Lost Voice

When did I loose my voice?

That's an easy one.

When I realized that what I had to say wasn't of interest, or boring, or just plain wrong.

It's been a long time.

Words, it seems, should in general be used for light entertainment. Or possibly a sobstory. Tradegy can be popular. If it's not to complex. Preferably with a handkerchief and a therapeuft involved. One in each hand.

Sayings are also ok,

                                 but - heavens no - not your own. An ancient asian guy's saying (exakt country and location uninteresting) is fine, for a facebook post. As long as he is far removed enough, geographically and timeline wise. He would most likely be inconvinient. Would he be here.

I learnt how to blabber now. Blabbering is like a drug. Gives some release perhaps, hold real things at bay. It grows old - pretty fast.

So I will take a walk. Quiet breeze around.

And then, I will edit a story, that doesn't fit any cathegory. Somewhere there, a lost voice might be swimming around.

In Spite of It All

 In spite of it all. Mother nature keeps changing, the earth keeps revolving.

Field on morning walk

Shit Happens

Madonna mural, Malmö

To accept that

                         the world is not fair.

That is growing up. I'm surprised it took so long. It's so easy to see; ask any refugee, or victim of famine or beauchratic, lazy glitches.

To accept that we are fully responsible for our lives. That's growing up. However late, however hard (if its any consolation, most people never do. At least not in this broken world divided in winners and loosers. Now, that's mature.). For certain things. For the temperature of our own will. For the things we do have som power over.

Shit happens. Sometimes a seemingly endless array of shit happens, one thing after another. Simoustanly. This is not a small matter; people die you know.

But there are steps; small, ludiocrucy stubborn, steps that we might be able to take. That we might choose to. It's a gamble if anyone will applaude you.

Walk anyway.

Cloudy, my sister's garden

Whatever You Do

Whatever you do you will die.

To remember that would be my sagely advice,                    if l had any.

Which I don't. Of course, I don't. Enough of self-appointed life coaches around. If they know how to tell someone to live,

bless them.

Whatever you do you will die. That is not an advice. Or, a metaphor, for that matter.

It's a truth. One of those absolute truths, that can be good to keep in mind. When you make choices -

be kind.

There are many broken people, who could need a smile without a demand for one back. There are those striving for perfection. Pity those. They cannot win. And remember,

                    remember,

                                        remember,

We will all die.

We Are All

 

In bloom. My sister's garden

I had a rambling in my head,

about choices, and fate; about misfortunes and adaptions; about boredom and safety. It went on and on. It could have gone on

             forever.

I wrote a chaper about having a conversation with Frida Khalo once (l wrote several, not being able to help myself in such a grand company, however imaginary.).

Nothing spectacular. Perhaps pretentios. But inspirational. For myself that is. The main thread was the wounded creator.  I named it Goldpowered Bloody Monster, a simple reference to the accident that broke her column, her back, in pieces, while golden powder rained over her, from a tablet of an artist that was in the same accident. Or, so the story goes, the myth ... such drama.

I was rambling in my head. Until l stopped and reminded myself that "empty heads are happier." But one thought couldn't help but slipping in, in this sorting game of situations and efforts. The thought was simple. Whatever path we choose, whatever we give up, whatever happens to us, or we draw to us. To be here. Just to live in this world:

We are all goldpowdered bloody monsters.

Water in evening, Malmö

Water Day

Water purifies.

Trauma get a hold in the body,

and can therefor be released through the body. 

"Vanity is my favorite sin," said the devil.

In which case his very far away, 

or very close.

Water is soft, and bend around. Seeks 

the lowest places. Waits while the world pushes on. A rolemodel, simply. Or, a transforming element. Or, just water, blessed by its own essence.

Water day; soft, bending, purifying. My favorite, as far as elements goes.

Always Home

 Be with Spirit whereever you go,

this is not a rehersal,

this is not a commercial.

If you have people who cares for you deeply, you are the lucky one.

If you have people who love you sincerely,

you hit the home run.

Then there's nowhere you need to go,

apart from heart,

                    to heart,

                                  to heart.

You are always home.

Gamla stan, Malmö, Sweden

Empty-heads

Emptying my head

I'm glad simply,

to be alive,

to move, and move, and move (though I have a hard tim remembering.    that particulat Tai Chi movement). Never mind.

To move

              to move 

                             to move

There's so much to cherish.

So much

               so much

                              so much

Empty-heads are happier.

Morning photo

Michael Tells Tales of Unknown Realities

 The book Travel Tales from Unknown Realities is available on Amazon. If you are curious to know more, go there and read the first pages. Or if you want to listen to Michael presenting his adventures on Wendy's Coffeehouse CLICK HERE.

Michael at Isla de Mujer, Mexico

There's a Price

I will spend the rest of my life,

healing myself. Everything will be a pain, will be a joy. 

It's better than numbness. Not yours but my own. There's a price.

For the rest of my life I will fight, 

for the rest of my life - pain. 

For the rest of my life, missing out.

Missing in            just step by step            in.

For the rest of my life I might fall.

But couldn't we all,

couldn't we all?

Virgin of Guadalupe and Snake

It's Easy

 I'm thinking of those, that take a hit,

            after hit,

                        after hit,

Until they can't get up,

anymore.

The beauty of summer eve

When wonderful, wonderful, risk-free life;

Feels like a dream. Is a dream.

A dream,

            a dream,

                        a dream.

Of course, it is.

Or a happy ending,

is nowhere to be seen.

Of course, it isn't. There is no such thing. The only ending we know - is death, and even of that, we can't be sure. Maybe there's something undone, after the end.

I'm thinking of those, that can't get up anymore.

Walking on Air

When light as air, 

            then you can come home.

Be light as a feather.

To let go of anger, of offence,

in small matters,

is not being good,

it's being lighter.

Doodle: Walking on wind

Only in Very Big Things - those that matters, is anger allowed. Only if it it fuels the engine of your so-called inner child, or daemon, or soul. Only if it defends the other creepers, toddlers, fallen black angels, that tries to learn to walk. Again. Or, for the first time.

Then let it out.

Till then, I'm practicing

                                          to walk on air.

Older

 As people are growing older            and older,

the quest doesn't become long life, as the days are running out.

It becomes meaning,

            if they're wise.

If there's only more days, drained of meaning,

life becomes

            unbearable.

Photo by Ravi Kant

Fortunately it seems,

most people think,

that squeezing out a couple of kids, or attain power, or just be part of any

powerplay (as if the very act of reproduction, or pulling other peoples' strings, or meddle where they need not           is quite enough to, not soak in perhaps, but get enough moisture, not to die of thirst.).

Bless their hearts.

!

Self portrait: with Spirit

But for the rest of us; the tainted, the tattered, the broken            the worried minds,

the answer can never be that simple. Or, we simply can't reach that far (it's difficult when your arms are lame or sinkhole gripped tired.)

Meaning is elusive

can never be owned (for the power people it's as irritating as love. In the end you cannot fake it, however hard you try).

We have to be very imaginative,            or very simple

For now, the highest meaning in my own Self,

is being with tribe (when energy allows)

being alone with Spirit (when need arise)

and the goal supreme            worth every strife

is making pancakes for embodied Love.

Sun as in Sunflower

Sunflowers follow me, over the world. Or, they're not actually following me as in trodding behind me on spindly roots. Rather, they grow where l stay. Perhaps l'm dtawn to sunflower people. Being one myself.

In my sister's garden

From Magic land in Virginia to a city plot in New Orleans. Over the Atlantic to Sweden, in my parent's garded, in my oldest sister's garden, there they are: sunny faces, explicitly oversized. Life symbols -determined to make things right.

Cleaning Day

 If you don't know what to do, you can always clean your room,

or your laptop, or your wardrobe, or that place under the sofa that we don't want to talk about.

If you don't know what to do, you can always exercise your body,

it needs attention too. Mine is hardly a temple, but its a sweet shack,

for the soul to dwell, to experience the world. 

Use small words. Words are a threatened species: overused, overblown ... words can get tired too you know. Save the big ones, for another day.

This is not sad. If that's what you believe you haven't experienced sadness. Your simply a spoilt brat (Hey, I' talking to myself here ... you know).

Live long, be wise, stay strong ... and,

if you don't know what to do, you can always clean your room,

Spirit Can't Be Forced

Spirit can't be forced

     just listened to

        reeled in

            playfully

Aboriginers do something creative every morning

first thing

If only a line

    in the sand

I was told

to show the Creator    

                they are willing to be creators too

If I remember it right. Doesn't matter. It's a great idea,

        reeling in Spirit first thing, in the morning

transforming dreamtime to creating time

         very softly, throughout the day

Over the abyss - journal

The Joy of a Finished Book

Editing is a glorious thing. To have a text, see what the author aims at, and take up the brushes - figuratively speaking - and get to work. Sometimes you need a knife - also figuratively - to make the story, big or small, shine through. Never is it as satisfying as when you can do it for someone you love. Therefor, I got a big grin on my face and a soft feeling in my heart, when l read the dedication in Travel Tales from Unknown Realities.

My husband's tales

There is an added tingling warmth through the heart area, when l personally know the journey and the hardships we both been through to get these tales published. With no further ado, if you are curious, you find the first chapters available on Amazon, as well as an online version, if you don't want to wait for print, which is in the process.

My beautiful husband

Lightness Altar

Lightness. Wind and air. A precious memory of ocean; seashells l found in my handbag. Faerystone and weddingrings; from a roadtrip, from lives of commitment. The most humble of altars can hold many things - embedded in a makeshift arrangement.

Lightness altar - until l need the brushes