Ask the Priestess

Time has seemingly just passed. It did not give advance notice, late apologies, or even a half-hearted hand wave. So, a year and a half has slipped by, and I wonder why I let it happen; why I did not make a record of me, of it, of all those people and events around me. I can feel my fingertips clumsily caress the keyboard, having to retype again and again, trying to unravel the confusion of long silence. Thoughts are not things, right now, but rather elusive shadows which I struggle to individualise. Maybe, if I were an ornithologist I would be more successful at it, with the added expertise of identifying one single song among the cacophony of a jungle canopy. Be that as it may, shortcomings or apprehension aside, I sit at my computer and chose to climb back to the peak of my mountain, ready to yodel away. Silence, like time, is a curious estate to be in. Some people merely feel awkward when facing silence; some others feel lost in the border-less expanse of nothing opened up by s...

They say that we are mostly made up of water: drop, drop, drop,... pond, lake, river, ocean. We, humans, are made up of water. What does it mean, to be made up of water? Would it really matter, if we were mostly air? Would we then believe more in spirits and sprites, see faeries and not call ourselves mad? What if we were made up of granite, would that make us titans but not humans?  We seem intent in making sure that we can be identified with something beyond ourselves, something larger, something unafraid. Water is, indeed, 3/4 of Earth's surface, and where air and fire can be tamed, water on the move is unstoppable. I wonder whether that is the main reason we want to define our components, and feel comfort in repeating it: we are mostly made up of water.  Water, the element identified with emotion, under the auspices of the moon; temperamental, crystalline, salty, sweet, life giving. We are water, thus more than a drop - we are gases but not air, minerals but not...

I am always grateful for the amazing people in my life. Often enough, though, I feel I don't do them justice. I mean, it's just me being me most of the time, so what's there to be got from being my friend? I suppose a self-definition of this ilk is an example of woeful self-deprecation - not necessarily a good thing, despite standard religious education. In fact, I have often realised it is a smoke screen to myself, as many others I use, mostly unaware. But, why would I make use of such a tool? To help ask myself, of course! Or, if not of course, at least it is what I have come to think, considering the amount of questions the strategy has brought up just by making its presence known. Ask myself. Yeah, that sounds deep and important enough. Still... does it matter? Does it matter if I discover some dark reason hidden in the darkness of my forgotten memories? Would my life change dramatically by shedding light on the very instant I first recognised my jealousy, or sa...

There are few things as wonderful as a few hours spent sharing with a friend, running trough the whole range of feeling, from joy to anger to pain. It is such a simple blessing, so easy to attain: meet up with a friend, chat and share. Today I have had such an experience, I've been blessed once again. And I have been reminded why it is so essential to follow one's heart, to put love/friendship/family/passion/you-name-it first and before all else. Seriously, it could have been so easy to be waylaid by the myriad elements in the day - the delay leaving work, the fact that I was feeling guilty for the previous week, the busy days ahead, the tasks that have not been finished as I would want to finish them, the coworker feeling lost whom I have not saved, dot. Dot. DOT. So ominous, to know the list could be continued, that I can always find another reason to flagellate myself and forgo my choice, postpone my time with my friend. So empowering, to a point even funny, to realise...

Time is one of those things we all know to be a construct: hours exist only in clocks, days change at sunset or sunrise or in the middle of the night. And today, after three years, time compressed yet again. It is true what they say, that a minute can be the longest time in the world, and a lifetime but a sigh. Today, once again, I have my attention drawn to the fact that Mam died three years ago, and it feels unbelievable that it could already be so long, and still feel so untrue - as though I could just pick up the phone (or get on Skype) and have a chat. But no. Time, that wonderful trickster, is also a surprising healer. In its unreality, it knows whatever we cling onto is but a phantom; so it works its magic and lulls us to complaisance. And once we're strong enough, it lets us open our eyes and poof ! we have reached another era. It makes sure we are so busy following its ticking that our hearts will beat to its rythms, sustaining us, tying us to life. I am grateful to ...

There are many places we live in, work in, have fun in, suffer in. There are cities, villages, fields, seas. What I have realised recently, though, is that within those places, there are also spaces. And it is those spaces that hold the real meaning of our memories and reactions. It is the spaces, not the places, that matter. For example, I live in London (UK). Now, London is a huge city and, more importantly, the only one of its kind I like (at least, of all those I have visited or live in). It is full of different nationalities, flavours, architecture, culture... and also of racial disagreements, bad housing, lack of manners, dirty streets. Yet, when I say I like or love London, depending on the mood, I mostly relate to specific spaces of London. So, what do I love about London? The South Bank on a stroll, the lower floor of the Royal Festival Hall where you can see people practise dance, the museums on a school day, the Candid Arts Café and Kenwood House for a cup of tea,...

I have a problem with praise. OK; not a problem per se , more like a disfunctional relationship with it. On the one hand, I love praising people, then observing how it empowers them. When people are praised, they realise their own wonderful characteristics, that others are aware of their efforts and achievements, and that they can go further than they thought. Praise tells them that, even though it may have been hard to reach that certain level, by having achieved they have broken their own ceiling. And if the ceiling is broken, why not push themselves just that bit further, higher, closer to their aspirations? Praise, when devoid of motive other than being the truth, is a wonderful gift, notwithstanding the relative scope of the achievement. Have you ever seen the glow on a child's face when you show your pride at their being able to spoon food into their own mouths? Or at their creativity for having drawn a rainbow with 27 different shades of 3 colours? An...