersweet impasse that required of us to face the music; yet, the melody of this ballad was not about to end in the happy sentimentality of giving in to the truth. And the truth was evident in our electric proximity; in the many whispers exchanged within our bated breaths. I had once said, in another writing of mine, that the truth permits growth sooner than does misdirection. But to say we were in love… Now that was a truth that neither of us wanted to admit for fear of the hardship it would afford us. Whatever the lesson was, whatever the insight from this experience would be, neither of us wanted to deal with the hurt in reaching that epiphany.

But as love rewrites the self-imposed conduct and personal rules we set to ourselves, so does it rewrite the caution we would take in trying not to crack our own castles of glass.

This heart is a fractured melody... 
And in the soft chimes of the gleam
That played on the prismatic edges of every crack
Was the reshaped yearnings of a forlorn feeling.
And as I teased at the old stir of memories, I picked up broken shards that had once been
My impregnable castle of glass...
That has so easily succumbed to the siege
of your eyes.

“What did you do to me?”, he asked tenderly, echoing the thought that had crossed my mind so many times since that evening. The words had left his lips in a heavy sigh, reverberating with the deep tragedy of an attraction that would be tensed over miles in but the count of a few days. And as the weeks had passed, that moment had become a a crystalline memory that captured the tremors those words had sent into the small pocket of air that seperated us when we were together.

In the test of bravery those idle hours afforded – knowing that it would soon be time to say goodbye – I did not regret the dutiful response to my heart. The experience of love is not regrettable. The heartwrenching hurt of the farewell to the object of that love, is not regrettable. Our time invested in love, is not regrettable. What is regrettable, is the minutes wasted in giving stock to the suppression of love when our time to experience it is so finite to begin with.

Especially when the lesson from that love, is that you are not a bud to be plucked when you have not been permitted the time to bloom. And as a wallflower, you want to bloom unabashed amid the field of your lush vibrancy. You want to absorb the natural freedom emanating from your will, and then bask in the light of another who permits you the security and acceptance to express that energy. Love is a prototype to the tending we feel we deserve, lessened only by the perceptions of what we have been made to think we deserve.

And for a brief moment, he made me feel like I was the only one that ever mattered…

Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage.

Lao Tzu

So what lessons are left to us in this near irreparable state of heart? Perhaps this: beware not the battle to be bested. Bitter may be the bravery in overcoming a broken heart, but sweet is the ballad that sings of its memory. Love in all its consequence allows us a divine brush against the best versions of ourselves.

Therefore, resist not the pull of your heart, as the tide does not resist the pull of the moon. Your attraction is a natural alignment of your celestial energy. Be one with the flow of your experience, and surrender to the lessons of limerence.

Love and light fellow bloomers.

AfrikaBurn – Seeking the “Golden Repair”

Freedom permits us a space that is rife with the possibilities to disassemble, break, and destroy, in order to remake, reshape, and realign. But the acceptance of such a faculty demands a great deal of vigilance from those who desperately sought it out in the first place. In truth, when we seek freedom, we do not often preemptively strucure our sense of agency and act with forbearance. We untether ourselves from any and all expectation. It is only then that an experience seems more visceral, more intense, more memorable. And that is a significant insight to reach in one’s musings. Why is it that we so seek to gain a heightened intensity from our experiences? Is it perhaps that we hope that the memory would last us longer? Or do we hope to obtain enlightenment?

Yes, these are the musings of a wallflower. For in the view of such a being, a surface level reasoning is simply not enough to kickstart the carousel of an adventurous day. To overthink, to ruminate and to ponder – these are the givens of existence for any proud sideline bloomer. And perhaps the best way to describe it, is by embellishing it with a “day-in-the-life” type of walkthrough while in the Tankwa.

So there I was…

A dim hum assailed my ears on my first awakening at AfrikaBurn. We were new arrivals only but the past day, and the morning promised a quaint little expedition for the bold. So well-rested and with a sparkle in the eye, I emerged from my tent ready to set forth on an unexpected set of adventures. The Tankwa was breathing deep and heavy sighs from an early hour, and the heaves of air sent plumes of dustclouds rolling over the Binnekring.

… And you basically had to be driving one of these bad boys to own that playground… Yes, you may not have seen any better, but squinting from the driver’s seat would have looked a lot cooler…

The plain was committed to testing its desert dwellers on that day with its myriad of dust storms. So I thought it fitting to don my Sun God apparel to see if I could contest the blazing sun through the almost opaque air of the Karoo landscape.

What do we say to the god of the desert? Not Today! This was AfrikaBurn. Valar Dohaeris! All men must serve (women too… and their children, their elders, their ancestors, their imaginary friends… you pretty much had to convinve everyone to share in the communal effort of making magic in the desert). Even when the elements converged to oppose you, no citizen should shy away from the rugged landscape that beckoned.

So I pushed my tentflap aside, and emerged with a suncrown proudly donned, a bandana or two, a scarf, and some other accessories to change into my first divine desert guise… but… I had to break the glory of the moment by going back a couple of times to readjust all the pieces.

The wind was pretty merciless, so having your paraphernalia flying around was not going to feel all that ideal. My fellow campers had the same challenge, and yet the degree of their actual struggle seemed completely masked by their near effortless navigation beneath the gazebo.

Afterwards, having mounted our steeds, we cycled into our street and off into the haze of the party… And it was literally a haze; the dust was everywhere. I was convinced I found parts of the Tankwa all up and between my bits and in places I did not even know existed!

I lost myself in a kaleidoscopic blur…

Tankwa Town and the Binnekring was already fully awakened from its short hours of slumber, and so were the sleepless… aimlessly wandering across the barrens in search of some form of worldly orientation.

… though some discovered that ‘worldly orientation’ was simply a snake in the grass (or was it the dust?)

You basically knew you were at AfrikaBurn when your perception, of place, space and time was not bound by your accustomed celestial cycle. And tracing that day by means of the sun and its casted shadows seemed near impossible with the churning dustclouds galloping across the open plains as far as you could dare keep your eyes open. Yes, a watch may just have helped. But is keeping track truly ANY fun when the fandango is in full swing?

I was already entrenched in my inner world though. Any possibility of keeping track with the schedule of reality (even in a fantasy world brought to life, such as the Burn) proved futile when contested with my own unique knack of getting utterly lost in my own thoughts. It was a little comparative exercise that I had grown accustomed to – taking the multi-sensory experiences back to my minscape and seeing how it measured up to all of my imagined reality. Yes, even the magic of AfrikaBurn could not hold the right of succession to take reign of my imagination. And, obviously, in that imagining I realised that I had brought quite a list of expectations to this place…

So here was the conundrum. In TankwaTown an expectation was a bit like common sense: it is a flower that does not grow in everyone’s garden.

My expectation of finding common sense…

And for that matter, it was a flower that did not take root well once it hit the rock just beneath the topsoil of the Karoo. The very nature of the event and what it placed out for the offer was mutable. Your very next adventure was likely to be changing with the dynamic energy of the day, and you would be left sorely disappointed if you clung to fast-held notions of what exactly you would be finding next. And yet, there I was with my typical wallflower mentality – I was observing and hypothesising and making ungrounded deductions of what this day would offer.

… even a wallflower needs to unroot themselves from their mounted garden on the wall…

So, this pattern needed to be broken. I was pretty much following this automated construal of the world 24/7 when I was back home. So something had to be different here, didn’t it?

We winded through all kinds of colourful folk until we reached a camp called Sonskyn en Wyn (Sunshine and Wine). It certainly seemed to be the perfect little spot, with a coy enough name, to convince me that it was meant to help us unwind and just freely associate. Thus, we were welcomed by a thriving little dancefloor bustling with gyrating bodies and beautiful creatures, and set ourselves the task of hanging out for awhile. We played a claw machine to get ourselves some styrofoam cups, gifted any of the extras to strangers in the queue, and set about to the bar to fill our bellies with some warm, red swill to induce a slight sense of inebriation and loosened inhibitions.

“Take us to that afterparty! … We are five steps ahead.”

I started noticing some boys, so I guess something was starting to work…

Trying to throw ‘subtle’ hints to get attention…

I soon saw that dancing was not yet something I had developed a unique, extemporaneous talent for. I was not yet whipping out the Drunken Giraffe or Crazy Train for good measure (and if you don’t know those moves, then I may need to come over for some community service). So until we were ready to rumble our temples, we had some work to do before the Burner spirit was ready take the wheel of this dirty little joyride. Just loosen up sweetie… you’ll be living your best life soon…

“Just pose in front of that sign first, that’s it…”

Perhaps the day called for another impromptu adventure. So, a little way down the road, we found a new initiative called together known as the Vagabonds. And here we found our next activity for the morning: Silent Speed Dating. Now by all the Old Gods and the New, I was basically a demure maiden when it came to taking up arms in striking up a flirty connection with someone. Even with my suncrown blazing and reflecting my self-ploclaimed, novice Burner glory, I was still a pretty reserved, blue-eyed lad when it came to what constituted the theory of attraction. Though, something I ingested happened to leave me with a drop of courage…

The whole activity required of those present to wander around the tent and find eligibles to vibe with in silence for a straight two minutes. Mostly, this involved staring point blank into the eyes of your temporary date for what felt like a small eternity. And if you were lucky, you walked away having caught something in the depths of those big, awkward, luminous orbs staring back at you. Some just stared, some smiled, some initiated more tactile ventures of excitement… but we all were laid bare in some way or another. Fun right?Well, I walked out of that little gathering with my sunrays bent haphazardly in all directions, a disheveled bush of hair, and a fogged up pair of spectacles that seemed to betray my virtue and innocence. So I guess it was a merry little time…

… The selfie of atonement after the walk of shame…

Now I mentioned luck, but this ‘dating’ game was not really intended to create discomfort or even walk away with a soulmate. I admit though… Did I notice the raven haired, bearded beauty who graced that tent with his broad bare torso, and lively dark eyes; that man who had a smile that could be a beacon to any one lost on the dust-shrouded Binnekring; that excuisite fox who showed me the twin suns that he had shaved at the back of his head? Of course I did! And I still reprimand my inability to have sought him out thereafter! I remembered him perhaps more clearly than the rest. His hugs were especially thrilling! (by the way, if you are him and reading this, drop a guy a hint)

But it was besides the point. The speed dating was intended to break down reservations. The whole purpose was to find a vestige of some beauty in the presence of the other and, for that matter, to expand on our very notions of what beauty can comprise. I saw another wallflower who unfolded her petals in her quiet confidence; I saw a woman who had enough love to nurture the strife of the world; and a shy young lad who adjusted his crown as he tried to be a confident prince of pride…

And in all that searching, I wondered and teased at what I saw of myself – reflected back in those many strange cosmic eyes I had felt compelled to drowned in for the briefest amount of time. But I remember walking out there, feeling particularly… lonely…

For if we all face our demons at some point, this was surely mine.

Strange isn’t it? How you could find time for such a thing as idle mind-wandering and then feel lonesome in such an unconditionally accepting and immersive place created by 14 000 people. And yet, there it was. A small seed of awareness had started germinating the moment I stepped out of that tent. Though, it was not something I attempted at giving much thought to. That would just be way too meta so early in the Burn game. To think about your thinking.

And yet, the feeling would hit me like a freight train with a full cargo moments later…

When I became inexorably, hopelessly and disastrously HIGH.

Now a few more things did fill the gap between the late morning and the afternoon when this level of ‘fun’ hit home. My fellowship played some naked tennis. Then, we organically drifted into a tent or two to curiously check things out. Afterwards, we managed to send out our warm thoughts of love (and miss an opportunity to write my will and testament) on postcards for those back home…

And you thought sending ravens were cool…

And I think we may have had a drink and a bite to eat afterward.

… Maybe if we found the sheriff I might have been spared the trouble I was about to get in…

But things started to take a slightly different turn a few hours later. I remember it starting as a unique burning sensation at my core, as though my solar plexus had decided to implode and then expand in a searing light that sought to beam right through my chest. And as that volatile energy sought to leave my body in a somatic ruin, it set in motion a chain reaction of synaesthesia that sought to rewrite every cerebral code that was keeping my mind intact.

Now, I was in for quite an unforgettable experience. Imagine this: sanity, consciousness, inner turmoil, and your body… all fragmented, coalesced, detached and collided together in a seemingly endless cycle producing a little asylum theatre for whatever audience happened to be present. Meanwhile, inside you’re head, you are just having the time of your life trying to keep all your dragons in their dungeon. Yes. I was tripping irrevocably and I think I plummeted right past Alice on my way down the rabbit hole… (the bitch thought she had mastered psychedelia…).

Visually, you felt like you were caught up in the plotline of The Pagemaster, about to be consumed by the colour maelstrom when the dome artwork from the rotunda melted.

…remember when this was was your biggest childhood fear in the library?

You then fight to survive an audial assault as colours swirl loudly into a unique palette of oblivion. As you try to steady yourself by making contact with anything solid, your tactile turmoil kicks off due to the delayed fire of nerve endings. Eating anything was particularly interesting. The distinction between your palate, tongue and whatever you were ingesting seemed to undergo a molecular fusion with every chewing motion as particles made contact and then seperated in an indistinct gustatory puzzle. Time slowed torturously while your awareness and body seemed to be chasing one another in circles until they smashed against one another at unscheduled untervals causing tremors to contest the Binnekring loud zone. I remember feeling as if I felt like I was clinging onto rails on the edge of a playground roundabout – spinning uncontrollably before coming to an unexpected halt. Repeatedly.

Looking back, it is hard to say what exactly may have induced the buzz state where my mind was being scrambled like an unsolved Rubik’s Cube. Perhaps I inhaled too much glitter that had worked it’s way through my cortical folds to play havoc on my amygdala and substantia nigra (because we all love contemplating a bit of biology in rationalisation of our actions). That Vagabond tent was pretty crowded with a couple of shiny fairies, so the theory seemed plausible… Or perhaps I was bewitched by a dame whose love spell backfired. I mean, my t-shirt said “Wizzard”, but I do wish someone may have told her that her act of courtship was a move at barking up the wrong tree.

It could also be that my thoughts were just churning about so violently already that my mind just got sucked into that vortex of discombobulation . Or, maybe it was a UFO; one was making the rounds on the Binnekring Road. That was definitely it. I am sure. Damn extraterrestrials!

Indisputable evidence (top right) – I couldn’t make my photo safari and espionage too obvious…

I mean, there were so many strange encounters after that cookie… it could have been anything really…

One thing was for sure: I lost myself in a kaleidoscopic blur, where iridescent hues melded in a wonderfully chaotic ruin, and distant melodies morphed into a tribal cacophony; my wild spirit never had a better cue to go and dance wildly in the dust…

Photo Credit: Rohan Roberts
Instagram: @burner_astro
https://www.instagram.com/p/BeH58_6lXQy/?igshid=9022dzrwrf35

And boy, some part of me sure was lost for quite a bit before it decided to come back; so that may just have happened. And the rest of me was left behind to enjoy a party for one in a lumpy little shaking heap of disorientation and a seesaw state of consciousness.

From witness accounts (only two, thank God), it seemed that I remained in a near catatonic cycle of rocking back and forth with my hands pressing down on my skull to keep everything contained. All sensation had slowed to a point where minute moments felt elongated, lengthened, stretched out, stretched thin, and even perpetual…

… possibilities to disassemble, break, and destroy…

So what was really happening in that shred of consciousness that was left to me that day?

Cue a throwback to the Vagabond tent, with my little “lost-in-thought” moment and feeling of being lonely, and I realised I actually was tangent to a deep truth that I was maybe attempting to suppress. It was certainly something that was playing at the edge of concern that day. But in this very instance, that bleak little monster that represented that strange feeling was a dark, numbing wraith that wrapped ghostly tendrils around my inner defences… and shattered them. I was sure that spirits danced across the Binnekring when the ancient Karoo night unwrapped itself at night to reveal the mysteries that lay beyond the stratosphere, but I wondered what ghosts each Burner carried along with them. For I sure did not intend to encounter this kind of adversary in this magical place…

But what it was, what it represented, and why it was particularly isolated to draw my attention with such vehemence, remained clear.

It got me wondering, for weeks afterward, at what skeletons decided to snatch onto everone’s luggage when they decided to open their closets for packing. For if we all face our demons at some point, this was surely mine. And I was facing it now. And who knows how many others among the desert horde faced theirs that night as well. For in that altered state of consciousness, all else is stripped away, revealing the very darkest parts of you to be more clear and more vulnerable than they possibly may have ever been before.

And perhaps my acceptance of the perks of being a wallflower did have this small consequence: to get lost so effectively due my idle mind-wandering so as to be isolated in the barrens of the unconscious… where no one could join or tell me that they left a light on if I decided to return…

How many scars remain invisible and unacknowledged as they spread through our souls in our inability to give stock to our hidden desires and conflicts? As our daily hassles tax us; as our life struggles drain us; and as we are challenged to acknowledge more authentic versions of ourselves, how far do we go to escape the island of misfit toys – that self-created realm where we rationalise, over compensate, and repress to cope with our broken selves? And what is more, does AfrikaBurn become our metaphorical Kintsukuroi (金繕い, “golden repair”) where the history of our breakage becomes part of our enduring beauty? Was this one of the dreaded expectations that creeped its way into consciousness when one found oneself in a place that could offer some sense of healing. Did we need healing?

… in order to remake, reshape, and realign…

It did set in motion a little mental hiatus to engage in some reflection. In fact, the crucial importance of this period was almost sacrosanct in its significance; paramount to whatever I clearly needed to face. My preference for my inner world may have removed me too much from a place that required my presenence and mindful engagement.

The truth is that even a wallflower needs to unroot themselves from their mounted garden on the wall, especially when magic is being made.

But here is perhaps, the catch-22. Dismounting from your high horse and riding from you realm of comfort does not imply that you go seek out your dragons in places that you are not prepared to face them. I had posed the question at the start of this entry of our tendency to so desperately strive for the intensity of our experiences, and if we perhaps sought that this intensity would secure its permanence in memory. But as was said, reserving an expectation for an event such as AfrikaBurn was prone to lead to discontentment. So in other words, pushing too hard in a desire for novelty, change, and even healing was bound to be a staggering plotline that would leave you as the playwright sorely rattled and despondent. To state it even more simply, perhaps I had plunged to deep into my own ruminations… and the conduct I perused to achieve that dive set me into maelstrom of my own inner conflicts.

Most importantly fellow Burner, remember: just because a Bad Trip can be made to sound like an epic undertone to the Divine Comedy, don’t try this at home kids! Dante’s Inferno is not the only place where you will poetically discover that hell has nine levels!

For me, that confrontation stole close to half of that fateful day. It found me stumbling out of my tent to find the rose and gold hues of light glowing softly on the horizon. I knew I asked myself more than once why the sunset was in the wrong place? It was only after my companions discovered that their wallflower had drifted out on the street again, that some alarm spread through our little camp. I mean, I could have lost myself anywhere really… if I had not fully recovered. I could have just ventured on into our neighbour’s little boudoir, and they happened to be a tribe of lost boys already.

It was also after some gentle guidance that I was made aware that it was morning.

Ah… So that was what ‘a sunrise’ looks like…

The loud zone of the Binnekring was an interesting little role player in this perception of time, as music never ceased through the night and continued right into the morning… a faint and distant rumble powerful enough to alter your perception.

All in all, I think I was broken in quite nicely if I do say so myself. Donning the guise of a deity, while hyper jumping right into my unconscious turmoils to face my abyss until the early morning hours. All before the crack of dawn! I would say this was shaping up to be quite the formative experience.

Until the recounted tale continues…

Love and Light fellow bloomers.

AfrikaBurn – The Whimsy of a Wallflower in the Wasteland

Rising like a dusty mirage out of the Karoo heat, there’s a city that many call home. It’s a manifestation of our collective imagination and the culmination of our collective efforts. It comes and goes, and ebbs and flows. It’s transient, temporary and transitory. It’s neither here, nor there.

It is real in its unrealness.

“Out of nothing, we created everything.”

Larry Harvey

The 1st of May marked a departure from the homes we knew – homes that were but shelters from the mundane routine, scheduled frustrations, and the carefully woven expectations of an everyday existence. Those patterns of living that were dictated by a norm-bound society. The heralds to this journey were two passionate souls who carried the memories of our country’s very own Neverland – AfrikaBurn. And with a cosmic sky still very much unfurled to reveal the early morning hour, we were about to embark on our very own flight past the second star to the right…

Looking for the Lost Boys…

There was a city that had risen, founded not by one, but by many. Created not by one, but by all. And we were about to make our own impression upon this oasis that had shifted into exisence out of of the ether of a collective imagination.

My escort comprised of a beautiful, engaged couple. She was an incandescent desert blossom that flowered at the behest of the Burn’s annual clarion call – a Rose of Jericho that went against its nature, reviving itself under the beating desert sun instead of the rain. He was a staunch warrior of the open plain. Rocksolid he withstood the elements with a great anticipation to challenge. Reliable, and quiet in strength, his marvel at detail was as fluid as the very spirit of the Burn (he was often distracted, but so are the best of us).

“I was kind of trying to take a picture of the flowers…”

And I was the wallflower (one of many, I was sure). I was an observer, a watcher in the wait… the world unfolded in its own beautiful and gradual pace, and I merely sought to be the scribe that could recount the memories of sensory ecstasy that I was bound to encounter in the place where wild things roam.

These safaris are getting pretty immersive…

The road to Tankwa Town was littered with the characteristic traces of its many journeymen: courage, endurance, grit, patience… It was marked by surrealist anticipation, eager escapism, and a million dreams tempered into the 12 hours that encompassed the duration of the journey from my own home.

My mind was busy cultivating that keen sense of receptiveness to make this experience significant. AfrikaBurn appeared to offer a perfect milieu to transcend the borders for one’s internal and external limitations; though it did not promise it. AfrikaBurn was not a therapeutic orchestration to help tame your inner demons (god, it seemed more likely they would be let loose to roll in the dust than be reigned in!). It was a created space. More importantly, it was a space that you created. You were the Burner that in your expression became the Burn itself. What you received almost entirely relied on what you were willing to give. There was an element of universal reciprocity deeply entertwined in the potential value that AfrikaBurn held for its desert wanderers. Change and answers did not always result from active deliberation and purpose-driven seeking. Sometimes, it came from patience and an openness to unfolding events and circumstances. A surrender to the unpredictability of the universe, to state it differently.

Tankwa Town was a creation that phased into its nebulous glory from the communal effort of an ever-changing group of people. And AfrikaBurn was the event that called these spirited folk together from the different corners of the world. There was a survival guide: the Biblical guide of the avid Burner…and in this compendium was put forth the 11 guiding principles of this regional gathering (tracing its influence from the renowned Burning Man event):

  • Communal Effort – AfrikaBurn was a cooperative movement in art, expression and relations that promoted a unified input of a community.
  • Civic Responsibility – acting in accordance with both the written and unspoken laws that drive the order and maintenance of the desert community and those who participate in its many guises.
  • Decommodification – where the transactional and commercial culture from which all those gathered trace their lives, is replaced by a participatory experience that strips these past influences from their power to redefine value.
  • Participation – where the tangible nature of this new Utopian reality is made possibly through the active engagememt of its members who invest themselves deeply in the flows of work and play.
  • Immediacy – an important touchstone to the Burner spirit, the participant is coaxed to strive in overcoming their inner hurdles that withholds authenticity; to disperse the mists that cloud their outer perceptions; and to break the barriers that keeps them from a connection with others, and then to mindfully engage in the intensity of each passing moment.
  • Gifting – a commitment that is an extension of a decommodified interaction, the unconditional practice of standing in the offer or acceptance of a gift forms a valuable system by which each Burner shares their material and spiritual prosperity.
  • Leave No Trace – the immediacy of our connection with our surroundings include the natural world, and a striving to maintain the environment by leaving it untarnished from our activities fuelled to run a magical realm.
  • Radical Self-Reliance – a principle of encouragement to tap into the wealth of one’s own inner resources.
  • Radical Self-Expression – a powerful entreprise that allows the Tankwa wanderer to gift the community with their unique and actualised individuality, by impressing their creative presence upon the dusty plains of freedom.
  • Radical Inclusion – Afrikburn envisions the world anew, and in this semblance of a more connected sphere that seeks to rid itself of the injustices and imbalances of discriminating and disrespectful systems and institutions, every stranger is welcomed to find a home.
  • Each One, Teach One – We are keepers and custodians of the sacred happenings that embody the Burner culture, and in such, we strive to open this knowledge to others who seek an enlightenment of these ideals.

As soon as our wheels bit into the ancient dust leading to the gates of the event, the reality of the unreal already began to take root into the virgin soil of my Burner spirit… Pulled off to the side was a convoy that was transporting another set of rare denizens to the hidden town, all of whom were gesturing embraces for our arrival to the final leg of our journey.

The road to Heaven is Hell’s highway… So exciting!

The last hour and a half to Tankwa Town was an unforgiving gravel road that dug its claws into your nerves as much as it did your tyres. The metaphorical troll under the bridge, the dirt path was merciless to the unprepared and impatient. Fair to say, that none was however so tested as the driver of our small trio. Steady, attentive and mindful, his penchant for safety and awareness eventually brought us to the promised land where many awaited to gain entry. The Karoo city edged into view through the whitewashed blur of the horizon, as the towering clan sculpture (symbol of the collective) cut a mark on the troposphere, surrounded by the traces of a new civilization.

CLAN Sculpture: I think Genie may want to invest in some new accommodation…

And at the gates were the first whimsical wanderers weaving their way between the newcomers. Three things became readily apparent at AfrikaBurn before we truly even nestled ourselves at its heart:

  • Personal expression transcended your wildest ideas of visual representation…
  • Boundaries were blurred, reshaped and reworked in a perpetual cycle as your exposure to novelty was set forth…
  • And that any of this, from the people, the places, and the placement…was anything less than multidimensional. Reality did not have a singular way of manifestation here. It really was woven from the very disparate and unique parts a large collection of minds.

What struck me the most was that I was not taken aback by the clear childlike glee, wonder and curiosity I was starting to feel. It was more akin to a natural state. It felt like a comfortable means of wordly interaction. In fact, it was a mindset into which I slipped so easily, that it was something I remained unaware of during most of my time at the Burn.

After the administrative entry into the event, it was tradition to hit the tribal gong that acted as the waypost to the first street into the ethereal city. With a deep, sonorous and resounding vibration sent through the late afternoon and across the dusty plains, I missioned ahead with my companions to set up camp.

The streets bustled with the commotion of settled Burners, many of whom had long since adorned their nude apparel and traded in other miscellaneous pieces of clothing for unique adornments (against which common office policies would clearly hold some reservations – they were thriving). A lone wanderer adorned with leggings touched by Midas kicked up dust through one of the turns in the road, with an unbuttoned waistcoat made of faux leather hugging a sunkissed torso. Wild offspring dotted the pathways on another turn, with sagelike souls watching on as the sun was being drawn across the sky to kiss the west…

Bob Ross is giving painting lessons in heaven again…

We winded almost aimlessly through the streets branching from the Buitekring, and finally procured a temporary spot to settle into our camp. The event was a survivalist gathering at its simplest when it came to entrenchment. The nearly inhospitable Tankwa did not offer any of the creature comforts one may have grown accustomed to. Food, water, and shelter were not a given of the gathering; it was crucial to be self-reliant. And with millenia of hunter-gatherer knowledge lost to the ignorant and modern mind, preparation was key in order to ensure you were able to enjoy other opportunities to connect with a more intuitive inner vestige of your primal self.

Our own little kingdom at the edge of the universe…

After the work was done, we ventured forth into the beckoning twilight. We brandished a couple of backpacks, drinks in hand, and found our footfalls marking out a path to our very first temple burn.

The setting sun and stretching shadows were awaking all manner of desert spirits from their sheltered abodes on that night of our arrival. Young and old were being drawn like moths to the burning edifice on the the Tankwa open plain (dubbed ‘the playa’). The Temple of /Xam was alrighty set alight after three years of gracing the Burn. It was an artistic tribute brought to the space by Kim Goodwin and his team, the Dandylions, in 2016 – in honour of the rugged beauty and enduring culture of the Khoi-San, the First Nations People of the Tankwa. It signified the memory of a people that has endured despite the onslought of time, much like the hand-woven wattle structure had withstood the severe winds and schorching heat of the Karoo for many years. And in its burning, it too became a memory in all its symbolism, with the burn a silent tribute to the dignified strength and the lasting power of an ancient culture that it sought to emulate.

Photo credit: Chris Leggatt
Temporary, transient, and transcending…

As embers drifted up toward the sky to spark the kindle of twilight dreams and evening lustre, the impermanence of it all was moving… Eternal structures were reduced to a memory by mortal hands, and ash soon layered itself among the old dirt of an eternal plain. For a moment it all seemed in reach, and then it was destined to forever be unattainable to generations that would build upon the memories burned upon the playa.

And then came the longing: invoked by a consuming desire to rematerialize that lost piece of manmade wonder that had never once occupied my mind in the three years of its desert vigil. For truly, it was not the structure, but what it represented in its endearing beauty… a beauty by which many Burners had passed with idle footfalls and attentive marvel, and with thoughts only teasing at the deeper meaning intended by the artist. And as smoke drifted into dark, and the dark drifted over the plain, the night came alive with light and music as Tankwa Town set its sights to howling at the many promises of another desert night. For even tributes of silence reach their end, much like a cacophony of artistry eventually seeks its silence. But the party had only just begun!

Be you own goddamn Knight…

In that madness we saw the moon kissing the earth…

And everyone keeps waiting for that Supermoon.

We saw an angel kneeling in the dark…

Gabriel did a photobomb…

And in that humble benediction where celestial bodies play in the dust, we were annointed with a deepened awareness of the vivacious nature underlying that wild exploration of the world, where the seeking of magic guides the attention through softly illuminated tent openings, dimly let corners, and in and among the mysterious creatures breaking and reforming their gatherings – all at the whims of the ethereal magics swirling amidst echoing noises and flashing lights.

Change can happen…
Photo credit: Graham Abbott

After tapping into the beautiful disscord of so many shifting sorceries, we eventually headed back to camp after a long day. Nestled into a quiet little street, far from the loud zone and the Binnekring where the desert fandango remained eternal, we were taking care of our vessels in the preparation for the the many adventures of a dawning day. Eventually our small company would soon drift apart for the night. Our noble diver turned in, and the last of our company turned our gazes to an open and undimmed star bespeckled cosmos. Among the stars we traced the now forgotten words of brilliant philosophies, life-changing epiphanies and the million pipedreams that filled our kaleidoscopic minds…and in those acts of complete mental surrender, we hoped that AfrikaBurn would give purchase for our wild imaginations to take root.

Photo credit: David van der Merwe

Love and Light fellow Burners. Until the tale from the Tankwa continues.

Rattle the Cage and Break the Shackle

Freedom

/ˈfriːdəm/

A courageous state of challenging the status quo and internalised perceptions that keeps one enthralled to a certain creed, mindset or way of living. A liberation from the self-imposed hurdles and personal fantasies that staunches growth and development. The emancipated position of assuming responsibility for one’s own choices, the acknowledgement of truth, and picking up the cloak of self-authorship in moulding one’s own narrative.

The air was reverberating with the gentle chimes of porcelain, steel and glass. In between those melodious waves drifted the steamy whisps and ambrosial aromas from hot baked bread and confectionery. Sunlight streamed through large paned windows that made browns seem golden and whites appear silver. And words flitted around the room in kaleidoscopic poetry without thread or meaning. It mingled with bell-like laughter, deep sighs, shifting timbres and deafening silences…

“.. Gernus could tell us a little more about that. “

Wait, what?

https://me.me/i/i-cant-lie-im-not-even-listening-fam-15791726

“Oh, not here at all” my friend commented teasingly as she touched my arm and looked knowingly at the others. I knew she was referring to my absenteeism in conversation and my idle mind. She looked at me again with a half-teasing smile. “You are quiet today… We were talking about that film you watched this weekend.” Oh, still just that? I thought we had changed that topic?

One should not be made to feel guilty for lack of attentiveness to the immediate situation. It simply means that attention is invested elsewhere. And surely that space must be more important.

I was lost in thought again. Or had been. This was not an uncommon occurrence at this point. My friends already had a partial understanding of this. Being lost in one’s inner world and all… Or rather, them losing me inside it.

Of late this was more frequent than I had myself anticipated. I think I was perpetually untethered to the flow of the mundane routine that was playing out around me. Chats and banter just did not stimulate me enough any more to keep my attention. But in admitting that I probably seemed… haughty, maybe even vain.

And yet, I could not bring myself to assume that description. Because these talks I found myself engaging in, this company, was not lacking in depth or in fascination. I was just not present, not really. So that would just make me susceptible to mind-wandering. Perhaps it even made me lost. And once I may have felt guilty due to a misguided construal of why I was feeling that way, but not any longer. One should not be made to feel guilty for lack of attentiveness to the immediate situation. It simply means that attention is invested elsewhere. And surely that space must be more important.

Though, regarding the place my mind did take me when out with friends, being mindful of the ambience of the restaurant certainly did not seem to be the crucial task at hand here. And yet, in that moment I felt it to be the most important task to set myself in escaping the thoughts that were actually lamenting for my attention. And these thoughts were trapping me. In fact, that scene of daydreaming was but one of many variations of me trying to lose myself in streams of thinking that coursed away from harder reality.

I was in a bit of an impasse. Much of my life had felt fabricated (yes, I use this word very deliberately) according to a very specific formula that I believed was truly working for me… and I felt my pedigree attested to that. The cornerstones of my personality were patience, commitment and self-control. And I firmly believed that consistent effort directed toward the attainment of a goal was key to success – in my career, my relationships and my mental health. I may have been a bit of a prude…

https://en.dopl3r.com/memes/dank/when-you-see-photos-of-yourself-from-5-years-ago-oh-honey-no-what-were-you-thinkin/35379

I think, back then, I believed a lot in that which kept me in line with a very “blue-eyed, golden boy” label that was attached to me. And what I have learned is that labelling serves as one of the many jailors to one’s perceptions. But there was something else. There was an influence that seemed more intrinsic in nature and firmly seated at my core. Its dark and numbing tendrils often reached out to play havoc on my amygdala. And though it was susceptible to outside influence – where it was either being reinforced or alleviated due to the flow of my surroundings – I knew that it was rooted within me primarily. Fear.

https://sayingimages.com/oh-really-meme/

Thomas Hobbes had an interesting thought on the whole concept of fear when reasoned about in society. To him, fear was a kind of binding element in people. Because of the sordid reality and complicity prevalent among human predispositions, we aim to escape this by revoking the crippling power that it holds to a civil society to maintain the order. So, the fear is localised in an institution, such as the state. And so holds a social contract tradition

https://blog.ezoic.com/title-tags-work-best-new-posts/willy-wonka-oh-please-tell-me-more-about-the-content-no-one-is-reading/

But let us rework his theory. We agree that human nature has great potential to cruelty, brutishness and loneliness, and that does invoke distress. But such behaviour is bound to manifest in us as well of we are not careful. So, we surrender to more careful perceptions; we foreclose ourselves against the unknown by regressing to what is well within our scope of knowledge; and we nest all too leisurely within our very own comfort zones. We surrender that power of fear to something we believe we cannot change – perceptions. And thus, we withold ourselves from truth.

Now this is significant to understand. This page has talked extensively on the topics of truth and its link towards taking greater stock of personal potential and worth. And it has done so in the premise of knowing what your position of strength is an honest appraisal of your personality and disposition. And standing firm in those confessions when in interaction with others.

But the truth was: I was lying to myself as to what was truly making me happy. And to add to that truth, I could discard humility for but a moment to admit that I think I was too smart to lie to myself as to what was truly making me happy. Was I really going to add self-deception as a core skill to my resume?

We surrender that power of fear to something we believe we cannot change – perceptions.

Here was my thing: fear. It was a cage. But it was also a familiar space. Somehow, it was a space that I knew as well as my own inner thoughts. In that familiarity, it felt safe. It felt safe, because it felt known. It was a space well explored, with boundaries drawn out. Hypothetically, it was most possibly the lesser of two evils: remaining within a limited space as opposed to venturing into the unknown.

In fact Luvvi Ajayi captured perfectly what I had intended to say for the longest amount of time. Where we need to get comfortable with the idea of being uncomfortable and to say the things that need to be said. Doing the very “anti-me” thing by going against the grain. In this case, I was allowing a false truth to protude through the sense of a more direct honesty that I knew was what I needed to hear. And what I needed to do was say the things to myself that I knew would be hard to hear.

She also talked about realising that you may be the most powerful person walking into a room to admit to certain perceptions, and that the realisation thereof may be important to effect change. But we don’t admit that, do we? And by doing that, I was denying what was possibly a primal kind of power that could pull mountains from flat stretches of land. What I was denying (among so many other traits) was my imagination. And more importantly, the extent thereof. And I realised this when I started writing. But we are reluctant in admitting to our own core potentials, and thus converge on mediodcrity as a default.

In fact, people and systems count on our silence to keep us exactly where we are. Then we keep ourselves there as well. Because of fear of what a broken system might afford. Its the whole conundrum of uncertainty, and that is just too much stimulation. And a wallflower facing this predicament has a particularly acute difficulty in dealing with this plight. High-reactive temperaments and sensitivity heighten our receptiveness of the consequences of unfamiliarity, and so we feel highly insecure by venturing into the world. But then… I cannot claim the role of narration for the lives of my fellow bloomers. I just knew that my own petals were closed in a tight bud against the uncomfortable realities of breaking the mould of all I knew. But something was prying it open with force.

Suddenly that cage I was in did not feel safe any more. In fact, it began to feel more like the barrier that it was in reality. And I needed desperately to break free. These old mantras were no longer effective. These old perceptions did not seem as wise. And this fear was beginning to feel more like frustration.

You could say I was in a bit of an existential crisis. And it seemed pretty holistic in its scope. In terms of my career, I had relentlessly invested hard work and effort to try and reach a goal that no longer seemed to be the dream. Socially, I was beginning to question the tangent points of interests between me and many of those I called my friends. What is more, my romantic views were becoming ever less tolerant of the excessive hubris that reigned among potential suitors. Cognitively I was filtering through views that seemed to cause me more dissonance than inspiring any sense of commitment. And spiritually I was yearning for something fulfilling, but that was unbound by the doctrines (no matter how open-minded they seemed) of the belief systems that abounded in society.

A hot mess, right? The inputs of others were not exactly relieving me of much of the confusion I was feeling either. Attemts to share these ruminations often resulted in very matter-of-fact replies. What was hurtful was that these replies sometimes came from those I invested trust in to remind me of the very truth that I knew I needed exposure to, but was blindsided from due to their careful perceptions maintained in order to solidify a sense of security. “I am glad you are finally taking this route. You need to do what makes you happy.”

https://me.me/market?s=pop

What was more, these views seemed often shared in a presumptuous manner, as if these truths were insights I should have become aware of long ago. “I knew you would find your way. I always knew that you would eventually take this route once you experienced a few things. But I did not want to impose. But it is amazing how you came to discover this all on your own.” My oh my, thanks for caring… No… Really…

https://m.imgur.com/gallery/igxfxWW

You are there because your truth is valued.

If you have been reading these blogs for awhile, then you know that these reflections hardly ever come without an attempt to extract a lesson to share with my fellow bloomers. And even though a few have made themselves evident, let me at least highlight something from the last mentioned points. Though respecting the freedom and independence of your friends is a show of great respect, withholding perceptions or sharing half-truths with them are not. You are not being helpful when you feel the need to pose a warning, but decide against it for fear of imposing. You are not being wise by withholding a sense of meaningful guidance by thinking that it is best discovered by an individual themselves. You are not empowering anyone when you have a valuable investment to scaffold an effort, but leave someone to their own devices. You are not being a good friend, partner, lover or any significamt support in another person’s life by digressing even a slight bit from your unique view of their situation. You are not taken into confidence (as someone meaningful in another’s life) to share a view that they would have likely convinced themselves of. You are there because you challenge it. You are there because that challenge initiates growth. You are there because your truth is valued. And that truth needs to be told. The fact remains that advice is something we feel inclined to give regardless if it is actually wanted. We should not attempt its denial or suppression. We could simply adapt a mindfulness as to how we convey it to those we care for. Besides, just because it may be good in perspective does not mean that anyone needs to stand in agreement thereto.

Always listen to the advice offered by another. You may not choose to follow it, but just pay heed to the degree of value it may hold in your life.

If you have a wallflower to tend to in your life, then you can be assured that they are fully present to whatever energy you are presenting to them at a given moment. If your role is then shaped toward the assumption of a guiding influence, then feel free to allow this expression – whether it be out of concern, or care or even a confidence in what you believe. If your inkling is to give advice, then you were likely pressed to provide it because of some perceived cue. But you may be met with reluctance from those who stand in reception of your views.

I have been a prime example of someone who despised the (what I regarded as) arrogance of another to prescribe my actions. I was quick to regard any advice as a direct display of another’s entitlement to my own life choices. And though such individuals certainly exist to test one’s patience, perhaps I was unfair to many a friend who only sought to offer help. From this I offer you another lesson. Always listen to the advice offered by another. You may not choose to follow it, but just pay heed to the degree of value it may hold in your life.

Once more, I knew where this frustration in accapeting guidance came from. It felt like another trap set to snare me. It felt too much akin to the other boundaries of mind that was in place in my life… It seemed too much like the cages I was already rattling to escape from. While, in truth, these may have been keys dangled in front of me to unlock my mind to different possibilities.

Wow, what a process to reach a meaninful insight to life…

Barack Obama Fun GIF by Obama - Find & Share on GIPHY

Just like advice, opportunity had the same penchant of presenting something desirable that we need not pursue. We could consider it, but we need not accept it. And a display of such freedom seemed brazen in a society that valued a grateful stance toward opportunity. Or rather, that valued the opportunity to grow and develop. And though such pursuits are noble, whether in one’s career, social life or even spiritually, grasping opportunity that goes against the flow of your own intuitive direction is not a display of open-mindedness. It is a surrender to normative behaviour. And allowing oneself to be guided by intuition is not a surrender to fear, but instead an honest appraisal of one’s wants and desires. A greater move to a sense of joy.

The sollution is simple. If something is not making you happy, then you should not be interested in expending your attention, energy or time therein. And sometimes a sacrifice is not just a means to some more divine ambition. There are times when a sacrifice of one’s energy to more dilligent effort; one’s time spent on a virtuous amount of patience; or one’s attention directed to the apparent sagacity of others, are no longer a means to a greater end. Sometimes, that kind of sacrifice is simply just a loss. And the question that is posed to us (to you or me) is this: how much more are we willing to give up before we decide to break the shackle?

Love and light fellow bloomers. And have courage to rattle the cage!

The Art of Sensitivity as Told at 27 – The Birthday Blog

Sensitivity

/sɛnsɪˈtɪvɪti/

A quality of an increased receptiveness to one’s surroundings, heightening the intensity of sensory experience and moment-to-moment thought repertoires. It prescribes a finer finesse to the mindful reflection extended on the moulding of perceptions, and thus an increased vulnerability to the nuances that abound in abstract encounters.

The room felt alive with the sounds of the night. Beyond the sliding door the concerto of cricketsong melodiously intertwined with the rustle of trees that busied themselves in adjusting their crowns. The timbre of midnight musings gently caressed the ears, alongside the touch of the evening breeze that was chill to the touch. The moon cast its light from somewhere in the sky, diffusing softly between the bedroom drapes that was the only veil against the night. And steadily that pearly hue rolled over crisp white sheets, and refracted against his marble figure as he lay there silently on his back, with muscles rippling beneath skin that had been kissed by the sun on many a rising of day. But tonight he was bathed in silver, a sheen that hugged the curvature of pure physical power embodied in his form. And in that silence that seemed deafening in its serenity, was the deep and vibrant breathing that made the air around us shudder with the rise and fall of his chest.

I was in the nook of his embrace, with head resting where his shoulder met his arm, and I remember a distinct comfort in the warmth that radiated from his fingertips, from his caress, and from the gentleness of his hold that was betrayed only by his massive frame with clearly hidden Herculean strength. This magic seemed so completely untethered to reality in that private moment. And yet… nothing was private, with the night so intertwined in its enshrouding presence.

I remembered the safety I felt in that moment frozen in memory; that crystallised sense of security that was tangible on every physical level, but also a cushion to the feelings that were constantly roiling beneath the surface and demanding of my cognisance. Somehow he stilled that tempest, and he brought me to the eye of the storm. And yet, he was a mere visitor to my narrative. Forever a guest to my future reminiscence, and only someone who was passing through my life story. I knew it then, laying there next to him. I knew it even before I met him for a casual drink that night. But then, I had met few people I could trust with such reckless abandon of my reservations. I had met few men who wielded so much raw force to their spirit, yet were masters in taming that energy. I think, that night, I had met a sage. And god knows they were scarce out there.

As his fingers played through the strands of my hair, his deep whisper broke the silence that had settled momentarily between so many other drifting philosophies that had occupied our minds through that balmy night lost in the memories of late summer. “You are a very gentle soul. You have this tender spirit.” He looked at me slowly then, his grip tightening ever so softly. “There are two types of people you’ll meet: those who would cherish it, and seek to protect you, and those who would seek to misuse you for those qualities. You need to be very careful.”

It was a scene that joined many of my other vibrant recollections. There seemed to be so many; and I could not fathom how to be honest. ‘Life’ surely had an abundance of experiences awaiting me in its treasury. I was, after all, still in my 20’s: young, starry-eyed, naive, distracted, lost, intense… wise did not seem to be in the line-up of those descriptions very soon. And yet, I felt the slightest brush of the quality in my narrative. I felt it in single moments that stood out in their scintillating flashes of people, places and picturesque gestalt. I felt that my memory was filled to the brim with moments of reminiscence, and from each was taken something of considerable value.

I felt heavy with those memories. I still do. I so wished to quiet those ruminations and remain quiescent in thought. Yet somehow my mind was constantly floating high amidst so many amorphous musings, and the Florence Welsh lyric from a Sky Full Of Song seemed to bounce of the inner walls of my skull to capture my mood, “Hold me down, I’m so tired now.” At the age of 27, is it possible for your spirit to feel weary?

It appeared to be one of the signs of being an old soul. And perhaps in understanding the transient nature of one’s reality, and the limits that it imposes, perhaps I was deliberately collecting these moments in time. Perhaps, I was deliberately paying attention to how the milieu of these moments were pieced together in pastel imagery, olfactory nostalgia… in tactile desires, and in phonic harmonies. Perhaps I was desperate to make permanent the memory of the ambience, for a desire to recreate such character and impression to satisfy the longings for such memories that would arise once it was played out. Once it too, had passed. Perhaps there was something to this disposition of mine… that of sensitivity.

In his psychological expertise, Jerome Kagan would have undoubtedly placed me in the category of high-reactives when it came to temperament. This greater mark of sensitivity to the cues around me proved to be more than enough stimulation to push me into persistent bouts of withdrawal. Typical of my introverted nature, I needed to collect all environmental input and process it. I needed time to mull through its many meanings. But managing sensory information was something altogether different from the management of emotion. And when you are sensitive, you run the risk of great personal harm when those emotional projections come from people that have a particular flavour to their intensity.

In that line of reasoning, I knew that my gentle nature was perhaps a residual manifestation of my sensitive orientation to the world – that world so filled with bright colours, assailant sounds, perpetual movement and powerful feelings. I really did need to be careful…

But then, I was convinced that there was a mastery to be attained of this sensitivity. Yes, it presented a dichotomy. On the one hand, it intensified perceptual experiences to the degree that simple passing instances of one’s day was painted with such vivid character that one was really made to feel alive. So what others would regard as a mere lovely autumn day for example, would for me become a masterpiece by nature’s hand. I would be intensely aware of the soft textiles that hugged warmly against my frame: a metaphorical fortress to the discomforts of seen and unseen chills of both heart and mind. Why did a simple scarf feel like a defense against the greatest of tragedies? How did these soft fabrics provide so much comfort on contact? The sun would shyly wink between cotton clouds and illuminate earthy treetops in a thousand goldens shades that seemed to lend its warmth to the day. The very boles of the trees would sigh in tired anticipation of their winter’s rest, while the wind carried the crisp lullabies of forgotten seasons to sway the earth to hibernation. And I would wonder, how it was that I could hear the light refracting through molecules in chiming melodies; how I could feel the texture of the shifting season by its earthy colour… I was enveloped by this synaesthesia and by the composition of the day, and I was lost within it. Yet, audience to it as well. This was how I saw the world…

It was as if Demeter herself was steadily becoming aware of the impending sorrow of bidding her daughter farewell for another half-year (the Greeks really had a beautiful way of explaining the changes in season). Autumn became devine, the day become a meaninful reflection of that divinity, and I was relishing the million idiosyncrasies that presented itself in a million different variations. This was truly what was meant by the savouring of experience.

And then there were people… God. Now here we had an altogether different conundrum. Vibrant beacons flitting through the already occupied spaces of sensations around you. Each a light or shadow sewn together from so many misunderstood feelings and perceptible falsehoods. Each a construction of architectural beauty with visible loose strands of chaos. Did anyone really understand the ‘lonely’ child? Was he not preceived as the most sociable denizen on the playground by keeping to his own devices in conjuring fantasies overflowing with imaginary company? Was anyone truly looking at the old woman sitting at the corner coffee shop as she was gracefully swaying her eyes across the social sea that churned around her? Could no-one comprehend the acts of this wizened goddess in her exercise of reminiscent recollections because she was wealthy through the bank of her own memories? Or was anyone catching whiff of the pervading desperation that clung like an odour to the social wolves within the night club – those prowlers who wore their confidence as a pelt to ward of the chill of the slightest posssibility of rejection? Was anyone, ANYONE, really seeing any of this. And what of I? What did my embodied self communicate? Was my off-to-side positioning truly seen as shy? For I knew this as a strategic position from which to observe with even more vigilance, and assimilate greater meaning to my experience through other encounters playing out around me. Was my arm-crossed demeanour a gesture of defensiveness? For I felt a comfort in metaphorically hugging my concentration closer to my very being, to keep myself attentive and fortify myself from distraction. Was my stalwart expression and stern cast to my face really seen as discontentment or even anger? For I was merely immersed in a crystal focus on the ecperience at hand. Why was I seeing a sensitive thinker, when some saw a lost antisocial? Was our world really structured to this kind of ignorance to intensity? Perhaps they were protecting themselves.

For yes, on one hand of sensitivity lay experiential immersion. But on the other lay a susceptibility to the dangers held in the self-preserving pursuits of others. In such cases, that keener awareness and heightened reaction to experience proves burdening. For in their hardened state, people have become reacquainted with inherent cruelty. And I was a deer gently grazing in the headlights of many social predators. I knew this, because I felt unsafe nearly half of the time I would reveal myself to the world honestly. I knew this from how hard I took criticism to those qualities I regarded as strengths. I knew this from the false interest people took to my thoughts, only to talk over my vocalisations of them. I knew this from the genuine interest I had in sharing my version of the beauties I perceived, only for others to take no real heed. I knew this from the backlash people offered when they did not have a constant stock or grip of my mind. I knew this from my interactions with family, from friends, from lovers who moved on, from passers-by. But their mistook grip on my gentleness was not a fault of theirs. It was not an everlasting point to highlight as guilt-inducing criticism against a lack of their virtue. Not at all. It was a mismatch of energies; and in understanding such energies, I was merely being directed unknowingly to be in greater acceptance and understanding of my own.

At 27, I have come to learn that sensitivity is an art. And like any art, it takes practice. Boy, does it take years to just even realise that it needs practice: to expertly lay down the strokes of one’s complicated views on the world; to create with subtlety, to weave with nuance, to understand such executions to even begin with! And then, to survive it in its most primal unabashed form when enshrined in people, or abused by them.

In fact, for years this very quality was frowned upon in the face of the very hypermasculine communities I had the ‘privilege’ of growing up in. Gentleness was an affront to robustness; emotional intelligence was seen as an overcomplication in “trying too hard” ; and sensitivity was seen as a reactive response rooted in insecurity. It was seen as weak. But what I saw was a quality that, with its risks, still posed an immense asset to the enrichment of experience. It was a trait that kept me in connection with my emotions. It was a quality that I could not begin to imagine in its subdued form, much less its absence.

At 27 what I learned, or rather… what I realised, was this: that a resonance to the tone of the world is a sound that most would mute for the sake of a faith in their secure sense of sanity; that the truth of perception is a sharp arrowhead that is feared for its accuracy, and the value in the shot would most likely be evaded. That complexity would be bartered off for the first offer of simplicity, merely because of an ignorance in how intricacy is used. And that sensitivity is a craft that humanity is beginning to lose, because of a culture of disconnect and defensiveness that stifles the creativity of savouring experience.

Sensitivity is not frailty. It is an oculus that looks past the fickleness and denial of emotion; that reshapes the aesthetic of one’s surroundings; and that teaches a navigation of the world through emotional agility and poetic brilliance.

At 27, sensitivity has become an architect of my pedigree.

Love and light fellow bloomers.

The Myth of the Courtship of Wisdom

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Legend has it that once there were three deities who were the cradle to the nature of humanity: Memory, Passion and Reason.

Reason, the youngest of the three, was muse to the weavings of logic. She was garbed in the calm composure of her temperament, and her thinking was measured and refined. Poised and pragmatic, she was slow to action, yet immovable in her decisions once made. Her control and confidence was the mark of her near flawless beauty, with features both angular and perfect.

Passion embodied the surrender to emotion and impulse. Bold, daring, and charismatic, his wild abandon to instinct was what afforded him his smouldering appeal. His handsome features were carved from the primal forces of desire, and fervour with fire was ensconced in his heart as it flowed and trembled through the powerful limbs of his body. And to look upon him was to enraptured by ecstasy and elation.

Memory was the eldest, and most reserved of the three. She was the mother to mystery, and the shepherdess of secrets. In her eyes lay a timeless allure that seduced with the gentle promise of reminiscence. Yet, her mood was mercurial and in her lay harboured the contradictions of all man. She appeared clothed in both an enduring vulnerability, and resolute strength. And to look upon her was to experience the longing for what was lost… but not forgotten.

One fateful day, news reached the three of a formidable presence venturing close to the borders of their realm. Memory felt hesitant, but eager to seek out this soul. She knew this to be Wisdom: the patron of all sages; the envy and bane of philosophers; and the idol of wanderers who quest for purposes they alone know. She shared this knowledge, with both her brother and sister. It was with great zeal that Passion wished to quest to the border to meet this Wisdom, his curiosity burning with white hot intensity as to a renown that challenged his own. Reason was drawn to investigate the unknown faculties of thought held by another, bemused by the sudden presence of Wisdom near their lands.

Long had the three sought worthy lovers within their realm, but their search for companionship did not reward them their coveted pursuits. For Memory found no soul of present thought or craft to be as powerful as past remembrance; Passion could find no equal to satiate the cravings of the heart, the flesh, and the spirit; and Reason could find no challenge to her wit among the tedious flights of fancy held by man or immortal. They would thus seek out this Wisdom. Surely the folktales, the fables, the fantasies and the falsehoods were testament to some eminent value of his being. If all tales held true, each one thought, then such reverence embodied would surely be worthy of their affection and admiration.

Each knowing of the intents of the other, and confident in their self-made prophecies at being chosen as his or her spouse, the three quested to find Wisdom. They were mindful however, of the dangers in treading far from their home – as uncertainty hung as a mist over the lands that lay beyond.

They journeyed along the rough-hewn trek of road that stretched across the vast landscape. Amidst the quiet sound of their footfalls, the three heard only their own thoughts taking shape among the ruminations which surmised the possibilities of meeting Wisdom. Many a tale reached the ear of those who sought out his divinity. Wisdom: the bearer of a spellbinding beauty; of a knowledge that surmounted to the wealth accrued across countless lifetimes; and of a standing unmatched by either kings or gods. For Passion, the thrill of desire was fuelling his pursuit. He had heard of Wisdom’s great power in snaring the heart, and his many talents at satiating the unbridled needs of his many lovers. Reason was envious of the possession of great intellect, believing that Wisdom might share many of the divine secrets over which all man started and ended wars, and thus unlock her pursuit to unrivaled knowledge. Memory sought to regain the joys lost in the traces of the past, longing to experience yet again the sensorial pleasures of fond remembrances.

The journey was however arduous, and the dangers preceded in the warnings they held took its shape. Along the road, each came to confront a near insurmountable challenge, of which their fellowship remained ignorant. Reason endured the whispers of shapeless and deluded voices that grew to banshee howls echoing through her mind. Passion was battered by the assualt of invisible beasts that clawed at flesh and spirit, unable to tame or drive them off as they continued to renew their attack. Memory was stricken with great illness which worsened along the way, an ailment of which she bore no knowledge of cure nor of nature. With Reason driven mad, Passion at the brink of exhaustion, and Memory afflicted and unwell, the journey brought them to a fog-dimmed crossroads past which no prediction could be made. And at their arrival, the troubling forms of their nightmares and neuroses ceased… and faded to the nether.

Huddled beneath the signpost was a greyclad hermit, aged and withered by the touch of many seasons. At the behest of Reason, the grizzled figure announced himself as the herald to Wisdom. Relieved, the three were revived by their individual pursuits. The ancient one stated that Wisdom would present himself only to those who were deemed worthy. Visitors to the crossroads were required to present with a gift to the herald, of which the value of the giver would be weighed and determined. Then, they need choose the road along which Wisdom would eventually be found. The road to the right curved back to the safety of their realm, but was untroubled by the dangers that befell them on their way. The left lead to uncharted borders, where pleasure untold rewarded the brave. The road that winded straight held the certainties of the future, forever quelling the questions that plagued all of mankind.

After careful thinking and judgement, Reason presented a tome that held her own valued theories on life, knowledge untarnished by the stain of emotion, and pure in its premise. “For” , she thought, “surely if left impoverished by fate, a man such as this would benefit from my intellect to improve his own fortune”. She would take the road ahead, believing that Wisdom would surely (like herself) seek to extinguish all traces of doubt by seeking the certainties of the future.

Passion regarded the hermit, believing that a man such as he could not possibly have known the joys of the flesh for many years, and offered his own body as a vessel to impart the gift of lust for a single night. And through such sensations, he would reinvoke the fiery yearning of desire that would likely have dimmed for the old herald in the passing of years. He would venture to the left, where pleasures awaited the courageous, “For surely Wisdom would choose to be rewarded by the pleasures that lie in store for those who have overcome their inhibitions and hesitations.”

For Memory, the herald evoked great pity in his hunched and tired appearance. She would touch his mind, and draw from his temple the thought of his childhood, if only to awaken the traces of simple youth and carefree joy that only a child could possess in their innocence. Memory would then take the path winding right, and to the home from which she came (and to which Wisdom was likely headed), “For what greater pursuit is there than the return to the comforts of one’s hearth where one feels safe and reassured. Or whats more… to be welcomed as a guest to such lodgings.”

At once the haggard appearance of the herald melted away, revealing a beautiful titan in the prime of his youth, but with ancient eyes that held the light of a thousand suns. And as one, the siblings realised that they had found Wisdom.

The transformed magus regarded each deity in turn, but not one received the look of affection they had so hoped to win.

“You have come this far, but erred in your pursuit. Though your gifts hold great value, they are exhaustible and offer nothing of enduring value. You judged me on the mark of my appearance, and so from pity your reasons for genorosity were informed. And from misdirected judgement, you would seek me out on roads I would not travel.”

Reason lanced Wisdom with a cold anger in return, tactically informing of the perfect and unflawed nature of her gift, “a gift that is free from the limitations of mortal faults, and woven from the clear and refined logic that remains the untapped potential of all men.”

Wisdom acknowledged her, “Indeed, your gift was valuable. Practical and lost to most men in the face of hardship. But it was given in the pride of its seeming tautology – moulded from your own perception. The fortune of a man is not always bound by their stock of cold logic. The whispers you had endured on your journey was also the growing seed of your impatience, greedingly asserting its claim in your mind to the knowledge of another merely for its possession, but not for its joy in having. For that, your reasons for seeking me were not pure of intent. And for what purpose would I, Wisdom, seek to travel to where doubt is erased and the mysteries of the future forgotten? For in doubt grows knowledgeable pursuit, and in such pursuit lies the very joy of the shape a future can assume. A future rife with a thousand variations to the lessons needed in shaping our soul. “

“What of I?”, exclaimed Passion curiously, with confidence draped upon his broad frame and a complacent grin teasingly playing at the corners of his mouth. “Surely I offered you all that I was, not refraining any part of myself. Truly, it is only in such enigmatic and open gestures that the purity of intent can be read. I have hidden nothing, and given you everything”

“You allure is undeniable, and your surrender to the pull of your emotions allows you a vibrant life. You have truly offered everything, and refrained from withholding anything.” “But,” Wisdom continued, “it is your lust that will be your undoing. For, as you have seen, the beasts on the road were none but those you have uncaged within yourself. Left unattended, your untrained wants and whiles will have the better of you to the point of exhaustion. And leave behind a vessel empty of the fire that burned so fervently once before. Your gift was given out of vanity, and not of any true desire to rekindle the fire in another. And who are you to judge the flame that burns in comparison to your own? For even the most withered soul has once known the intimacies of their own bodies, and memory of such joys still linger in their flesh. They seek not the charity of your lust, but the shape of your heart. But that is not what you could offer. What is more, your chosen path is that of the hedonist, and not of the martyr who deserves the rewards of their sacrifice. For no soul enjoys the nurture of only success, but pain is the maiden to pleasure that is needed to cultivate growth. “

Memory felt beckoned forward, to offer reply, “It is certain then, that what I offer you is of satisfaction. For it is unpresumtious, and seeks not to outline the shape of your future, but guide you to the familiar comforts of what is known until you are ready to reassume your destined path. ”

Wisdom ruefully drew his gaze toward her in address, “For even though truth is held in what you say, you estimate too much of what is to be savoured from the past. Indeed there lies a comfort in reminiscence, but so does stagnation. What you offer will only rekindle the simple joys for the briefest spell, only to fall once again into something that will remain desired. For it is already past. What you the offer in truth is joy that would not outlast the sorrows that is to follow once the bearer of such thoughts return to the present. And it was this very sorrow that sickened your soul, and left you without remedy on your journey to find me. For fear of such feelings, you would seek to take the road back to a place that left you ignorant of the lessons that lay beyond, and that would avoid the mists of uncertainty from clouding your vision – a vision that has been narrowed by the decadent comforts of what is familiar.”

At this, the protest of all three assualted Wisdom in his humble demeanour. And in their anger, all wished to speak, but no one to listen. “Why then, did we need venture through the unknown fogs that only obscured our judgement! Why not be met on the grounds that were known to us, and thus would have given us clarity and controlled judgement?!”, lamented Memory.

“And what would you have of us, as gifts for your hand?! What are your desires to be met, that would buy passage to your approval, if not the gifts that are informed by our very essence?”, shouted Passion.

“And what road then would you have us take, if none would lead to you? Why present the choice, if the outcome has no bearing?!”, Reason protested.

Wisdom answered each in turn. To Memory he said, “Knowledge does not seek the learner, for it is the learner that seeks it out instead. How could I thus travel to meet you at the place from which you came, when the place where you are now yet leaves you unready for my reception. For I can only be found through uncertainty and never in the place where I am idly awaited.” To Passion he said, “I cannot be gifted by the turmoil of emotions that rages through your veins. It is raw and chaotic, and lacks sensible discernment. What you singularly give is not of enduring value. Instead, I sought a gift reconciled from the aptitudes of each – presented as parts to a whole, but not infallible as divided entities. For what you each offer compensates for the lack of the other, and had you assumed such a humble contribution, you would have gifted me with an understanding of the mindful regard you bear of your strengths, but also a humble acknowledgement you afford your weaknesses. “

Lastly, Reason he addressed, “You ask me which road there was to take, when the choices seemed limited? But choices presented does not enforce decisions to be made in their favour. Your very logic blinds you to the fact that I was already awaiting you, and thus needed not be found. I needed you to look past your ambitions to see that which was always open for you to discover.”

So it came to be, that Reason, Passion and Memory saw in the eyes of Wisdom not the perpetuity of infathomable knowledge, but their quixotic and selfish ventures reflected back. They saw not only their inherent power, but in that reflection, their own shortcomings. In they eyes of Wisdom, each saw reflected a truth that lay deep within…

And upon that reflection, a percipience opened itself to each of the travellers. Reason regarded Passion, and now sought to learn of the exaltation that new knowledge can awaken. Passion looked to Memory, to sought a guide to his impulse and informed judgement through lessons in the treasury of the past. And Memory now turned to the logic held by Reason, for the clear mind could escape the reservations held against the unknown. Especially when slipping too far in the comforts of what was already well kept in mind. For so was the nature of the future – uncertain: reason could not predict it; passion alone could not navigate it; and memory could not escape it. And it was this of which Wisdom bred enlightenment, the truth of character that we willfully force our attentions to evade…

And before unseen, but no longer hidden, Truth steeped forth to greet the company: bare, unabashed, unashamed and iridescent; blindfolded to grandiosity, vanity and past faults. And it was Truth that Wisdom saw fit to leave in the company of the three, having seen realization dawn on his suitors. And it would come to be, that Reason, Memory and Passion instead courted Truth, and was relieved of their entitled claim to the eternal companionship of Wisdom. For Truth would remind them ever of their ways, should they find such ways be lost. Furthermore, should the counsel of Truth not find ground to be voiced… then Truth would return to Wisdom, and yearn to be courted again. At the side of Wisdom, Truth would always await those who would seek Wisdom’s prudent counsel.

For Wisdom did not seek the idle, but was instead sought out itself. Wisdom could not be gifted, but imparted gifts to the seeker. Nor could Wisdom be found on any single road, but instead at its head before a road is chosen. And Wisdom could never be courted, for it was already married to Truth. But it was also part of Truth, as Truth was part of Wisdom. To find Wisdom, was to find Truth. For the two were in perfect union, divided only for the understanding of those who needed guidance. For in wisdom lay truth, and in truth there lay wisdom

- A Short Story by the Wallflower - 

The Novice’s Guide to Constructing Inner Worlds – Part 1

Inner World

/ˈɪnə/ /wəːld/

A haven far removed from those mundane concerns that are woven into the fabric of reality. A realm blueprinted from the dreams, ideals, and hopes of a soul in reflection; thriving on the creativity, novelty, and life-infusing forces of imagination and marvel. It is the product of a spirit in resonance with their drive and desire, and intuitive idiosyncrasies; the result of a mindful being fully in touch with the most subtle of vibrancies, both within and without.

There is an art to being lost in thought… Lost in such an absolute and complete manner, that an almost transcendental experience befalls body and mind.

Imagine. The day muses softly as the peaceful hum of life pervades space and time with its presence. Drops of golden sun trickle through the canopy of leaves that rustles in the caressing breeze that clings to your frame; that cool crisp shirt draped loosely over those familiar jeans. Your feet in connection with the earth, lifting and rerooting to firm soil amidst the ebb of swaying blades of grass that spark a million sensations through the synapses at your base. Every breath is a marriage of your being to the very essence of loam pervading the air, both a comfort and fortification of the spirit that seems so untethered by the whimsy of the day. And as your surroundings create that perfect meditative pocket in space, your imagination courses bright and iridescent past your tempels and tingles across those cerebral folds. Then it occupies those spaces once filled with cold, hard and unforgiving logic.

And you slip ever into that gentle embrace of your nebulous thoughts; cosmically bound to the drifting abandon found in a daydream…

Darling, basically: Narnia is sparking up a winter thrice as magical in that wardrobe, yet the Pevensie children just wish they could slip through a front door to your mindscape instead… because you just discovered your own magic. Aslan’s whiskers are quaking, and the Ice Queen is shook!

You just stepped into your private little kingdom; your sanctum of reflection; your inner world.

And, being an introvert, a spirit inclined to reservation and observation… as a wallflower, the enriching power of being monarch in my own little fantasy has been invaluable. But, why construct one in the first place?

  • Because I can. Let’s Keep It Simple Sweetheart. When you are gracefully disposed with that talent to shape a mental retreat in which your wildest dreams can roam with your most novel musings, you are damn well going to prance along honey. People out there deliberately make arid landscapes out of their minds; the scorching heat of their self-criticism unforgiving. Are you really going to exit the nourishing oasis of your own thoughts? The choice seems simple. So take that trek out of the desert.
  • Its called self-care. This world (as in, the one you oftentimes grind through to get a scrap of fulfillment) affords us little in the realm of ‘me-time’, and we hardly permit it even for ourselves. When you face that dilemma of giving back to yourself in more tangible ways, you at least want to let your mind drift to a space where you can get a little bit of an escape.
  • Doing ‘nothing’, is actually given meaning. When you are sitting there, removed from the pressure of your obligations and those expectations that can serve or oppose you, your mind is not idle. Your mind is simply switched to a natural free flow of thought wherin great originality and insight thrives, and your curiously grasp at the whisps of those ideas and give them more clarity and solidity. Especially for introverts, whom Susan Cain observes in her book Quiet, prefer to work independently, and where solitude can be a catalyst for innovation. You are thinking, and you finally have the space to do it. Its marvelous!
  • Its cheap therapy sweetie. Lets face it, that daily/weekly/monthly dose of psychotherapy has probably smoothed the creases of your f*cking ruffled life, but you know full well that there are some weeds that pop up in odd places regardless of the ones you actually pull out. And, you actually DO NOT MIND. Its cracking through the pavement, and it has proven that its going to stick around just like the lesson that it is probably teaching you. And it is kind of beautiful… So accept it. Weeds grow in tough places. And so can you, if you take it to the right space…

Well… The list has actually just started. But this is only part one after all, and we have a lot to cover.

As a novice to the art of shaping your inner world, you are going to share bed with the idea of adaptability. Because a thought is a wild mustang that does not like to be penned in by your old ideas of order and rule-governed flow of thinking. So just drop that lasso sweetie. Or else you’ll have a nightmare of it (get it… nightmare…anyway). There are going to be some hitches along the way. Knowing that will make you less irascible and susceptible to frustration. Weeds appear to spoil the flowerbed, but what prize are you really signing your mental garden up for in any case? You’re in your head sweetie. Give yourself a ‘green-thumb’ badge on your boy scout sash if you want praise! Point is, things aren’t perfect.

  • Your inner world is a playground, not only for idle play of thoughts, but for rumination, and an idea lab to solve your real-world problems. Be honest. If you are really in touch, then you know that the dimensions of your life are interwoven in influence. Your problems are yours, and they’ll continue to follow you. So why not keep them in sight, and just bring them to a space where you can actually deal with them? Rally them into the corral, and tame those broncos with confidence.

Basically, you have this rugged, untouched landscape tucked away somewhere amidst the border where your unconscious mind meets your aware sense of self. It is begging you to pull up mountains with a thought that peak at your dreams, to make lush the valleys with your creativity, to populate the land with your wild philosophies, and then to crown your creation with that authentic self – that perfectly imperfect being that need not suffer the banishment from paradise. And if you did not yet realise, you are the omnipotent presence here honey (its very meta, I mean, it’s your own mind – but it’s true). And f*ck, you are walking through creation and it’s time to be awestruck at what your imagination conjured, you beautiful little upstart world weaver!

This is the genesis b*tch. And you are the supreme deity floating over a primordial landscape that is your messed-up mind to sequence the madness a bit into a beautiful chaos. So yes, there will be order to your inner world. But if you don’t make space for that lack of predictability, then are you even having fun?

If not, then for god’s sake… cue your latest theme song, take a hit, hug a tree, hang loose, kiss a stranger… Or do something to loosen the f*ck up. Earth was created in seven days sweetie, but Alpha and Omega are not exactly your middle names, so your inner world is going to need your attention a bit longer – and you need to damn well be at your best. I mean – this is FOR YOU!

I mentioned being in touch. But, what does that mean? Well, the craft does not have a shorthand instruction manual that can be shared right here (or as attachment), so we’ll leave that to another blog. But in essence, its what the layman would refer to as ‘balance’. And maintaining it takes contstant work. Mindfulness is a buzz word that people often then bring in here, but how even this will manifest in your life is a very personal journey.

Its a matter of awareness. Awareness of your strengths, of your virtues, of your weaknesses, of your vices… Its a perception of yourself that is balanced out – a big, bold, and beautiful planetery mass of contradictions that tips the axis of the galaxy while trying to remain in controlled rotation.

Your first step is thus to accept the raw intensity of your authentic self. And an acknowledgement of the TRUTH. Why is it raw? And why is it so intense? We only ever have the capacity to fathom either our strengths or our weaknesses, but never in tandem. We are praised by our strengths in the light of success, or confronted with our faults in the shadow of our failure. But we fail to see the beauty of our imperfections because of the presence of both. And our awareness of that is powerful, and hits us where we feel most sensitive. But it is necessary. So perhaps it is time to start the holy inquisition of your warring mind and purge that idea of control that so shackles you. Society imposes enough of its barriers, but it is time to be iconoclastic in the face of the constitution of your own thoughts.

Why do you need to do this? Because you need an even ground to lay the first cornerstone of your inner faith. You need a balanced view of who you really are. And overesttimating you abilities, or being blindsided by your shortcomings, destabilises the foundation. Thus, your inner world will be a collection of megalomania in celebrating virtues that you do not possess; or it will fail to contribute to the catharsis of dealing with lessons forthcoming from our faults of you don’t acknowledge them. Your inner world allows you to be a hero, but it will not make you infallible as a figure due to any self-serving bias. Your inner world is a realm of honesty; but, you can determine the method in which truth is administered.

But sacrificing authenticity, and breathing lies through silver, has its own consequence. Take a look again at my last post.

There is a tale that depicts perhaps the tragic reality that we have come to live in.

According to a 19th century legend, the Truth and the Lie meet one day. The Lie says to the Truth: “It’s a marvellous day today”! The Truth looks up to the skies and sighs, for the day was really beautiful. They spend a lot of time together, ultimately arriving beside a well. The Lie tells the Truth: “The water is very nice, let’s take a bath together!” The Truth, once again suspicious, tests the water and discovers that it indeed is very nice. They undress and start bathing. Suddenly, the Lie comes out of the water, puts on the clothes of the Truth and runs away. The furious Truth comes out of the well and runs everywhere to find the Lie and to get her clothes back. The World, seeing the Truth naked, turns its gaze away, with contempt and rage.
The poor Truth returns to the well and disappears forever, hiding therein, its shame. Since then, the Lie travels around the world, dressed as the Truth, satisfying the needs of society, because, the World, in any case, harbours no wish at all to meet the naked Truth.

Picture in History

The idea of an inner world, is thus to invert the image of the dishonest reality which we soldier through every day. Fair, that not all that manifests in this world is indeed lacking of truth, but there are many beguiling variations of such truths that make us prey to misdirection. The magic of your truthful dreamscape, is that it becomes a space of trust where you know what the healing effects of a self-prescribed truth medicine is, and can rely on its effects and its directive influence. Thus, it enchants you with dreams and ideals you truly want to aspire to; or it can offer you the guidance that you perhaps need and would be receptive to (because you know how to not be too hard on yourself).

The point I am making, is this. An inner world has a blueprint drawn in the ink of self-knowledge; an honest knowledge, that is constructred into the pedigree of your authentic character. Lies are deceitful tyrants, whereas truths are the benevolent ambassadors. So choose wisely the rule of your beloved kingdom.

Your quest for self-knowledge begins now fellow bloomers! I meet you at the next leg of your journey, in part two.

Love and Light

The Hemlock Cup of Expectations

Expectation

/ɛkspɛkˈteɪʃ(ə)n/

A contract mentally written in the ink of the beliefs, suppositions or conjectures harboured by a person, the premise of which is crafted from the intuitive dispositions and life experiences of the individual. A strong projection that may be directed at oneself or another, enrolled across the spectrum of appearing just and fair. It is dependent on perception and attribution. It may be bane, boundary or beneficence.

It’s important to meet people where they are, not where we want them to be. There is a tendency, in many, to re-characterize people’s experiences without being asked. You tell them you are feeling badly, they tell you all the reasons you should feel good. You tell them you are challenged by your circumstances, they tell you what they think you can do to make things easier. You tell them that you have a plan to do something, they offer up another plan for you. There is a place for these offerings – particularly when requested – but often times they just make things worse. In fact, we are more likely to arrive at the next best place on our journeys when someone actually attunes to where we are at, without making any effort to improve upon or re-frame it. We don’t need to be saved- we need to be seen. That’s the healing, right there. I hear you, I see you, I honor your choices, goes a long, long way…

Jeff Brown

I was in an autumn of my life…

… a life in the colour of a shifted season. A season regaled by the blur of falling leaves, and the stolen crowns of tree groves… all thrown stark against the depth of an endless bitter blue.

And after a gruelling day that had shaken any attempts at better analogies, I found myself behind the wheel of my car… sparking life to the engine with a slight of hand. The silence was louder than that familiar hum, and my limbs conjured forth its last bit of energy to nimbly bat the gear shift in a familiar fashion within its socket. With idle mind, and eyes that had lost their summer, muscle memory brought me to the threshold of my own front door… eventually.

I knew back then, that I was committing the greatest injustice that a wallflower could upon themself. I was disappearing so far back into that wall, that I merely became woven into the pattern and the backdrop of a story I never thought I would be part of. I was not tangibly blooming where my beauty would be noticed. But blossoms know they fare poorly against the chill… and when their lives are in another season, they know they need to withdraw. Close the bud.

But I remember sitting there, burdened with a lethargy that weighed me heavily into the fabric of my seat. I knew my mind was an arid landscape unable to bear any frugal thought. And God, my eyes… Those eyes that I had allowed so few people to really look into; those eyes that held such magic in reserve to be cast on the new memories that I thought I would make; those eyes that had counted stars and stirred the cosmos because my dreams weaved between constellations …

… those eyes that were now dying celestial bodies. The magic in those eyes was all but gone now. But no one had yet seen. How could I allow it? And in that space of grey oblivion, that scene that felt devoid of colour, there was some reckoning of peace. It was unfathomable; but, it was real. And there was nothing but that moment – that moment when expectations lose their power.

I never allowed that specific autumn to become a winter. My emotions had fallen like a myriad of leaves, each colour distinct and yet… so indifferent… from the others. Yet, those colours were the soft and warm hues of the last drop of afternoon sun. There was still light. The chill never really did set in. Not wholly…

Because I did not expect of myself to allow that to happen…

As a wallflower, the power of experience is bound to the intensity of the emotions it affords us. Without it, the true value is lost upon us. So what we expect are emotions that throw us into the void of ignorance, only to spew us out with blossoming philosophies to reshape worlds – inner worlds – of which we are master architects. But to allow such beauty, we cannot permit ourselves to be lost among the nuances of such feelings for too long. So we draw boundaries, we set limits, and we create clear expectations of ourselves. But are often lost as to the words with which to describe them. But expectations are not merely an inner construction. They are held by other people.

When he fell out of love (because only that emotion ever truly births the stars in our eyes, or dim them in its absence) my autumn set in. And the very boles of my values were shaken by the cosmic affront…

So yes… This is about a man…

Why was this? Well, it was another expectation. But this expectation looked different. It took the guise of a belief… a belief that love was this altruistic striving, this incorruptible dream. This feeling that once found, it could clear the endless uncertainty that we so desperately seek to shed through our lives. So, imagine if that expectation were to be broken….

It did break. For me it fragmented into countless shards, which imploded and scattered across the ethereal planes of every hope and fear I ever held on the feeling. This was all, a game of expectations…

Let me allow you another look at the nature of Jeff’s words shared at the start. What he was saying, in essence, is that our frame of perception conveys an expectation that is impressed upon another – one which is often unwelcome. When our views are shared at the right time, such opinions/statements/beliefs may plant the right seed that can be fostered into meaningful growth. But when this view is shared in an untimely way, incongruent with the person’s readiness and orientation to life, then we are being unfair. And we may be preventing the growth of another.

Let’s root out the word once more: expectations. It may be a beneficial driving force when one regards it as a belief on the coveted outcome of a directed effort. It may be a boundary to protect against the undesired behaviour of another. Or, it may be a bane when muddled with a lack of clarity, communication, honesty and even… insecurity. Expectations are the building blocks to the many forts that represent our relationships. It may build, strenghen, maintain; yet, it may also weaken, or destroy. It is a double edged blade that requires a master swordsman. And it is near impossible to handle in the face of the beast of unpredictability, such as love. But darling, that certainly never doomed us from trying.

We tried. Me and him. But he did not share his expectations. The ones he really had. So he set others; ones that did not attune to the person I was. And ones that lamely substituted those he should have made known. He could not set the right kind of expectations. And so, in response, neither could I. Because I did not even know what to expect from myself. We were lost amid the vicious cycle of overcomplicated caveats and unjust assumptions. It was all based on reaction and impulse. It made the rosebed of romance thorny with the lack of half-grown honesty it was being nurtured with.

The line was drawn. I needed to communicate more, and with the necessary thrift and immediacy when I was presented with a conflict. I needed to pluck myself from my garden of inner thoughts, reservations and reflection and plant myself squarely in his line of sight with emotions bare and exposed. I needed to show a greater vulnerability, and harden against his extroverted siege of words that energised his assault. I needed to root myself in firmer, simpler, and clearer beliefs that bound themselves to the normative reality. I needed to catch the breeze that was this false sense of positivity and optimism that agile mind shifts and denial affords one. I needed to feel better now and not when I was ready. I needed to not be in my head so much (because he did not know how to get in). I needed to know myself better, and gain confidence in who I was.

There it was… His contradiction was the clearest sign of a lack of truth… but he could not unring the bell. I was alert. And I knew something else was at play. But with all that warning, I simply found out too late.

But this is not a story about him. Not wholly. This was me, a blossom in the face of adversity. This was about me, trying to redefine the nature of expectations by attempting to create my own.

So we are back at the moment of my silent reprieve from a burdening day. I sat there and I was not thriving. I was flooded first with the freedom permitted by the very lack of expectations that being heartbroken affords you. There was only this feeling first, uncomplicated and yet powerful. It was dealing me a suckerpunch, but there was a hard and needed healing in that surrender. Secondly, the K. I. S. S. principle was wondrously at play. The situation was simple: I was the one that was dumped (lets drop the poetry, because the main premise is the same). I could not save something that he regarded as lost. I could not decide on some of the emotions that I was intended to naturally feel. What I could do, was decide how to react and move forward. What I could do, was take accountability for the thing I could mark with influence: myself. What I could do was expect myself to bloom… again.

But only in the truths to which I felt a resonance to. The harm in his expectations were the fact that they poisoned, instead of having remedied. But his words were being bartered in a golden chalice, instead of a clear crystal cup. And inside was swirling (though perhaps unintended) deceptions. I was being confronted with issues that were not part of the problem. I was being confronted with variations of his truth, informed by his frustrations. He was pushing the whole principle of reality, when he was not sharing the reality of the problem. And he was expecting me to open the doors to my Narnia, and get back to his world riddled with war. Because he could not get in where the magic was. And only later, when fire and brimstone was rained on his toxic extrovert ideal – the moment he pushed me too far – was the moment when the real expectations came a little too late.

And yet, I was perhaps not the scapegoat, but by no means the innocent on trial. The more he was projecting these perceptions of my secluded mind, the more I was drawing a veil over every thought and emotion that fit the crime. Self-fulfilling prophecy or perhaps projected reality…

Our personalities were never compatible. But that truth was hidden behind so many variations of perceptions of the truth (to which I was also contributor), that we were withholding each other from life journeys we had both respected.

I learned key lessons then. One among them was that the ‘quiet revolution’ is not a war we wage by never speaking our mind. It is a display to the power inherent in silence of which the essence is to avoid conflict, not to stir it because we are incapable of accommodating a louder world. We are wallflowers, and thus we must learn enough from our observations to be able to adapt to a degree after all. But in the second place, your personality is not a commodity to be traded in compromise. That expectation is altogether selfish, and cruel, and best countered by assuming a peace with such violence and setting an expectation of a different sort. Darling, these are called boundaries. And you best f*cking defend these with your last breath! Vocal sports is a practiced game and it has its champions. But silence is an inborn talent that knows no equal! (Insert Simon and Garfunkel here, and let us relaunch this debate some time).

My petals took on a different colour after that day. Self-talks are beautiful little gardening tools to repot our roots within a more congruent mindset.

Attunement is a skill the wallflower cultivates and makes part of their daily practice. How? Because we observe; because we reflect; and because we then feel what parts of ourselves need expression. We know what to expect of ourselves, but we cannot always rely that the expectations of another will allign. And this is Jeff’ s concluding remark:

We don’t need to be saved- we need to be seen. That’s the healing, right there. I hear you, I see you, I honor your choices, goes a long, long way…”

So to all those wallflowers out there, or to those that tend to them:

Avoid the self-administered bane that is expectations out of touch with your own fragrance. And then, deny the drink from the hemlock cup filled with the unjust expectations offered by another (avoid offering it to another yourself) . For if your opinions are not being watered for growth, your particular season of spring is being shown dishonour.

Love and Light fellow Bloomers! “I hear you, I see you, I honour you…”

Greetings from a Quiet Bloomer

Featured

The beauty of ‘being’ should not be brushed aside…

Wallflower
/ˈwɔːlflaʊə/

noun

An introverted soul with the magical disposition to see, to listen, and to quietly understand the kaleidoscopic vibrancy of the world in which they have taken root. A silent specimen inclined to bloom in the light of rare company and when the scent of the moment is right.


… One afternoon…

… As I rarely plucked one of the books from among my garden of good but untouched reads… I finally started on the page-turner that was Susan Cain’s riveting homage to the value of all introverts: Quiet – The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking. I was but a few pages into the introduction, when I came across the line that convinced me that the book would be a resonating account of my world view:

Now that you’re an adult … you’re told that you’re ‘in your head too much’, a phrase that is often deployed against the quiet and cerebral.

Of course, there is another word for such people: thinkers.

Heard that?…………………………………………

That was the sound of my mind being blown…………. (I am sure you have some cartoon audio file tucked away somewhere in your greymatter for the right effect)

Simple… Yet profound enough to reignite a vestige of memory that I thought I had worked hard to displace, having regarded it as a criticism once upon a time.

“In your head too much…”

Well, that was a simple truth, as much as I might try to deny it. What is a reserved little boy to do after all, in a big bold world that provides more than its share of overstimulation. Those words were a reminiscent hammer blow that echoed across the memory of countless tedious lectures, parties passed in a blur, the long and laborious longevity of the voices of chatty Cathys and talakative Toms… and enough experiences with awkward silences to add another thesis topic to my repertoire.

But, is being in your head (even if “too much”) truly a bad thing?

Well dears, damned be the day when I allow anyone the authority to permit me my self-allocated playtime within the little flower patch of fantasies that I call my inner world…

It is too darn magical!

And once you adopt that pretty little penchant of expressing these enchantments of your inner life in a few well-chosen words, the talent really starts to make love to you! (Honey, you should really start taking your breakfast and coffee with a side of the Oxford Dictionary) Lesson #1: never underestimate the power of a descent vocabulary (It is one of those raging little quotes out there that remain unclaimed in credit, but adopted in its truth…) It breathes life into an idea.

So, there I was… Reading that piece in Cain’s novel, with nebulous sparks of recognition whizzing around the fort of my most reserved perceptions of self. And dazed as clear understanding dawned on me yet again of how much I valued being a quiet idealist, a dreamer… a thinker (as the book had so generously labelled me with merit). There really was something to this quiet revolution.

And then, we had been called adults as well (sigh). I am still exuding a daily effort to completely dissociate from that little assigned life-role (well… the effort in trying has been noble at least…) Oh, I am thriving! Responsibility: we don’t know her! (That is a lie… We definitely know her. She is a bitch that comes screaming just as loudly as Karma at our slightest misstep with Freedom. So be sure to invite her along to the party every now and then. She likes her playtime as well)

So in an era filled with generations accustomed to the buzz of free speech, being the ‘silent’ type often becomes a challenging position to assume. For within the crossfire of entitled opinions and the need to be heard… I have often felt that few come to actually listen. Society has become a pretty vocal zest pool of impulsive opinion. So the drama!

Don’t get me wrong…We need the brave camaraderie of more outspoken spirits out there in the world to spark the discussion, and remedy the world with a dose of honesty that has also been denied its place. But the situation becomes a bit muddy, and the flow of conversation murky, when a view that is shared is not set out to dry and see the sunshine for awhile. Or, if it does not pass through at least a couple of filters. God forbid, it seems as though the candid one-liners out there just call for the suspenseful panning of a camera to make the moment centre stage to some reality show! Reality does not call for cant or slush dears. Lesson #2: it is not always your circus; your tongue may be the whip that cracks at the wrong beast…

So I have rather come to see myself as an observer to the ways and whiles of the people that happen across my life. Gentleman that I try to be, I have felt inclined to allow both the misgivings and epiphanies of others with great courtesy and empathy. These experiences are then planted in my collection of stories, all nurtured and enlivened in the greenhouse that is my memory.

It makes of one a raconteur (what a beautiful word… I have been teasing the idea of taking French because of it). One comes to revel in the capacity for riveting storytelling. And in that beautiful scape of memory and the million filters it passes through as time lapses, a humility is beckoned forth among the bemused thoughts of considering how beautiful a narrative may be despite its outcome. What can we truly be but humble beasts running through the wilderness of a life where uncertainty is the only certainty… and where the winds of change can do such glorious things if we let the breeze take us on those flights of fancy. At the end, our opinions just seem to become more measured, more mindful… and heavens, less extra!

Poetically put, but what am I trying to say here?

Well…

Firstly, I am inclined to reserve all judgement. (That is a Nick Caraway quote right there… anyone give The Great Gatsby a read?) The judgement? Oh it is certainly present. I flirt with it in the backdrop and whisper dirty little things to it… but it remains within the harlem of my thoughts.

Secondly, the purpose was to introduce the ways of the wallflower. A beautiful little collection of hallmarks and habits that allow a holistic perception of the feels of the moment. Having cultivated the humble silence of quiet experience – and perhaps with a little moondust in my backpocket to sprinkle a dull situation with a bit of magic – life has become quite a breathtaking bouquet of opportunities in which memories are to be made and in which ‘thinkers‘ are applauded for their reserved voices. That is, until the moment sprouts with a need for it to be heard!

As I see it: gone are the days where the wallflower is a shy little sideshow… Instead, these mystical beings are the seasonal signs of sound sayings, who tweak the necessary cadences of their thoughts so that it may find its way to the assailed ears of loud society.

And perhaps this is what this blog is all about…. Thoughts and tales fully bloomed to become the centerpiece of attention for you, as the reader, for the briefest of time while frolicking in your own little pocket of reality.

A kindred spirit and soul sister parted ways with me after one of those spiffingly splendid sagacious sessions of sharing wild philosophies and philanthropic fantasies over a 420… and with these darling words: “love and light” . How magnificent is such a goodbye?… To leave with someone not only the whimsy of what was the teasing traces of your company, but to wish upon them the necessary truths and hopes revealed in the light, and the million beautiful variations of a diverse feeling such as love….

So I have adjusted my petals dearies, and turned my face to the sun, and allowed the beauty of ‘being’ and quiet contemplation to water my opinions with forbearance and sound judgement… for only then does the fragrant freedom of experience open its beauty to our enjoyment, and a love informed by self knowledge and understanding of life make itself available.

Thus, love and light fellow bloomers.

And welcome, to the inner sanctum of a wizard of words…