Threshold moments

Threshold moments

An exquisite emotional pain results from remaining inside a threshold too long. In healing terms, it is the point at which a stimulus is of sufficient intensity to begin to produce an effect.

My outward appearance of serial indecision and fickle habits of commitment give the impression of constant newness, but are the ways I avoid real change. This understanding is a watershed moment. Thanks for sharing it with me here on the page.

During my first visit to the Netherlands, I took hundreds of photos of my travels. There were many nature scenes, filled with green leaves and attempts to capture the faces I could see in the trunks of wise old trees. And always, whether I was photographing my way through a town or forest, there were doorways.

Images of gaps between tree trunks where the foliage arched to form the entry point to some other place. A series of front doors, taken on a walk through an outer suburb of Amsterdam. Each one telling its own secrets and sometimes whispering an invitation to listen more closely.

There is so much possibility inside that liminal space. The existence that is between where I am, and the next place I will be. It is the Dreamtime of the ancients. Here I am, four years after taking the photos, and for the first time in my life, I feel a connection to Australian native magic.

It only took moving to the other side of the globe and some perspective.

One of the quotes featured in my first novel is from Anaïs Nin. It says,

“And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.”

That quote has sung to me for a long time, only now, I feel the melody. It is nothing like I thought it would be. It is funereal in its rumbling base notes, with the promise of furious dancing in its percussive layer.

It is almost time to stomp. Grief calls to be held. I have ignored it and now the urgency to experience its sweetness is the last binding around that tight bud.

Master of avoidance

Master of avoidance

It would be so easy not to write a blog post today.

I have been sick this week and have already missed publishing an article last Friday. Perhaps I am still recovering and don’t have enough strength to gather thoughts in a coherent fashion and blurt them onto the page.

I’m very practised at this tactic. Avoidance is a kind of art at which I have become a master. Avoidance is not the same as procrastination. I know, because that is also something of which I am a stunning example.

There is a particular thread of fear that gathers the fabric of avoidance. Procrastination might feel boredom, or insecurity, or even apathy. However, avoidance snags at the back of my gut and pulls delicate, silver hooks up into my chest.

I understand why.

My face is flushing as I write these words because I understand the why of this particular avoidance. Maybe it is the reason for all of them.

Writing to you in this blog displays ON PURPOSE what I have spent forty years hiding. It is something I do with flair. If you were talking with me, you would never know that I am busy hiding. I’m a natural.

Except sometimes. Sometimes, I can be wild and magical. When I write here I am the me who chants without words, and takes her place in the circle, staring into the flickering fire of a full moon gathering. I am the one who scuffs her feet in the dirt and bleeds without shame.

Hello, lovely. It is so wonderful to know you.

Private zombie apocalypse

Private zombie apocalypse

The lure of social media and finding out what other writers are doing to achieve their goals is a seductive time-suck. Zombified, I scroll and click myself deeper into the wormy rabbit hole, certain that everyone else has their shit so much more together than I do. Every time I discover that another author feels exactly the same way, a spontaneous celebration erupts in my head. It is a confetti sprinkled mixture of belonging and something else that I don’t want to label.

I don’t want to label it because it feels a lot more holier-than-thou than I want to accept. Jebus, that’s gross. Did I just think that muddy ick? Am I one of those people who feel better when she discovers that someone else struggles more than she does with similar life lessons.

During some book research yesterday, I started wondering if I have narcissistic tendencies of which I am not consciously aware. If I did, I wouldn’t be wondering about it, I suppose. I hope that that means I’m safe from feeling compelled to devour innocent brains.

The only way to escape the apocalypse is to flee into the realm of my own writing, my own ideas, and processes. That is where it feels expansive and I get curious. When I manage to spend a whole day in that existence, I end up feeling excited and energised, ready to believe completely in the awesomeness of me.

Apocalypse in the Goddess Kindled Universe looks a lot like comparison, and it is always only a click away.