Lessons in Evanescence from a Blue Dragonfly

“As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame… “  - the opening line of a well-known Hopkins poem surfaced from my foggy memory  like a fish coming up for air this morning when I noticed a flash of iridescent blue skimming the surface of the water.  A dragonfly was hovering nearby and was only disturbed by some quacking ducks every few minutes. 

After having my throat slit (quite literally) to remove a bleeding tumour a week ago, I needed a sanctuary of sorts this morning. So, I packed my picnic blanket and book, bought the largest take away skim cappuccino I could find and headed out to the lake.  The pretty young student behind the counter at the coffee shop eyed the wound on my neck surreptitiously and tried to restrain herself from asking.  Her colleague was not as polite – he asked if I had been stabbed.  I just grinned.

It has been a very traumatic two weeks. When I discovered the lump in my neck, all the pilot lights on my dashboard went out.  Total blackout.  A nasty sense of foreboding pulled me into a dark abyss of fear, dread and worry.  I heard my coping systems shut down one by one – the red lights flashing and a tinny robotic voice wailing its mantra of “System overload.  System overload…”

My reality came to a screeching and grinding halt - I came face to face with my mortality and my vulnerability.  I realized that I am indeed finite.  Fragile. Very human.  I discovered that I bleed even when I don’t know it.  I’m not sure what scared me more, the uncertainty of waiting to find out what the large lump in my neck was, or the knowledge that it was a bleeding tumour and that the surgeon suspected malignancy.  I’m not sure which part was scarier.  Then the expenses that came with the crisis still has my budget wailing like a demented banshee.   With all of this on my mind, I needed to find some silence.  So I headed to the lake.

The dragonfly fascinated me.  It is an agile little flyer, darting backwards and forwards, hovering over the mirror of water like a beautiful helicopter.  I became increasingly intrigued with my little blue companion.  The wings and the body of this little character were iridescent – the shades of blue, indigo and violet alternating as it moved – depending on the angle and the polarization of the light on its wings.  I wished it were possible for me to change and show myself in different colours – to be iridescent as a dragonfly.  I sat there and wondered if it could be as simple as changing the slant of the mind – to defeat my self-created illusions.  I thought that it was a remarkable visual metaphor for the ability to unmask the real self and remove the doubts we cast on our own identities.

The whole notion of unmasking the real person underneath and the ability to discriminate between what is superficial and what is real is what many men lack these days.  In a sense my little blue companion became a light bearer for me today.  The iridescent hues on his little body and wings are the colours of life, light and love.  Perhaps my lesson for today was taught by a humble but magnificent blue dragon fly.  As I watched it whizzing around, it wordlessly taught me that I should let my own hues shine.  The metaphor fits – the dragonfly’s colours only emerge with maturity as it is able to bend, shift and adapt light in a variety of ways. 

Perhaps I am where I am because I haven’t harnessed that skill yet – of showing different hues of my self at different times.  If only we all understood that true beauty takes time to develop – it comes with age.  The dragonfly’s colours take time to emerge but they are definitely worth the wait because they ultimately reveal the amazing little insect’s inner beauty.   Wouldn’t it be wonderful if women were appreciated in the same way instead of being considered past your sell-by date when you hit certain digits on your odometer?

I found myself increasingly fascinated by my little companion – so much so, that I almost forgot to finish my coffee.  The lessons I learnt this morning from watching a dragonfly are remarkable.  I admired it for its maneuverability – the agility, sense of purpose and adaptability.  It is strong and has a sense of chutzpah.  It can hover like a helicopter, can fly backwards like a hummingbird, zoom straight up in the air, dart down or flank to either side.  It seems to fly effortlessly. Elegance, poise, adaptabilty and grace only come with maturity, don’t they?  Isn’t that true for women too?

I watched it skimming across the surface and felt my thoughts and understanding of where I think I am in my life crystallizing and rising to the surface like the bubbles on the surface.  Perhaps we should live like dragonflies and allow our deeper thoughts to rise to the surface and look beyond what seems to be our immediate and finite reality.  Just as the dragonfly skims the water of thoughts – a murky primordial soup of divinity – I know that I’m the balance keeper between the “little me” and the “actual me” – the one with all the iridescent colours on my soul waiting to develop and waiting to shine.    Perhaps we should aim to see as they do.

 And they can certainly see well.  More than 80% of the dragonfly’s brain is dedicated to sight.  It has 360 degree vision – wouldn’t it be awesome if we had 360 degree vision when it comes to our inner selves?  Wouldn’t it be marvelous if we were able to see beyond the limitations of our inner selves, into the vastness of the universe and into our own minds? 

The metamorphosis of a dragon fly is much more like the emotional life cycle of a human being.  Dragonflies live most of their lives as nymphs or immature dragonflies.  They only fly for a fraction of their lifespan.  Today, the little fellow became not only a bearer of light, but a beautiful reminder that life is about transformation and constant change and that it is fleeting. 

The dragonfly spends most of its life on the bottom of the pond as larva but it always rises above that.  It emerges from the mud and works its way through the weight of the water and into the sunlight, where it gathers what it needs to unfold and actualize its potential.  When it is finally ready, it sheds is shell and flies away from the pond on its lovely rainbow wings.  Just like human beings, dragonflies are very sensitive to the winds of life – they too are creatures of the wind.  They also get blown off course by unexpected gusts of wind but they are resilient and in my eyes, the little blue dragonfly is a free spirit.  It can fly off at any time.

A few switches were flicked this week - aside from abject terror, dread, worry and all the negative ones - relief flooded my soul when the verdict was delivered.  Aside from these, I discovered that the power of friendships and love all over again.  The value of an unbreakable bond and connectedness was manifest.  There were blessings in the adversity.  I realised how blessed I am to have wonderful friends to support me when I don't have immediate family near me.  Im grateful for my children's love and for a connectedness that I thought I had lost.  

Today, this lovely flash of blue represented evanescence, inner strength, indomitability of spirit and light.  I realized how fortunate I am to be sitting next to the lake and watching it in wonder.  The recent events have been a catalyst for a major internal shift.  I’m not sure what the shift is yet but I can feel it.  The dragonfly embodies some important lessons on life. Life is indeed some sort of cycle – an endless loop of adversity and blessings which wobbles when it rolls.  But the important things are maturity, strength, adaptability, inner beauty and vision.  Life is to be lived in the moment with an awareness of who I am, where I am, what I want and what I don’t.  It’s about transformation and fulfilling my potential and finding my inner light – flicking the switch and letting it glow as bright as I possibly can....  Above all to live the life I have without regrets like a glorious blue dragonfly.

The Missing Super Bitch Sock, The Uncertainty Principle and My Bifurcation Point

Today I was confronted with a dilemma which has been plaguing mankind since the village hosier in Chaucer’s day weaved a fine hose – where do all the missing socks go?   Why is it that no matter how many socks you have, how careful you are to transfer them directly to the laundry basket when you take them off, directly to the washing machine and then to the tumble drier (immediately next to it) and then directly to the drawer once they are clean, you eventually end up with fewer socks than when you started? Why is there always one single sock that's a completely different colour or pattern or shape than all of the others?

I’m frequently confounded by this – how is it that half of the matched socks disappear but they seem to be replaced with socks which I have never seen before.  What happened to my cute Eyore socks and my other Super Bitch sock (a tongue-in-cheek gift from my sister on my 35^th birthday)?  Why is it that I have 3 different socks?  As I stood there confounded at the tumble drier – I figured the only possible explanation is evolution. 

As I stood there staring at three different socks, I became convinced that socks are shapeshifters – they change their appearances to fit a new situation – like the way an old sweater will assume the shape of the person who wears it.  Perhaps they figure if they stay the same, we will keep wearing them, wear holes into them only to be discarded.  So they change, they develop new shapes and patterns but only in water followed by heat.  The other alternative of course is that my tumble drier is a portkey and my missing socks are out there somewhere in a parallel universe where some other woman is shaking her head looking at three odd socks wondering where on earth the Super Bitch sock came from.

Isn’t life like this too?  Just when you think you have all your ducks in a row (or all your socks) you discover that things are not what they seem. I blame scientific reductionism – we have all been brainwashed by Isaac Newton.  We were raised to believe that the only way to understand something is to break it down into its constituent parts and functions.  Newton declared this when he stated that all moving objects moved in mechanistic ways governed by certain laws and principles.  His brilliant explanation of gravity persuaded us all to think that everything in life is determined by the laws of cause and effect and that everything in life can be understood by scientific reductionism.  While the apple may have fallen on his head, I cannot explain the three mismatched socks and I certainly cannot explain some of the circumstances I find myself in by cause and effect.  It also does not explain why people leave you when you give them your heart and soul and vulnerability.  In fact, there is nothing more you can give to someone than your complete and utter vulnerability.

This brings me to the Uncertainty Principle.   I am beginning to think that some of the basic tenets of quantum physics are far more relevant to our everyday lives than we even begin to realise. I find it amusing that while scientists previously considered matter to be solid – physicists have since discovered that there are in fact no solid particles underlying the structure of any objects which we perceive as solid.  What we perceive as solid matter is in fact an assemblage of countless miniscule energy potentials vibrating in relation to each other at incredible speeds.  Isn’t that true about so many things in life too?  What appears to be is often far from reality.

Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle asserts that a detached objective observation or measurement from outside a subatomic system is not possible.  The act of observing affects what is observed.  In other words, the observer influences the system which is being studied.  The principle asserts that  it is impossible to know everything there is to know about a particle with absolute certainly.  When you know about one aspect of a particle, you lose information about other aspects of it.  Isn’t that true about people too?  For example, when you think you are sure someone loves you, you don’t know why; and when you have figured out why they love you, you don’t know if they do.

I know that the quantum world is abstract and mathematical and in some ways a “shadow” world because we can never know it directly by observing it.  When we attempt to measure a quantum system or entity, the very act of measuring it, changes the system.  If someone says “I love you” and you ask them how much, do they love you less?

I have written before that everything in life seems to be connected somehow – there seems to be an intricate web of invisible strands that holds our existence together.  Isn’t if funny that a quantum entity is said to be in every possible state at the same time – called a “superposition” – and upon measurement, it chooses one state – the state that best conforms to the experimental conditions or context at the time.  In other words, if you are looking for signs of cancer you will find them.  If you are looking for the negative in people, you will bring out the negative in them.  Perhaps my socks knew I thought they would be missing and then shape-shifted.  The same is true for relationships – perhaps if I was listening and waiting for the other shoe to drop, trust me I am still reeling from the thud.  Perhaps I should take a lesson from my Super Bitch sock...

I’m fascinated by this “knowledge” that emerges and change the trajectory of life completely.  The chromosomes in a fertilized egg do not carry a final and complete blueprint for the body that will develop.  They are just a starting point – potential.  As the cells multiply and differentiate, the new cells seem to “know” what functions have to be assumed and they go on to become different types of tissue. 


I’m wondering why we don’t have the same superposition in our psyche – why is it that when adversity strikes we don’t always choose the best behaviours when it comes to our thoughts and responses? Where does the synapse misfire?  Perhaps it is because we become the observer in our own tragedy and it changes us and the situation.  I am wondering if it is not a case of grasping that the experience itself is not who I am but what makes me, in the same way that it is not the crucifixion that counts but the resurrection.


I have fielded another nasty curveball from the outfield this week – albeit on the nose – but I am beginning to accept that change is constant – the only stable reference point in life. Newton also got a ball on the nose – from Prigogine – who coined the term “bifurcation point”.  


He found that certain phenomena in chemistry did not fit with Newton’s universal and reductionistic laws.  Specifically, he stated that if the energy input increases beyond what a closed simple system can withstand or absorb, the system’s structure becomes disorganized and fluctuates in chaotic ways. The system will either collapse completely or reorganise into a new structure.


As I write this, I wonder if he was not looking at my life….  When external demands exceed the capacity of your coping mechanisms – you are driven to “bifurcation point” – a moment in your life when you will never be the same again.  It is here that meltdown occurs – and while today was a total waste of make-up – it may not be a bad thing.  


When you reach bifurcation point, if you can avoid being crushed beyond recovery and do your best to bounce back, you will emerge a stronger and more resilient person.  I reached my bifurcation point this week with the discovery of a large lump on my neck (perhaps that is where the socks went). As clichéd as it sounds, perhaps chaotic disequilibrium keeps us protean – we keep evolving like the crazy socks that keep morphing into unknown mysterious socks I have not encountered in my laundry basket before (and avoid getting thrown away - clever socks!).


Perhaps that is what this chaotic disequilibrium is all about – reinvention and post traumatic growth.  Perhaps I have been too Newtonian in my approach to life – examining it by reducing it to the nuts and bolts and in doing so, I didn’t see that what I thought was solid was in fact nothing but a void of potential.  Living life in quantum terms may be the healthier but painful alternative.  Perhaps embracing the bifurcation point and  the falling apart of all I know and hold dear is necessary for the evolution of the new person – perhaps my Eyore must morph into Super Bitch.  Perhaps this total disequilibrium is required to reset me to my default superposition.  I’m not really sure.  For now, Im still reeling from the impact, searching for my favourite socks, and yearning for the one who has always been able to silence the churning storms around me with a silent hug.


While I am gripped by cold fear and fervently praying that the cells in the lump will choose to be benign, hoping that the Uncertainty Principle can work positively by actualizing what it is I hope for and wish for so fervently, I must let it be.  Hopefully it will manifest what I am looking for and not what I fear.  In the meantime, perhaps this lump is like the lightning that struck a tree in my forest – it may destroy the tree as it is.  But a fallen tree becomes an ecosystem for a whole new range of organisms on the forest floor.  It will become a substrate for a host of organisms and will give life.  Perhaps I have to lose it all to gain it again. Perhaps that is the Uncertainty principle at work – when you think you have lost it, is when you will find it; and when you think you have it, is when you lose it.

My Torschlusspanik and the Widow's Oil

My son loves French Toast – with melted cheese for extra calories.  This morning, I got up early to make it and as I poured the last few drops of olive oil from the bottle into the pan, I smiled because it was just enough for what I needed.  It reminded me of the Biblical account of the widow and her jars of oil.  This morning I identified with her as a woman in crisis – although for altogether different reasons.  It is funny how the mind wanders when you are doing really mundane things.  (I will return to the widow and her oil shortly.)

I thought about the word “crisis” and what it really means.  This is where the diachronic language studies switch is flicked and the etymologist in me splutters to life for a while out of sheer curiosity.  While reading about the etymology of the word, I stumbled across some gems.  We generally tend to think of a crisis as some kind of trouble but interestingly enough the origin of the word points to “a time of decision and judgement”.  

The word first appeared in English texts around 1500 and was inherited from Latin which in turn got it from the Greek  κρίσις (krisis) < κρίνω (krinō) which denoted “a turning point in a disease” as it was used by Hippocrates and Galen.     Our understanding of the word is fairly recent but prior to that it referred to a point in an illness when the patient either took a turn for the worse or improved.  The Greek root is said to go back to the Indo-European word meaning which denotes “to discriminate”. I find myself at a particularly curious juncture in my life and am faced with several options and realize that there are some decisions that I have to make. 

I stumbled across another gem – Torschlusspanik.  This German word which literally translated means “gate-shut-panic” is used to describe a midlife crisis.  It denotes the fear of being on the wrong side of a closing gate. The term originated from medieval peasants who were terrified of being locked out when the castle gates were closing when an attack was imminent.  I have written about midlife crises a few times and generally in terms of the male ego and their foolish attempts to soothe it.

 

However, today I realized that I am having my own Torschlusspanik of sorts but not in the conventional sense of the word – no I am not turning into a cougar…  In my case, my Torschlusspanik is more about critical life decisions which will forever change the direction of my life.

 

The notion of crisis as a decision point, is rather comforting.  I guess the fact that you have decisions to make implies a measure of control.  That brings me back to the widow and her oil.  Has your emotional pantry been as bare as Mother Hubbard’s cupboard? I guess the biblical widow arrives on everyone’s emotional doorstep at some point in time.

 

Don’t you get annoyed when your widow has arrived and everyone tells you it is going to be just fine, that things will work out and be just fine?  Isn’t that like putting a band aid on a gaping wound?  Then there is the cliché that Time heals all wounds.  It doesn’t. All that Time is able to do is to make it more distant, put some space between you and what happened.  It doesn’t heal anything.  I don’t know how or what it does that does the healing but it certainly isn’t Time.

I just wonder what went through the widow’s mind when Elisha asked her what resources she had in her home. She replied that she had nothing but a little bit of olive oil but it was barely enough to meet her immediate needs.  Can you imagine the incredulity of her expression when Elisha told her to collect empty jars from all her neighbours - as many as she could find?  The story goes that she and her two sons borrowed jars from her neighbours, took them inside and behind closed doors, filled them to the brim with olive oil from the widow’s jar.  The oil kept flowing until the last jar was filled and then it stopped.  It was just enough. 

This morning when I dribbled the last drops of olive oil into the pan, I realised that a bottle can only contain so much and at some point it will be exhausted.  I think human beings are the same – we have a limited capacity for heartbreak and for stress, but do we have a limit in terms of what we can give?  Are we finite in terms of our capacity for giving and for loving or are we like the miraculous jar – overflowing with abundance and the ability to give and give and give when your reserve light is glowing red?  Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could be as adaptable as oil – to fit our circumstances and crises as oil is able to mould itself into the shape of the bottle? I’m beginning to think that an act of love that fails is just as much a part of the divine as an act of love that succeeds because I wonder if love is not measured by its own fullness rather than by its reception.

I guess it boils down to two things – taking stock of what you have and doing something unusual with what you do have rather than wishing for what you don’t; and secondly taking a leap of faith and giving what is there so that it can morph into something new.  Isn’t it sad that too often we allow ourselves to be defined by others’ opinions and value judgements on our sense of worth and our place in this world?  

Isn’t it ridiculous that when we find ourselves suddenly at a crossroad or crisis in life, we tend to think of ourselves as having “only this” or “only that”.  We define our position and our self worth in terms of our current heartache or crisis.  I think we minimise who we are and what we can do because we tend to see our “only-ness”.  I think it is this Only-ness syndrome that keeps us trapped in suspended animation.  I realised today that I have had the same mindset as the widow – one of “only-ness”.  When she was asked what she had, she replied “nothing… only a little bit of oil.”

I realised that all too often women fall into this trap – we give all we have to give and when the relationship lies in ruins at our feet, we believe that we have nothing more to give – as if the failed relationship has confirmed our worst fears about ourselves and we question our lovability.   

So there are decisions to be made in this Torschlusspanik of mine. 

Some have told me to follow my heart.  That is the problem – how can I follow my heart when it is waiting around for the rest of me to make a decision?  And decision I reckon is a risk rooted in the courage of being free.  Perhaps I have been living my life too much as I-could-have-beens instead of I-tried-to-do’s.  I can see that I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I intended to be.  I have come to accept that sometimes the ground may shift between my feet and I may lose my footing.  I may stumble and when that happens I will naturally grab what is close to me and hold on as tight as I possibly can.  

Recently, my emotional larder has been rather Spartan like – much like the widow’s – with only enough oil to keep me going and sometimes not quite sufficient.  Today, a precious friend told me what to do with my little bit of oil – empty it out- surrender what you do have and let it go – fill up the empty jars around you that are crying out for some substance. 

In a sense all of us become like the widow at some point in our lives – desperate, lost, broken and with no immediate solution to a looming crisis.  Elisha listened to her with compassion and understanding and when he asked her what resources she had to work with, she responded by saying she had nothing but a little bit of olive oil in a jar.  I think we all tend to do that – see the “nothing but” side of things and in doing so reduce ourselves and our possibilities to “only a little bit of olive oil in a jar”.  Think about Moses who replied that he only had his staff when he had to visit the Pharaoh, David had only a slingshot and a few pebbles to defeat Goliath, Samson had a jawbone when he faced a lion, and the disciples had five loaves and a few fishes to feed a multitude.  In each case, it required a leap of faith and surrendering the little bit that they had. 

Interestingly enough, if you look at the Chinese character for faith “xin” also means “trust”.  The Chinese character for faith shows a “Man” (radical at left) standing by his words.  So, “stand by your words” is synonymous for trust and faith in Chinese.  Making a decision, emptying my oil jar to give me the capacity for filling new empty vessels with abundance, will require a leap of faith, trust and standing by my words. 

And the beautiful thing about the story of the widow and the oil, is that the miracle took place behind closed doors.  The miracle takes place inside of us.  I guess what the caterpillar may consider the end of the world, the master will call a butterfly.  As I grow to understand life less and less, I seem to live it more and perhaps the real magic wand lies in the mind…

Dimples and Dark Brown Eyes

I miss my daughter so much today.  I woke up from a dream at 05:00 this morning and I have been thinking about my little girl all morning.  I have been blessed with two beautiful children who keep me sane and grounded.  I watched my son sleep before I woke him for breakfast, and I realised what a wonderful gift it is to be a mom.  Watching him sleep flicked the gratitude switch in a big way this morning.  He is the sweetest, gentlest loving boy in the world and I adore him.

Aimee-Leigh is my first child.  It was after she had had her first feed that I discovered her dimples – she had wind and suddenly smiled…  and deep dimples appeared in both cheeks.  It was the most beautiful smile in the world.  It made me cry and I remember holding her tight and kissing her all the time.  She still has the most beautiful smile in the world – the kind of smile that lights her up from within.  She still lights up a room with her smile and I still want to hug her tight.

She is now a beautiful 16 year old girl and in her I see a world of possibilities.  There are so many things I miss about her today.  I miss the sleepy smile when she stumbles from her room in the morning with her tousled hair, the sound of her giggle, a good morning hug, listening to her squabble with her brother, the thumping music, watching her curl herself up on the couch like a lazy cat, hurrying her up to get ready for work on time, girl talk, shopping and of course her beaming dimpled smile.

I wish at times I could make her see what others see about her.  I have watched her look at herself in the mirror and I would do anything to give her the gift of loving herself as much as I do.  I would love for her to see her reflection and realise how beautiful and lucky she is to be exactly as she is.  I don't ever want her to deprive herself of food, or to twist around and ask whether her bum looks big, to lie awake at night and promise herself that tomorrow she will start a diet.  I want her to know that beauty sometimes makes you happy but happiness always makes you beautiful.

I want her to believe in herself and her dreams as I do.  I want my girl to learn to listen to her heart and know that her future is determined by the decisions and choices she makes and not necessarily by the risks she may take along the way.  I wish for her to allow mystery to have its place in her – not to be turning up every inch of her soul in rigid self-examination, but to leave a little fallow corner of her heart ready for any seed the winds may bring.  

We are all broken and wounded in this world but some of us choose to grow strong at the broken places.  As we grow up, we learn that even the one person who was never supposed to let you down, probably will.  She will have her heart broken probably more than once, and it is harder each time.  Similarly, I know she will break hearts too, when she does, I want her to remember how it feels when hers was broken.  My Aimee is strong and resilient. She has bounced back from so many heartaches and still has not lost the light in her deep brown eyes.

I wish I could make her immune to peer pressure and to negativity.  I would love to make her understand that everyone in the world may have an opinion of her but only she can decide what makes her truly happy as a person. Opinions are exactly that – just opinions. Life is often a process of negotiation.  I want her to know that the most powerful tool for winning a negotiation is the ability to get up and walk away from the table without a deal – regardless of who the other party is.   She will fight with her friends and will blame a new love for things an old one did. I want her to know that things happen at the right time – not necessarily when we want them to – happy endings cannot come in the middle of a story. 

It is not always easy to be a mom – but I wouldn’t change it for anything.  I want the world for her and more than anything I want my girl to be happy.  I see so much inner beauty, flashes of strong will, brilliance and inner strength in her but more than anything, I love her spirit.

I want the world for her, but much more than that - I want her to be happy and to know that being happy doesn’t mean that everything is perfect.  It means that you have decided to look beyond the imperfections and can find contentment regardless. A happy person is not a person in a set of certain circumstances, but rather someone with a certain set of attitudes about their particular circumstances. You don’t have to change the world to be happy – it might get your name recorded in history books but it is much more important to write your name in the lives and hearts of others.

If I had my sweet sixteen-year-old brown eyed girl with me today, I would hold her tight, smell the sunlight in her hair and tell her how beautiful she is – inside and out.  I hope that she is able to enjoy the little things in life today – to take pleasure in small and seemingly insignificant things.  I am so very proud to be her mom and of the woman she is becoming.  She is stubborn, spirited, annoying as hell at times but with beautiful heart that tempers her independent spirit and warms my heart. 

So today, on the dashboard of my life, my girl’s light burns brightly.  The gratitude switch has been flicked, along with pride and hope but more than anything, the longing fuse is blinking intermittently.  I cannot wait to have her home.  She and her brother are the centre of my world.  She is, and always will be the beautiful baby I cradled in my arms when she smiled at me the first time and I lost my heart forever.

My Mystic Bell and the Angel's Wings

This morning I opted to wear one of my favourite pieces of jewellery – my mystic bell pendant - an Indonesian mystic bell in a hinged sterling silver filigree cage. Mystic bells like mine are designed after the ancient Crotal bell form – which is considered the oldest form of bell if current archaeological records are anything to go by.  Caged crotal bells like mine have been made in Indonesia for more than two hundred years.  Apparently the King of Bali wore caged bells with diamonds, rubies, emeralds and sapphires to adorn his uniform.  Mystic Crotal bells have always had a spiritual significance to the people of the region.  Indonesians believe these bells are connected directly to the Buddhist and Hindu spiritual realm. The direct connection of bells to the spiritual realm is as old as Time itself.  

I love this piece not only because it is different but because I love the soothing gentle jingle of the bell.  I was looking at it on the train while contemplating some other issues in life this morning and it struck me how prevalent bells in some shape or form are in our lives.  They are everywhere!  I was alerted to it by an annoyed cyclist who rang his bicycle bell at me furiously this morning to get me to move out of his way.

Think about it – bells announce that someone is at the front door, alarm clocks wake us with a ringing sound, mobile phones ring to tell us that there is a call waiting, you ring the bell for service in a hotel and even my microwave has a chime!  Bells are rung at funerals and weddings and to start off a new round of fighting in a boxing ring. 

Bells signify the beginning and ending of something.  Bells summon people to events or inform students that the lesson is about to start and that they have to hurry to class.  Bells are rung to summon worshippers to prayer or to warn us not to cross railroad tracks.  They also soothe – like the tinkling of chimes in the wind.  In traditional Feng Shui bells are associated with prosperity and protection.  Even belly dancers use small bell-like finger cymbals called zills to enhance the music and dance.

Then there is Christmas and the annoying “Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way…” which seems to be the carol of choice in shopping malls.  Even Santa’s reindeer have bells attached to let children know he’s coming.

Our Sleigh in Ramsau

A few years ago, Handsome and I went to Austria in December and spent Christmas day in a ski resort in Ramsau.  We went on a horse drawn sleigh ride around the Dachstein and one of my fondest memories of that day is the jingling of the bells on the reins and the sleigh as we raced along the snowy landscape in the crisp mountain air – sipping schnapps as we went along.  It was the most beautiful Christmas day I have ever experienced.  I recall that there was a rather eccentric Jewish man who resembled Santa Claus with his flowing white beard. The more schnapps he drank, the more jolly he got and the louder he sang Christmas carols in a rich baritone voice. The sound of my mystical bell sounds so much like the bells on that sleigh.  I would give anything to be able to go back to that day.

Perhaps our attraction to the bells stems in part from the sense of unity we experience while listening to the ringing of a bell. The tones of a bell vibrate through the clothes, skin, blood and molecules of its listeners simultaneously. It is a collective experience that subconsciously draws us together.

Think of the Liberty Bell which announced the first public reading of the Declaration of Independence in the United States.  It helped unify the Colonists on a vibrational level down to their very molecules, and according to some sound/healing researchers, down to the level of creation. Creation stories from around the world include passages metaphorically describing sound or vibration as a creative force. When we create sound here on Earth, we are honouring that first creation. 

If you have ever been to Westminster Abbey, Notre Dame, Chartres or any of the major cathedrals in Europe when the bells are ringing, you will understand what I mean. You feel it ringing in your bones.  It is majestic, mystic and indescribably beautiful.   I reckon bells are symbolic of the harmony existing in society. It acts as a medium between heaven and earth, bells and especially their clappers, represent communication and suspension between humans and God.

My little mystic bell may be small and have a soft jingle but it is felt and heard.  It is not only an idiophone but also an ideophone – the sound of it is enough to take me back to the snow capped peaks of Ramsau, gluhwein, fresh mountain air and a wonderful sense of contentment I felt for the first time in many years.  My little bell is special – to me anyway.  Besides, as the adage goes – “Every time a bell rings, an angel gets his wings.”

I pray my angel hears my bell and spreads his wings...

God has a sense of humour

I vividly remember my first visit to Paris and the first time I stood at the Place de l’Etoile (which has been renamed Place Charles de Gaulle) - the crazy intersection surrounding the Arc de Triomphe.  There are no less than 12 straight avenues which intersect at this point – hence the historical name which translates as Square of the Star.  The apparent absence of distinct white lines to regulate the flow of traffic, with ten cars abreast seems like madness to me.   Crossing seems like definite suicide – hence the subway for pedestrians.  Today the Arc de Triomphe and the Place de l’Etoile seems to be a fitting metaphor for another very complicated crossroad in my life.

Sometimes life seems a lot like the Place de l’Etoile to me.  There is so much hustle and bustle and flow of activity around me and the disturbing thought occurs to me that unless I know where I am  going – I am sure to get lost if I take the wrong avenue.  Trust me, I know – I’ve been lost in Paris and ended up in the Pigalle district! 

And life is never simple is it? I really think God has a strange sense of humour at times.  Why not just place me at an intersection with just four intersecting avenues where the options are limited and therefore simpler:  A, B, C or D?  But no – life is more fun when it is has a buffet of complications  – a pastiche of no less than 12 intersecting and intricate issues and avenues (A to J?) which is enough confuse the hell out of a simple-minded woman like me.

I wish it were possible to disambiguate life and people as we are able to do in computational linguistics in which word sense disambiguation aims at identifying which sense of a word is used in a sentence when the word has multiple meanings.  Wouldn’t it be useful if we could use the same process to figure out what people are actually saying when their words and actions are infused with a variety of dissonant meanings?  Wouldn’t it be bloody marvellous if we could devise an algorithm to figure people out?  But I guess it would come with its own caveat – people can speak in metonymic terms which screws up the whole discourse all over again. 

 

In fact, people are far too much like their words – infinitely variable and very context sensitive.  Just like words, people do not easily divide up into distinct or discrete sub-meanings.  I find myself empathising with the bleary eyed lexicographer in the dungeons of a library, who frequently discovers in corpora loose and overlapping word meanings; discovers their standard or conventional meanings extended, modulated and exploited in a bewildering variety of ways.  The same applies to people… I have come to the conclusion that some people are simply impossible to pin down and figure out.  Even when you think you know them better than anyone on the planet – trust me, you haven’t scratched the surface to the Pandora’s Box within. 

Which begs the question – can you ever truly know someone – who they are, deep down - there where the Disprin dissolves? 

I am beginning to think that it is not entirely possible.  We are all palimpsests – ancient scrolls of parchment which have been written upon twice, the first writing having been erased to make place for the second.  The first writing is our usually tormented and twisted childhoods, past experiences, memories, defeats, victories, history.  The second – seems to be like the etch-and-scratch magic slates we used to play with as children – with what seems to be written on the surface so easily removed by sleight of hand.  And the text keeps changing, the discourse is discordant, fluid and at times meaningless.  And unfortunately, in many instances the first layer of writing is etched too deeply to be erased entirely.  It still rises to the surface in the most annoying and inconvenient ways and no matter how hard you try to erase it, it permeates the second layer and any other one after that.

I have found myself with the same sense of bewilderment and exasperated confusion as the lexicographer in the dungeons of the library.  Unpredictability, instability and chaos seems to be the order of the day these days.  Nothing seems to fit the way it should and as soon as I think I have the corpora down pat, I find another layer of meaning to this tear inducing mascara haemorrhaging onion of life!  Lately, my favourite three letters of the alphabet are W.. T…F. With good reason.  Even the calendar agrees after Tuesdays…

Lately, I tend to feel like the confused tourist at the foot of the Arc de Triomphe all too often.  I look around me at the bewildering ever metamorphosing life I have and sometimes I wonder  which of the twelve traffic lanes I should jump into first. The challenge these days is merely crossing the street – without getting hit by a bus or worse.  Perhaps I should try to Forrest Gump my way to the other side.

It seems like such a fitting image for me today – at the centre of the chaos is the Arc de Triomphe which stands as a spectacular monument in honour of those who fought and died for France in the French Revolutionary and Napoleonic Wars.  The names of the French victories and French generals are inscribed on the inner and outer surfaces of this spectacular monument.  

Aren’t we all a similar monument to our own victories and casualties as we struggle through life?  I am a monument to what I have survived and conquered but like the Arc de Triomphe, the names of the casualties are inscribed on the inner walls and the apparent emphasis on Victory belies the sadness of loss and death entombed within.  Underneath its spectacular vault, lies the forlorn Tomb of the Unknown Soldier with the flame that is kept burning day and night.  I too have a Tomb for my Unknown Soldier and he too is unaware of the devastation he has left in his wake.  Like the fallen hero beneath the Arc de Triomphe, he is blissfully unaware of the loving care that is taken to tend to the lantern – to keep the flame burning.

I recall watching the crazy maelstrom of traffic at this bizarre intersection for a while and I have come to realise that there are two options here:  step defiantly and confidently into the lane of oncoming traffic (in the face of disaster defiance is often the only recourse) or find the subway – it is there – you only need to read the signs to find it.  Then again, my French has always been just enough to get me into trouble.  Perhaps that explains it.  So, for now, I’m scouring the landscape for signposts which will lead me to the magical subway to get me from my point A the elusive point D or was it E, or F or…. Dammit!

Can you feel your toes?

I generally hate Mondays – the relaxed state of the weekend usually hasn’t shifted sufficiently overnight to compensate for the chaos of a new week and I inevitably find myself feeling a bit “jet-lagged” on a Monday morning.  This has been expounded recently by the move to daylight savings’ time and my body clock is still having some difficulty adjusting to getting up an hour earlier.  As Mondays go, today was an eventful one.

I had a CT scan today and as I lay there in the very draughty fashionable hospital robe  with my arms raised above my head in a very small confined space, I tried to focus on everything but the fact that I felt like a pilchard in a tin “….breathe…. One….two…..three…. breathe….four…. breathe….let me out of here…. Five…. Breathe….@#$% …. Six…. Breathe… #$@!... Seven…. Take me out of here…. Eight…. Breathe… @#$%!!!

Isn’t the human mind amazing?  We filter out so much of what our senses take in and it isn’t until you focus on something like how the very fashionable Chanel hospital robe feels on your skin, that you become aware of it.  So I lay there in this horrible tube trying not to panic – yes, I am claustrophobic.  I thought about everything else but what was happening to me in that moment.  Focus on your breathing, focus on whether you can feel your toes, how your hair feels in the nape of your neck, whether or not the bow at the back of the gown had somehow worked its way loose and someone had got a glimpse of your butt, the glow of the red light on the awful humming machine which I prayed was not an incinerator or that I would hear "Beam her up, Scotty!"… and eventually I tried to just breathe.

Rewind a few minutes prior to that – a rather unfriendly nurse poked and prodded me for a vein while I tried very hard to think of… well anything but the large needle that was searching for the vein… after three attempts we were in business and my mascara was on my chin.  I’m such a baby when it comes to needles.  Yes, I bawled. Then the IV was opened and an ice cold stream of saline solution coursed up my arm… until  the dye was injected.  Suddenly, I didn’t have to worry about whether I still had toes or not – it felt like hot lava coursing through my body and like I had been sucking on some screws and bolts – an awful metallic taste in the mouth…. Very nice… especially since I had been fasting for 5 hours prior to the scan.  Note to self, suck a Lindt ball before you go in next time.

So while I was being wheeled backwards and forwards into this tunnel, I became very aware of my breathing… How it sounds, how it feels and how I my inner child was protesting against being put in a small space.  She was pounding on the walls wailing to be let out.  Isn’t it incredible that dye injected into your vein can illuminate every important organ in your body and highlight causes for concern or problems? 

Wouldn’t it be useful if we had something similar for matters of the heart and mind?  Wouldn’t it be useful if we could inject a magic dye to diagnose exactly what is wrong, exactly which part of your heart is broken and then just cut out the offensive bits like you remove a mole? Life would be so much simpler if we could “set a broken heart” like you “set a broken arm”, take a couple of aspirin and tomorrow you will be fine…” Keep it still in the sling, and you should be able to function.”

Then it dawned on me -  the solution to all this confusion, stress and tension – is perhaps to focus on the things I have filtered out.  Like we suddenly become aware of the shirt on our backs when someone asks how it feels, perhaps that is what is required.  A period of stillness – of taking time out – breathe,  feel, breathe, feel all the little things,  and be grateful that you can feel your toes even if they are red hot.

Today, also brought its share of blessings.  One of the biggest blessings came in the form of a wonderful friend who offered to come with me to the hospital today, not because I needed someone to hold my hand (except for the assistant whose hand I bruised while I was being prodded with a needle) but because she didn’t want me to be alone.  How does one begin to place a value on that?  A friend who is there to just sit with you and share your fear and just be with you because you don’t want to be alone is a true friend and this one is a keeper.  The second was that there is no sign of tumour or anything significant – that is if my powers of deduction and translation of medicalese is anything to go by.  The pictures are rather odd and after one glance, I figured I prefer the outside to the inside.  It is disturbing to know what you look like on the inside. 

I wonder what it would be like if we could scan someone’s soul – the inner person -  as we do the body? Wouldn’t that be bloody marvellous??  Imagine subjecting any new potential partner to a soul scan to see if you should keep them or throw them back!  It would be great if we could X-ray people to see how broken they really are inside and whether or not you should even attempt to get involved.  It would certainly save a lot of heartache.

It was also a humbling experience.  We all look equally frail in our designer hospital robes and all feel vulnerable and exposed.  Today I realised again what a gift health is and how important it is to take care of this body – it’s the only one I have.  Lying there with my arms above my head in the tunnel, I felt really vulnerable and afraid.  Suddenly, I realised that I’m not as invincible as I imagined, that a change in my  health, could radically change my entire life.  So perhaps it is time to focus on the important life functions like breathing and then the rest will follow.  As long as I have a breath and I can hold it in and breathe it out again, I can cope, even if my toes are on fire, my mouth tastes like I’m sucking on nails and I’m clinging desperately to my sense of dignity in an awful hospital robe.  So I lay there like a pilchard and remembered the song my daughter used to love as a  toddler… “I feel it in my fingers, I feel it in my toes ….” 

Switches flicked?  Gratitude, inner peace, silence and all the faith buttons I could find.  I closed my eyes and I heard my daughter sing, I felt my toes, I felt the robe, I felt my breathing and I felt alive.  

That is enough for now.

The Full Moon and the Erotic Synapse

What an eventful week or three this has been.  I saw a spectacular moon close to the equinox, learnt about Macaque monkeys and mirror neurons, explored various options in night-and-day flu medication, and relished sizzling boerewors on the coals in Garigal Reserve with 70 fellow South Africans. Each of these elements relate to healing and recovery on some level which I will relate in the next few days.

I was unfortunate enough to develop the usual flu symptoms and fever which coincided with the equinox and glorious full moon.  For some reason I always notice the full moon. In my feverish state, I spent many hours staring at the glowing moon outside my window. If you are into astrology, you will say it is because I am a Cancerian and my ruling planet is the Moon.  But in truth, I love watching a full moon in the night sky.  There is something very tranquil and comforting about the full moon.  As a child I always believed that the moon was God’s way of keeping an eye on us – as if it was some magical lens that he opened from time to time to see what we are up to.  The bigger the moon – the more he had opened the lens to have a good look at what we are doing here.  So today, I still look up at the full moon each time and I wonder what He sees if indeed He is looking back at me. And the child in me feels safer during a full moon because he is keeping watch.

The phases of the moon are not unlike the phases of life – it changes from a small slice of magic moonlight to a glowing orb to the blackness of new moon.  In the phases of the moon I discovered a metaphor for life and healing.  There are lean times, times of darkness but it will be followed by a bright glowing full moon which illuminates the sky with its silver irredescence.  I guess it depends how you look at it and what you are looking at.   

I watched a beautiful curly haired toddler at the shopping mall today – a gorgeous little boy who was keen to explore the world around him and discover the hidden wonders of the coffee shop but he kept looking back to see if he could see his mom.  He needed security to go out into the world and needed a safe base to return to.  I thought about how this manifests in adults – perhaps periods of boldness and risk taking punctuated by periods of seeking grounding, safety and consolidation.  Like the phases of the moon – alternating phases of growth and equilibrium.

Like the bright eyed toddler looking back to see his mom, we all seek a steady reliable anchor in our partner but crave to pursue what is exciting, inspiring and mysterious.  Call me an idealist but I believe love and desire are not mutually exclusive.  I just think that they don’t necessarily take place at the same time.  Isn’t it perhaps that security and passion are two separate fundamental human needs that spring from different motives and end up pulling us in different directions?

Rationally, I expect men, when they see a younger woman walking down the street in a short skirt, bustier and come-and-get-me boots, to get turned on but I wonder how many of them are able to distintuish between erotic desire and real love.  We always hope that they are mature enough to distinguish between the two – but sadly many don’t. This is where many men get lost in the abyss of a male midlife crisis. I have come to realize that the excitement of such attractions lies in the absence of psychological complexity.

This tension between security and adventure is a paradox to manage not a problem to solve.  It’s like a puzzle – we need each at different times but you can’t have both simultaneously.  I have come to the conclusion that love and desire are an ebb and flow – two clashing forces in a permanent state of flux always in search of the critical balance point. This is where commitment becomes an issue.  

When we become a monogamous couple we immediately set boundaries and delineate zones and this is when people start experimenting with how far they can push the boundaries before trip-wiring sensitivities.  We define zones of togetherness and zones of privacy and the mother of all boundaries is fidelity and the sacred cow of the pasture is monogamy.  That more than anything confirms our specialness to each other – conversely when you no longer feel special – the tingle starts and your eyes wander.  

That is why affairs are in essence a search for validation – a quest for someone to confirm our significance or desirability. (I use the term loosely here – the same applies to ridiculous flings which men have with women young enough to be their children in fulcrum of a midlife crisis.)  Such relationships by their very nature lend themselves to passion – they are risky, exciting, dangerous and secluded from the disapproving eyes of the world.  This means they are also luxuriously free of the realities and mundane practicalities of everyday life and the domesticity of a committed relationship.  It may represent the missing piece of the puzzle but sadly many people realize too late that it is just one miserable piece and the rest of the puzzle – the big picture – lies with the “more boring” spouse/partner.

This shadow of the other person is lurking at the boundary of all relationships.  She can be the sexy young Brazilian who flirts with you on a cruise, a waitress, an attractive cashier in the supermarket, the smiling stranger on the bus.  She is the forbidden fruit  - the manifestation of men’s desire for what lies beyond the boundary.  This is the strange corollary of a relationship – a couple implies resistance to this third party – but in order for the relationship to survive – it must have enemies. 

Isn’t it odd that when we believe someone to be incapable of infidelity, when the realization dawns that they are capable – even if only in fantasy – we feel betrayed.  What can be more unnerving than your partner’s freedom –which could include the freedom not to love you or to become a different person from the one who pledged undying love for you?  Such fantasies are embodiments of their freedom and separateness and it is scary.  So what do we do?  We set boundaries and rules and hope to keep our partners faithful – does it not then become enforced monogamy? 

I am beginning to wonder if we have not become so conditioned about the traditional notions of relationships that we have preconceived ideas and rules about what constitutes intimacy and too few for autonomy.  Are we perhaps too focused on establishing closeness that we have forgotten how to sustain individuality? Our ideology of love often leaves us uncomfortable and unsettled in the face of pursuing autonomy.

I have come to the conclusion that while we crave closeness it is often the space between us – the distance – that creates the seemingly elusive erotic synapse.  Perhaps that is what erotic intelligence is – creating distance and then knowing how to bring that space to life.  The analogy of the cat and the piece of string comes to mind again.  I think therefore that love rests on two pillars – surrender and autonomy.  Like the toddler in the shop, the need for separateness is inextricably linked to the need for closeness. 

Perhaps our greatest mistake is that we expect our relationships to act as a buttress against the arrows and slings of life but isn’t it ironic that love by its very nature is unstable?  We try to shore it up, batten down the hatches and attempt to create a sense of predictability to foster a sense of security.  But I am beginning to think that these very mechanisms we use to protect ourselves, place us at even greater risk and set us up for more heartache. (And no,  I am not condoning infidelity or proposing the debased immoral notion of the so-called “open” relationship – quite the contrary.)

Perhaps the real voyage of discovery is not about finding new landscapes but in seeing the landscape with new eyes.  A perceptual shift – and my recent circumstances have been a catalyst for a few shifts.  Perhaps we need to hurt ourselves into this paradigm shift.  Perhaps we need a sense of the unknown in a familiar space and perhaps we need to recognize  inherent mystery and separateness in each other.  Do we subconsciously neutralize each other’s complexity and see only the image of our partner which conforms with a creation based on our own set of needs?  Do we select partners whose proclivities match our vulnerabilities?

From all of  this, which switches have been flicked?  I have learnt that I don’t need to abdicate my person to merit love and that your need for freedom does not necessarily constitute a rejection of me a person.  The autonomy pilot light is spluttering to life next to the shattered dial of security.  Note to self – get a new glass for the  dial – armour plated and shatterproof.  Switched off the insecurity switch and pressed the letting-go button.  Still hoping the fear-of-the-unknown light will blow out soon and that the doubt fuse will go soon.  It needs to be replaced with a brighter one – perhaps optimism or faith would help.  Cranked up the stillness and acceptance to maximum capacity and pushed the strength lever as far as it could go. 

Now, we need to look up from the dashboard and see where we are going.  Time to look at the landscape with new eyes.  Perhaps the dark lines are not dongas but rivers which the moonlight hasn’t caught up with yet.  Perhaps it will look different in the glow of the full moon in a month or so.  Time will tell.