I always knew I would never adapt to a normal life, especially if normal was the bland example of existence that was being lived . My instincts signalled early on to tolerate anything superficial and mundane. That sooner of later the world would reveal the magic that I felt was always lurking beyond the surface.

I am curious if it is typical to know that you don't belong as a child. Although I could accept the genetics and family dynamics, I also knew that my formula was the Cookoo's egg in the family nest. Maybe that was necessary so that early on I would develope the skills to pretend to be a bird of a different feather, to hone the qualities and blend. So much so, that for the first chapter of my life, even I myself could believe that i could be accepted by the flock. It was that belief that summed me to consider I was a failure. A message that my mother has been trying to drive home for twenty years. All the while inside me, internally I was rejecting and breaking down.

Certainly I can accept now that this period of my life was a good one. A necessary rejection of the crippled foundation that should have been home. My father, intouch enough with both worlds, to encourage me to flee, leave, reject the predictable path of adaption. His instincts and life on the remote island helped him to know the qualities of a simplier life. Even more , to know the kinship of nature and ones place in it.

I am astounded now that I had the courage to leave London at 27, knowing deeply that I would never return. Maybe it was more of a case of being afraid to stay. That my fear of continuing to live there, and face everyone that expected me to be the robust egg of a being, with the radiant shell of deception. A shell that had already started to crack and crumble and the effort to maintain the facade was taking more effort that I had left in me.

So flee I did. Not quite knowing where I would end up, or how I would fund the ability to get there, but it was in my mind a case of life or death. Death of a personality that is. A personality that was so far removed from the yolk of my being, that the vacume was consuming the facade.

The opportunity of reinventing the self was probably the most wonderful gift I ever allowed myself. Here I am 16 years later, once again in that space. The shell of the last 12 years of marriage all cracked and beyond a fix in any measure. At least now I can see the opportunity. I know what I surrended and allowed to be lost in the process of adaption to acceptance. I also appreciate that life is under nourished if you allow these things to be lost.

So today I am a seeker of new things. All the qualities that I allowed to be absent in my past, are the focus of my future.
This time I will try without the shell. For there is little resiliance left in me. There is nothing I wish to face. I have been hollowed out, so much so, that I feel practically transparent. Life and harshness has purified me. I have tried to be hard and uneffected. But I also found my heart. It was in the process of loosing it all, that you are left with the authentic self. You have the choice to know it and feel it. Options are to avoid it and live from another place




just not a very good example of the

An empty canvas

In a town of 400 little happens to just one person. The ripples in the pond extend far and wide, and ocassionally they cause self induced whirlpools or tsunami's in the outer deltas. To discern the reality is impossible. One might even start believing the tail ends of the story, even if being there at the origins, because the stories can be more convincing that reality itself.

Only a spoon knows how deep the bowl is', Freida had reassured me when offering her token statement after the painter left me. I've held on to that for a while.

This was my life, I was the spoon, the dipstick, the assess of bowl full, bowl half empty. If I was a spoon did that make him the substance in the bowl or the bowl itself. Was he the container, the volume of influence that held a separate gravity that made the vessel contain and giving the spoon a place to rest. Or was he the contents of the meal an offering of mixed fair. An original feast of potent dreams and intent that had dwindled over years to become the reluctant grits of necessity. Just to put something in the bowl, forgetting the original desire and possibilities of the feast and the love in life.

Living over the hill from the center of town much can escape me. Unless I was to make a habit to frequent the key fusion spots where information is exchanged. The post office, the bar and the coffee shop and Town Hall. All offering their lilt to the story. Assumptions the individual seasoning that each teller makes the recipe and influence of their own.

Personally I do not want to add to the ripples, I would rather skirt the circumference and find an acceptable cove to rest in. One without people and stories and the constant hail and impact of unnecessary ripples from a bitter x. So that I can linger in a vacant canvas, as yet uninfluenced by the prevailing winds, and maybe, maybe one day, find my own colors and raise my own flag.

A Twelve Year Cycle

I am here a timid mortal. Old and wise in years, yet born anew in the potential of the future.

In real words, i will be divorced in mid March, a single mum, in a one horse town. Actually a 3 horse town, but my point is made. Our marriage will not make it to lucky 13 our anniversary April 1st. An unintentional date for the wedding... it just kinda happend that way. (thats another story, its a romantic one, and for now, I wish to lament).

So I am emerging after 4 months of unforeseen complications that unravelled during the mother in law's visit for our sons 6th birthday. I can confidently say that if she had not visited we would still be married. But a Cajun catalyst came like a hurricane through our lives with a picnic of poison. She spread her continued threads of influence over her son's world and dealt a fatal blow. That too another story.

Where I am coming from right now is a place of adaption.

Adapting to a world without a man. But my man was never really around, he was here and he dwelled at his leisure. But he rarely participated. Coming home from his day as a painter, he compensated for his giant efforts by expecting the world around him to be taken care of. So my work and effort is still the same. Just one person less in the house to be concerned about. A sad conclusion to come to after all these years. But no matter how content you are for a time, betrayal can slay all the cherished memories. What was was a perfectly framed world, becomes a kaleidoscope of pieces that will never again form the same picture.

So here I am on the other side with out a working formular to continue with, ready for my intentions to unravel in world as yet unseen.
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