In like a lion (the winds of March)

10 March 2019 at 04:33
Haven’t slept yet this night.

“Everything hurts and I’m dying.” Not at all physically (well except my aching eyes, too much writing and reading on the screen); only mentally. Have been busy helping people though. Should be positive about myself I guess.

Tomorrow (oh actually today) I bring a friend to the airport. Leaving in four hours!!! So I have to get up in three.

Why do I feel the need to drag myself through the mud online? Bizarre.

It’s like I’m apologizing to my old bullies, except now my only bullies are me, myself and I.


10 March 2019 at 07:01

The Artist’s Prayer
Creative Power of the Universe (CPU),
I offer myself to You,
to do with me as You will.
Relieve me of the bondage of self,
that I may better do Your will.
Take away my difficulties,
that victory over them
may bear witness to those I wish to help
of Your Power, Your Love, and Your Way of life.
May I do Your will always!

“All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.” — Ernest Hemingway

Today is the birthday anniversary of a beautiful person I once knew. He was loved by all.

Last night, feeling a bit wrong about everything, as often happens late at night, when I have not written for myself and myself only, but instead under the influence of many sources of input, I had to imagine what such a person would say to a person like me, in the midst of a post-destructive-creative shame-storm, who felt sometimes like nothing she did was right or good enough.

I imagined he would say, “Oh, my dear! I’m so sorry to hear you feel that way! You are wonderful, exactly as you are! Please be kinder to yourself.”

So, I thought I should take his advice.

And I know he would have given that advice to any one of us who possesses even an ounce of the kindness that he himself had.

So if you’re in need of those words,

I hereby offer them to you as well, through his spirit and/or my memory of it.


The truth is I feel like a terrible, awful, steaming pile of crap; don’t know whether it’s from the excess wine the other night with friends, or from the apparent attempt at digital self-annihilation through blogging about it the next morning. TBD.


Yesterday [March 9]’s piece #1): although it felt honest at the time, in my giddy next-morning self-irony, like having a bit of fun at my own expense, it was also looking at a situation through an incomplete lens; as though one eye was shut. A strange painting, made by an inexpert painter; not a documentary or true photograph. In the documentary version the situation had been as lovely as I perhaps made it seem dull or sadly comical.

It felt unjust not only to myself but also to others. So that canvas is archived for now. Probably to reappear again one day when I can forgive its existence, or at least nurture it towards a clearer version of the truth. This is how every other thing has been made visible again.


I was speaking through a voice that is perhaps not truly my own. (Though aren’t they all my own, in some way? I must not disown any part of me, if I wish to become whole, and thereby empty; in perfect balance of attachment and detachment.)

“Give me more wine or leave me alone,” said Rumi. And in allowing wine back into my life, on a whim as whimsical as the one that disallowed it, I have also experienced re-connection with some people whom I love. The zone’s emptiness is filled back to brimming.

Of course, in an ideal world, moderation is key. “Everything in moderation, including moderation,” says my dad, my most beloved teacher. I am my father’s daughter. I will test the limits of the last statement repeatedly after testing the limits of the first.

Perhaps, in this, I am more scientific than I thought. Or perhaps he is less so than he thought. We sit each on the end of a teeter-totter, switching perspectives in the playground of the world. But that is the beauty of living. The one who is at the centre at all times, or the one who always stays above, or always below, will not create and connect in the same way. I have at short intervals stood in the middle, as though surfing that balance, straddling two worlds; bending first one knee then the other. But after a time I grew bored of that inertia, and jumped down into the gravel. Or I would crash onto the beach and wander the water’s edge; investigate the dark pools with their teeming green life, spawning in intermittent sunlight.

Some people have the knack of remaining in the inertia of perfect balance, or at least they have the auto-support system of perfect self-acceptance of their own occasional excesses. I don’t (yet) have this knack. Perhaps obtaining it would be my key to balance.

Yesterday [March 9]’s piece #2): this was something I’d been working at in the drafts folder for a while. I wanted to save the draft in the WP draft history but wasn’t sure how to do that without publishing privately (yes you can save without publishing, but that draft does not remain in the version history the next time the work is saved). I should have been doing the versions in my usual offline app, but things don’t always go as they should. I go with the creative flow instead of doing things the logical way.

I’d put aside my physical and spiritual morning routine last week, to let in the wild northern winds of winter’s end with open arms, but the loss of that routine is causing wear and tear on my system. Experiment concluded on that, for now.


Balance (physical, mental, emotional/spiritual) of course is key. Yes I completely lost my balance. I am easily switched into new directions by any outside influence. If there is but one thing constant with me it is change. It’s not the fault of the outside influence but rather a fault in my ability or willingness to stay on a straight and narrow course.

Why is that? Because I get “carried away with” everything. (Heard that endlessly in my youth.)

Way back when, it was on the backs of motorcycles and in loud cars and even two-seater planes, as my insane luck or the adventures of those around me would have it; or coursing down white rivers, or looking for an elegant place to shit on deserted mangrove islands. (Sometimes I was not as lucky.) Later it was in silent canoes on silver lakes, in starry-eyed groups under northern lights, standing under waterfalls or gripping with weak fingers onto lichen-bright crags of rock. Now it is in passing tornados and flights of fancy.

That has to stop. (Or does it?)


I’d like to develop boundaries for everyone’s comfort (not just my own), and increase the use of my self-made systems. Easier said than done.

I’m usually the green light of our household’s two central powers, should I choose to dichotomize. I allow entrance to any entity that hovers near, including intermittent tornados. Destruction can be rejuvenating as well, it is like “cutting off the head of the Buddha,” (entertaining non-attachment to ideas) and there is a certain light to be had in allowing a bit of contrast, to put it mildly, or even a lot. But if I *only* employ the green light, it means traffic jam and chaos for us all.

I have certainly employed the stop light in me as well, even in the path of passing tornados, but it runs counter to my regular way of being. Someone told me [x person] is my kryptonite. I disagree. I am my own kryptonite. It is I, it is me who invites the chaos, with my beckoning green light. S/He is but the vessel, and a changeling one at that.

T takes on the systems I make, he incorporates them like clockwork and meanwhile I think of new systems that I soon forget to follow. I’d like to return to making lists every day, as he now does. The MIT (most important three), every morning, on a scrap of paper. But also the daily routine and meal plans.

I have to take more time to be still. I have to get back to earth-touching and reverence and

Allowing sentences to remain unfinished.

Also I sometimes miss writing in my journal, without publishing. That was true therapy and a calming balm for me. Without private word-purges I’m becoming overtired and unfocussed and trying too hard to do everything at once. Of course that results in a simple crash and fail.

Sometimes I think I’ve evolved past the need to write in my journal, that everything can and must be shared with everyone at all times. Then the Universe says, “check it, girl. See what happens when a cyclone crosses your path. You’re not grounded anymore. You’re swirling in a beweldig wind of dust and debris off to wonderland, wailing with imagined wizards.

“What you need instead, is to remember the dervishes.

“This is what you must become. A grounded, aware, concentrated, free-spinning wheel of balance, bringing beauty and harmony to all as you spin.”

That’s what the Universe said to me.


One thing that helps is remembering to count my blessings.

Thank you for being here, now. Especially you who accepted me unconditionally when I would not accept myself. I carry your kindness forever in my heart.


xo n


Photo by Shashank Kumawat via Pexels



4 thoughts on “In like a lion (the winds of March)

  1. Thank you for writing this, and I for one, am deeply appreciative of your sharing the roiling’s of your mind through the rapids of life. Self doubt, shame, humiliation, infect us all either some or all of the time. Reading of your movement through it, written beautifully I might add, is more than an encouragement to the rest of us, it is an inspiration. I hope you continue to share the initimacies of your life. Dr. Bob

    Liked by 2 people

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