Baba Yaga Wisdom
She says, in a snarl,
with a flick of a bug from her eyeline – Child, you are so
young in your dance on this Earth. You are not yet a mother, you are
pre-mother, you are dying the death of youth. These things must die.
All those airy notions of Spring and pastel flowers, set them down.
It is not a time for romance. It is time for death.
Become accustomed to
these hot searing coals, for you will meet them again. It may feel
like Hell, for they are demons, although, they are yours and yours
alone, they do not exist outside of you. Meet them. It will feel
confusing. Listen to them. Ask their names.
You will grow from the
ashes when it is time. There will be bulbs and shoots of plants you
can not even imagine. The soil, the muck, the ashes – this is your
place for now. The earth needs fertilising with high-stinking shit.
Things are not pretty down here, but truth is, this is where the
magic happens. This is where magic grows.
It's OK to go down. It's
OK to feel the weight of hopelessness. We all have our time. Be
grateful that you have the space to sink and the awareness to know
what it is.
*
The man you
meet will love you wholly – you will not be the compromise or
afterthought. It is possible to love and be loved when you surrender
to the unpredictable flow of life. The currents are confusing, the
rivers murky and dirty, but the riverbed is solid, warm, compact.
The path stays
– do you understand?
Let your heart
be the bed, let your love be the river.
You were never
made to stay still, you were never made to settle. Be patient, be
strong in your worth. He will know how special you are, you need not
beg for crumbs. Wait for the whole loaf.
Be a wolf, not
a dog.
You are a
Child of the universe, a magic woman in the making, utterly sacred
and made of the Earth. You need a warrior – kind, benevolent,
sturdy. There will be no second-guessing. He is the one who can feed
your creative life, who can give you stability, who can set your mind
to rest.
The jungle
does not go on forever, my sweet Child. It's overgrown with thickets
and thorns and you will be bitten and scratched many times – but!
Persevere. Follow magic trails. In your heart you will know - when
it's time, when the clearing is to be found, when it is not a mirage.
*
So, my Child, you have met
the miners.
They do not often wish to
be seen, and are very good at keeping themselves hidden. But if you
are curious and still and use the senses just-so, you will find them
in the conscious dark, in the ocean, the dream theatre, and realise
why you are so tired.
Mining takes a lot of
energy. They are working day and night, and do you know why? They are
under your command. They do not start their work until you are ready.
They must wait for the gong-call deep in the soul, the call that says
I am ready to look down now, I am ready to dive.
There
are treasures buried deep in the seabed. Treasures left over from
shipwrecks. It takes a brave diver to swim amongst corpses, to peer
into hollowed-out decks and skeletal masts.
Death
is close at the bottom.
The
bottom is death, or so we think.
*
Kill the
darlings, those feathery earthlings! Kill the illusions, the
intoxicating promises of tomorrow, of next week, of next year, next
life! It is hard to challenge these empty clouds. In the mirror they
look so real.
Dance
your furious dance to the edge of the sky. Look down and face
unfathomable heights. Step off and die with me, I will hold your
hand. You know Death is just the leap off the edge. The fall is
something else, the fall is Life itself.
Do not
get caught up with thinking your body is wrong. Just love it, for
what it does. Exist and express. Things will come together in new,
unimaginable ways. You are a torn dress being stitched and sewn anew.
It is not painless, no no no. It is a mistake to avoid pain, in fact.
Pain is puncture. Pain is the meeting of two opposing forces. Pain is
the crash of the wave, the collapse of stone walls.
The
more you know this, the more Death is invited, the more you can dance
in a sweet swirl with Life.
________________________
Sally Draper
It had been a long night and she never
had liked whisky, with all its connotations of sophistication and
class – the little that could be salvaged from her father's heyday.
Up there in his office all those years
ago, he had assumed the power of a King tucked up tight in his
castle. Surveying the populace from his bay window, scurrying through
traffic and conducting – to his mind – such futile tasks. What he
didn't know at the time was that there were far greater powers
looking down at him, thinking, What a dutiful man. How well-behaved.
How charmingly obedient and predictable.
We had a dog then. He came to us as a
puppy and left in a cardboard box. The neighbour shot him because he
kept sniffing their flowerbeds. I remember the sound of the gun and
its cold ripple to my stomach. Pepper, was his name. I hated flowers
from that day on. They seemed to be nature's temptresses, luring
innocent creatures with their symmetry and colour and scent.
It's what my father was doing, in a
more masculine way. He was trying – and succeeding – the
puppy-like layman to look at the shiny poster, the gaudy TV ad, to
hum the jingle as natural as a recurring neurosis, and in that
hypnotic state of lust and wonder to empty their wallets clean.
This is my more recent view, of
course. I grew up with Dad as Hero. Which I'm grateful for, even if
it was misguided. A little girl needs a hero after all, a protector.
Otherwise she grows up with simultaneous distrust and obsession
towards men, unsure whether they should be worshipped or trampled
upon. I have plenty of friends with divorced parents. I know the
type.
It was only when I started college
that I really saw through my father's facade.
It was in a Psychology class – 'The
Psychology of Desire'. I was surprised to walk into the lecture and
see a picture of the Lucky Strike '62 campaign – one of Pop's most
successful runs. The image showed a canyon at sunset, a cowboy with
his back turned towards us, a trail of smoke rising up past his
stetson. 'Because I'm free' in proud red script. I remember Dad
speaking vehemently about this ad in particular. It was a big 'fuck
you' to the health scares at the time.
The professor went on to explain the
manipulation employed, the use of persuasion tactics, frankly, the
exploitation, behind this ad, and all ads to some degree.
With a detached sadness I felt my
pride fade, like an ember being stubbed out against glass.
________________________
Morning After
The harbour lay still even after the
dream. She expected carnage and rubble, a world overturned, an open
casket, a shit-storm – but no. Flat, calm water. From downstairs
came the sound of her brother coughing and blowing his nose – comic
and pitiful. And now, footsteps, soft and padded through carpet and
sock. The dog running to keep up.
She caught sight of the mirror and
prematurely scanned her face for signs of ageing. She felt so old
already. So many lives lay behind her, like a trail of dead trees
burnt by fire. Carcasses of relationships, abandoned, hollow
(sometimes she liked to think she'd set them free, but didn't know if
this was true or not). Jobs. Dreams. Phases. She'd come to a
standstill – exhausted by the constant motion, the changes, the
whirlwinds and disappointments. She remembered feeling invincible.
That feeling clearly had a cost.
The tiredness was always there now.
Sleep or rest did not remedy it. Instead it was a case of deciding
when she could override it, when was appropriate to just get up.
She a saw a skinny guy outside the
window. He seemed good-looking, at least from a distance. He scanned
around suddenly to see if anyone was watching, then reached down to
adjust his boxers. How she wished he'd reach down and stay there, get
himself out, commit some heinous act of exposition. No – he walked
onwards into the grey morning. To where, she had no clue. The fact it
was so early could mean two things – either he was an early bird
tourist on his way to a mountain-top, or he'd been up all night on a
bender (which would explain his shiftiness).
She wondered how many times people had
seen her off-guard. Rarely, she imagined. Even when alone she tried
to see herself from the outside. Reflective surfaces would always
command her attention. It was one of her least attractive qualities,
or so she thought. Like a budgie, she was compulsively drawn to shop
windows. She banked on the fact that it would seem as if she was idly
perusing the displays of shoes, fine china, washing machines.
An old woman passed now, stiff hair
the colour of slate, a shopping bag half that was half her size.
The air inside was stale. She didn't
leave the house yesterday. The blinds, unopened.
Her dream lurked like trauma.
When would the details spill out, as
they should?
________________________
An Open Letter to Whom it
May Concern
You are loved,
because you are alive in this world.
You have your own special ingredient
to offer your surroundings.
All this pain, injustice, frustration
you feel
will one day blossom
into wisdom, compassion, and the
capacity to look deep inwards -
a brave, invaluable talent.
You are beautiful and striking.
You are intelligent and creative and
admired by many.
Your parents love you very much.
They have their own pain which may act
as an obstacle, sometimes.
If they could, they would give you what
they need.
It's not your fault.
It's not your fault.
You are meant to be here, just as you
are.
There's nothing wrong with you.
You are wonderful and strong.
This will all blossom exponentially -
into flowers and fruit and terrains.
Be calm,
be still.
You are loved.
