How can I forget those Sunday afternoons? Hiking shoes on and off we went into the woods. I love those times, they meant so much to me. My Dad was an avid hiker, bless his soul, he is late now. I miss him so much as I love him deeply. We always hide a few sweeties in the deep pocket, carry our water bottles and off we go. My Dad never allowed headphone or music, he would hold my hand and we talk and talk. He was such a generous and active listener. I find it hard to believe he liked my yapping, but he always seemed interested, asking all the right questions, nodding at the right time, frowning at the right places and joining me in deep belly laughter at my silly jokes.

He would talk to me about everything in his life, using childlike language, he will tell me about his concerns, his joys, his work, his ambitions, his goals, he shared alot with me. He also taught me everything about the woods, the various trees, leaves, the birds, insects and all other inhabitants in the woods, he showed me how to navigate the woods when it was slippery and wet and how to enjoy it on a bright summer day. He taught me to use walking as a means to clear the mind and think through tricky issues. He made me appreciate and enjoy nature. Our walks were wonderful, I knew all the tracks and paths and different way of navigating the woods. We got lost a few times, he would calm me down and talk me through how to work out where we were and how to retrace out steps, we always make it back in one piece. Thinking about it now, I doubt we were ever truly lost, I think he pretended we were lost just to teach me a lesson or two on how to navigate life if I ever felt or got lost. I got so use to the woods, I was never afraid, even in the winter months when sometimes it gets dark pretty early while we were still at it. I dare say, I was so confident, I felt I could tackle that woods blindfolded. The walks with him put steel in my back.

My Dad passed on at the ripe old age. It was a life well lived. In honour of his memory and time together, I would go into the wood by myself and it was as if he was with me, I would see all the trees, leaves, insects and everything else he taught me. I would walk the same path we walked and it was as if I could see his foot print. I never felt alone it was as if he was with me. All was comforting.

We had walked every nock and corner of the woods, so there was no area untouched. Or that was what I thought, until one day I brushed away some thick bushes and right in front of me there was a long narrow track, I never knew existed, leading to where? I don’t know. For the first time I realised there was more to the woods then the areas I had walked with my Dad. I stood at the start of the track, afraid, confused and lost, not sure what to do. Should I? Should I not? I was torn, the temptation to return to what I had experienced, knew and understand with my Dad was overwhelming. My heart was literally in my mouth, taking a step into the unknown of the woods was extremely uncomfortable. Again I wondered, how could it be possible that my Dad did not know this aspect of the wood existed? He is a curious one and avid hiker. How is it possible? Or did he know all about it and chose not to take me there, expecting me to discover it by myself, but why? I guess I will never know the answer, but all in all, I realised that this was my time. I can only follow in my father’s footpath for so long, at some point I have to make my own fresh footprints. I must rely on the principles I have been taught and off I went to my own destiny, I tackled the unknown beast, taking tentative steps and praying each step of the way that the spirit of him that created all, will guide me in all my steps.

Those that gave birth to us and those ahead of us can only lead us so far, at some point, it becomes our own path and we must braze our very own trail that we might have something unique to us to pass on (in addition to all we have been taught).

May the good Lord bless our life journey.

From Sewer into sewer I crawled as I make my way out into freedom. The path did not feel right, it definitely did not smell right and I could see nothing as my eyes were all covered with the content of the passage. I kept my mouth shut, there was no point in trying to taste it. All I knew was that freedon meant more than anything and I mean anything in the world. Yet in those dark and lonely moments of the night, one wonders if freedom is worth it. Is it all its trotted out to be? Does it really deliver on its promises? Does it taste as good as it smells? Or is it just some pie in the sky, underwhelming lover that can never arouse. We are to find out.

The journey continues and by now, I have definitely earned the right to my nickname, the sewer girl, because I reek of every thing I have been through and bore the scars from squeezing myself through all inconceivable tunnel, I made home with rats and scoundrels as l scramble for freedom, I fraternise with the underworld as that was the only way out. In the process I lost my goody two shoes badge given to me in the prison house. I am almost at the end of the last tunnel, and I contemplate my arrival in the land of freedom. What will I look like and how will I be received?

But the most important question I ask myself is, who really am I, irrespective of anyone’s opinion? Am I the goody two shoes or am I the break rank low life that kept company with rats and scoundrels in the sewer? Who really am I? What will become of me in the land of freedom? But first I need to get these stuff off my body and to the shower I went. After a good scrub, I am out. Clean as daisy, fresh and innocent as the first time I popped out.

It is my call in the land of freedom, I can become whatever I wish to become, maybe, just maybe I can step out in direction of that which I was ordained to be. I guess I should just listen and listen I did. Each day, new instructions I received not from any man but my inner being as I became ….

The road to freedom is spewed with unpleasantness, but brave is the man or woman that dared.

Be brave, be free, live you!

… she is born to dance, her heart swirls and twirls at the thought of what she could get her body to do. The language of her being is dance, her essence is dance and in this she obtains her ultimate fulfilment. Then she met him, what a partnership they had! He played the most moving music and they danced in unison. There was no holding back and they allowed every possible expression of their inward desire without any hesitation or restraint. It was as beautiful as it gets. She longs for the next session, she lived for the expression of her being. The height exprienced in her dance spills into and energised all other areas of her life. It was the tonic that gave life to her existence.

She carefully chose her dance costume and laced up her shoes. In her head she danced the dance over and over again. She experienced the same ecstasy. She made her way to the dance hall and waited patiently for his entrance, she listened attentively for the distant music of his emerging. She sniffed the air for the unique scent that only he can give. But tonight the air was fresh and free with no scent except the cool breeze, the only music was the soft swaying of the leaves and the crickets, she waited and waited, until it made no more sense to wait, with downcast head she went back home, undress, unlaced her shoes, took off her makeup, put back her expectations in its box, put on her pyjamas, dropped into bed, with a droplet of tears.

The following day she got an apology and an explanation, she forgave, so she put on her costume again, laced up her shoes, put back her expectation and excitement and went back to the dance hall. The whole saga replayed it self, no show. It soon became a routine, she prepares , he does not show up, occasionally he pops up, but most times he does not. When he does, the dance had lost its efficacy. It was now just a dance, an obligatory endeavour lacking in lustre and sincerity. She goes home, night after night and cries her heart to sleep. She couldn’t tell which was worse, the no show or the lacklustre dance. The pain in her heart was real and intense. She is a dancer and all she ever wanted was to dance and tell stories with her body.

Slowly she came to accept that the energy of her dancer has shifted. Space, distance and detachment was called for without being spoken. Her heart was broken, her dance can not be danced from a distance, intimacy can not be achieved or maintained without intimate moments. There can be no entanglement without the tango. She cried one more tears and that was it, the days of crying was over, she wiped her eyes and laid on her bed.

With eyes closed, she got herself ready, all glammed up in the most beautiful attire, sparking shoes and glitter in her eyes, she met her aligned partner and they danced and danced in sync till dawn. She opened her eyes and beamed, joy and happiness flooded her soul. In the far distance, she heard the faint call of her elusive partner, beckoning her to come back and dance. Dance! He cried.

She smiled, turned herself on the bed, pulled the blanket snuggly around her as she closed her eyes with expectations and confidence that one day her dream with her chosen will be played out for the whole world to see. And as for Mr Elusive, nobody knew what became of him, it was rumoured that he was doing a little dance here and there with various strange dancers, nothing to write home about, nothing that moved or stirred.

Today her dreams came true, she and her chosen in the most delightful fulfilling dance.

Dance!

The verdict is in, the jury are out, the judgement has been passed, the hammer banged! I am going to the gallow, the guillotine will come down, the stock, pullory, pranger are my portion! Capital punishment for the offense of foolishness and immaturity melted out by an undiscering crowd. The price we pay for ignorance, unconsciousness, unawareness, fear, hesitancy is great indeed. When we are fed wrong, we grow wrong, we espouse a culture and tradition that can be detrimental to our well being. Yet we are not to beat ourself up, nonetheless the gallow is still where we must go.

The anxiety, the apprehension, the fear, the thoughts surrounding when the knife lands will keep any mortal awake at night. It sends the most gregarious into a quiet and sober place, a place of deep reflection as he contemplates the fatal event. Quick and sharp, the pain can not be uttered or described, too ghastly to comprehend as blood, guts and every imaginable bits within was severed and laid wasted. It was the end, the blood flowed, Jesus Christ had been crucified, the red sea parted, each half stood seperated from each other. Each half looked unpromising, as dead as dead can be. Capital punishment for capital assets. And so it seem like the end of each part, her part! Life had been sucked out, crucifixion was complete, seperation had won!

But had it? Was it over, was the decapitation the end of the narrative? Did it end at crucifixion? No! There was a resurrection, the part regroup, the dead seed in the soil came alive, the cut tree rebranched, the chopped plant blossomed and flowered again. And just like the flatworm, the planarian, the axolotl, the starfish, the stumps regenerated, it grew back all its parts, every single one of them, it fleshed out, grew and extended its tentacles, the part is no longer a part and it has become a whole. That which was removed has been restored fresher, brighter and better. The years that the locust, the cankerworms have destroyed have all been restored. The later end is better than the former and yet we arise!

Fear not those that can harm the assets!

Why do we fear them so much? Why do we loath to be wrong? Why do we cover our face in shame at the thought that we have taken the wrong turn, said the wrong thing, mispelt a word, pronounced a word wrongly etc. What is so wrong in being wrong? Why do we allow our humanity to cripple us? Why do we allow our frailties to hinder us? Why does mockery brother us? Why do the nay sayer get to us? Why do we hide when we have not done anything, just the thought that we might get it wrong is enough to send some of us into everlasting exile. We banish ourselves before anyone else does it for us. And so what, if we get it wrong? Again I ask, what is so wrong in being wrong. What is so shameful in falling over? Why does it chip away at our self esteem that we discover we are not perfect when we were never meant to be perfect. Perfection is afterall, an illusion, it does not exist. Continuous improvement, progress are attainable, perfection is not, as it does not exist.

Of course someone will say ‘what rubbish!’ Actually more than someone might say that, it could even be the majority. But if we are manifesting our innate being, our authentic self, how can it be wrong? How can it be rubbish? How can it be wrong to ‘be”, even if we make a mistake in the process? How many have stayed back for the fear of not getting it right? We are the worse critic of ourselves, we hold back our hands without any apparent external assistance, just because we might get it wrong.

To hell with getting it wrong, let’s fall flat on our faces if we will! Let us make all the mistakes, let us plaster the walls of our lives like collage of all our numerous mishaps, let us put it out to dry and see if the heavens and earth will collapse on our heads. And I waited, but not a thump, the earth beneath my feet did not give way. Yes I got ugly dissapproving looks, crooked pointing fingers, scourge of the tongue and some overdue dissaociations but it was all good riddance. And yet I emerged from it all, and I improved and got better and better until my days here were done.

And so I kept going, from one mistake to the next mistake all the way to my victory!

Words, words, words!!! Loads and loads of them, paragraphs after paragraphs, pages and pages of gaff, meaningless words, meaning nothing, doing nothing, empty words running and rolling around in the barrel. Hollow and lifeless, leaving the hearer frustrated, like a famished man that just finished devouring a massive meal but yet remains as hungry as before he started. Bloated but full of nothing. Words that do not touch the soul, does not come from the heart so can never reach the heart. It emerged from a shallow place and only travel to the surface. Lacking in depth and sincerity. Flesh calling unto flesh, lust calling unto lust, greed calling unto greed, seeking to mislead, misguide and manipulate. Seductive words with no intention of loving. Caressing words with no desire for intimacy. Information giving but not wisdom impacting.

Multitude of words that gushes out of nowhere. Attempting to be something of relevance but struggling to stand on its own two feet. Words that do not connect or enliven, words that fail to scratch the itch, heal the hurting heart or bind the wound. Words that puzzle, confuses and frustrate. Words that leave more questions than answers on the table. Words that do not seek to affirm or validate, words with an ulterior motive, a hidden agenda, words meant to lead to a secret desired destination. Crude servant, unruly messenger, deceitful handler are the words of a charmer, of a con artist, the words of a player are for games, they have no sincerity, no honesty in them. The words of a liar are lies, meaningless ugly lies.

Angry and weeping, gory and ugly, the wound stared with a straight face, daring me to look back. My mind was racing, wandering where I kept the first aid box, what was in it and how I could nurse the wound or maybe I should take her to A & E, call someone, maybe a doctor friend, a nurse, paramedics, anyone! I didn’t want to be alone with this. I tried to tear off a piece from my garment to bind the wound, but she stayed my hands, I rushed to get the oil to pour but she refused, all the while I was not looking at the wound, I could not look, I did not want to, it was too much to ask of me and she knew it. All my efforts was not really to heal but to cover it up, because I did not want to see it. I did not want to face the ugliness of it, I did not want to understand the trauma that the tissues had suffer, I just want it to go away so I can breath, so I can be comfortable, but today is to be different, the wound must breath before any cover up.

She sat down and she made me sit down, she was in agonising pain, but she needed me to see and identify with the rawness of it all. Shivering I sat beside her, my hands stuck to my sides as I fight every impulse to do something and the few seconds felt like eternity. I dared to look at the wound, slowly my shivering stopped, I calmed down and watched the tears from the wound, I saw every tortured tissue, I heard every story it had to tell, I travelled the journey, I understood the process, I listen to the agonising and heard every note, then that which was initially ugly became a canvas of inexplicable story telling with an appreciation of the journey. The wound breath, the wound felt honoured and then I was allowed to nurse and bind it. It was not being covered up any longer but nursed back to healing and health.

The yearning was like an insatiable gapping hole, a bottomless pit, raging like a live volcano, longing to suck everything in its path to get some relief from the emptiness, but nothing could fill it, nothing could take away the sense of emptiness, every now and then, there was a short-live temporary relief as the next item lands in the hole, but no, it gets swallowed up and the yearning continues, the raging is even stronger. The dog barks and we throw a bone and the dog is distracted for a second, but the bark commences, we throw some more bones, bark gets stronger and louder, but dog does not want bone, in the same way the yearning does not want any and everything thrown at it. So I stopped and listen and allowed the yearning to rage and I did not try to calm it, I just listened and watched and empathise, I tried to understand the ‘why’, I can’t say I did, but I tried and right before my eyes the raging calmed, to be awoken another day, the effusive eruption stopped. There was peace, as the yearning stared with subdued eyes, lids starts to shut, to open another day, the yearning felt acknowledged!

… so I watch this sad video, it’s real by the way, where a couple of men had been apprehended by law enforcement officers. The two guys were paraded to answer questions, normal and decent looking guys, nothing was untoward about there appearances. These guys were kidnappers, they kidnap children to sell to a middle person, who in turn sell to couples without children. Somewhere in this horror story there is a sick attempt to sneek in a convoluted, virtous, moral, do good deed of helping the people without children, how sick can a person become? What about the child that is kidnapped? Any thought for that child? What about the family of the child? Their pain? Does it matter? Do they give a monkey about those without children or just trying to cash in on their misery, exploiting their misfortune whilst pretending ( I guess there is no pretence) to give a toot.

Now there were targeting children around the age of two!. Someone asked, ‘how do you get the children to follow you?’ One of the kidnapper answered without any hesitation or qualm, ‘I give them BISCUIT!’ A child loves biscuit, enjoys it, his or her loved one gives biscuit, grandma gives biscuits, people that loves him give biscuits, so therefore anyone that gives biscuit must be a good person. But as we can see, evil people give biscuit as well. It’s a bait to lure into the lion’s den.

At some level, each and every one of us, irrespective of our age, is that child that loves and enjoys biscuit and believes that biscuit can only come from good people that love us. But the evil one has no love in him or her, simply out to get us, period! Biscuit is biscuit, the biscuit itself is not poisoned, it is the giver that is poisoned, it is the motive that is corrupted. It is not a gift of love but of manipulation. The giver has no regard whatsoever for the recipient, it’s just a means to an ugly end.

How many times have we opened our hands to receive from our abuser? How many times have we opened our mouth to be fed by our killer? We still need to be fed, we still need biscuit. Biscuit is the token of love we share with those we love and love us back. But what do we do when the emblem of communion has been hijacked by the sacrilegious? Do we stop believing in and having communion? Do we stop believing in love because a romantic scammer took our heart and drag it in the mud whilst plotting to violate and defraud us? The question is, do we stop loving and eating biscuit to stop the kidnappers from getting to us?

Beware of the stranger, beware of the untried, untested, unknown hand that seeks to fed us. Yes heaven atimes send angels and ravens to feed us but so does self – centred men send themselves. If it is too good to be true then it is most probably too good to be true. Discretion and discernment are to be our watchword. If I don’t know you then I don’t know you, maybe the biscuit can wait because evil men exist, unsavoury women abound. The unsuspecting heart struggles with this, but there is no merit in naivety. Let us eat our biscuit, but with discernment, let’s protect our children, the stranger is unknown, we don’t take from the unproven. May the good Lord protect us all!

… so I watch this sad video, it’s real by the way, where a couple of men had been apprehended by law enforcement officers. The two guys were paraded to answer questions, normal and decent looking guys, nothing was untoward about there appearances. These guys were kidnappers, they kidnap children to sell to a middle person, who in turn sell to couples without children. Somewhere in this horror story there is a sick attempt to sneek in a convoluted, virtous, moral, do good deed of helping the people without children, how sick can a person become? What about the child that is kidnapped? Any thought for that child? What about the family of the child? Their pain? Does it matter? Do they give a monkey about those without children or just trying to cash in on their misery, exploiting their misfortune whilst pretending ( I guess there is no pretence) to give a toot.

Now there were targeting children around the age of two!😢. Someone asked, ‘how do you get the children to follow you?’ One of the kidnapper answered without any hesitation or qualm, ‘I give them BISCUIT!’ A child loves biscuit, enjoys it, his or her loved one gives biscuit, grandma gives biscuits, people that loves him give biscuits, so therefore anyone that gives biscuit must be a good person. But as we can see, evil people give biscuit as well. It’s a bait to lure into the lion’s den.

At some level, each and every one of us, irrespective of our age, is that child that loves and enjoys biscuit and believes that biscuit can only come from good people that love us. But the evil one has no love in him or her, simply out to get us, period! Biscuit is biscuit, the biscuit itself is not poisoned, it is the giver that is poisoned, it is the motive that is corrupted. It is not a gift of love but of manipulation. The giver has no regard whatsoever for the recipient, it’s just a means to an ugly end.

How many times have we opened our hands to receive from our abuser? How many times have we opened our mouth to be fed by our killer? We still need to be fed, we still need biscuit. Biscuit is the token of love we share with those we love and love us back. But what do we do when the emblem of communion has been hijacked by the sacrilegious? Do we stop believing in and having communion? Do we stop believing in love because a romantic scammer took our heart and drag it in the mud whilst plotting to violate and defraud us? The question is, do we stop loving and eating biscuit to stop the kidnappers from getting to us?

Beware of the stranger, beware of the untried, untested, unknown hand that seeks to fed us. Yes heaven atimes send angels and ravens to feed us but so does self – centred men send themselves. If it is too good to be true then it is most probably too good to be true. Discretion and discernment are to be our watchword. If I don’t know you then I don’t know you, maybe the biscuit can wait because evil men exist, unsavoury women abound. The unsuspecting heart struggles with this, but there is no merit in naivety. Let us eat our biscuit, but with discernment, let’s protect our children, the stranger is unknown, we don’t take from the unproven. May the good Lord protect us all!

I am awake now, wide awake I must add, everything is clear as day, I see clearly, I understand clearly, I know what I should know, at least that is what I think. But I miss the sleep, not all of it, but parts of it, it was a deep sweet sleep laced with the occasional short bad dream, which jolted me out of the sleep before I sink back into the sweet sleep. There was hardly any bad dream at the start of the sleep, it was all deep and sweet total oblivion, drifting off in lala land with no care in the world, then the bad dream started, they were few and far between to start with and grew steadily in frequency and horror, until they became an unavoidable disturbance to the sleep. Now there was more bad dream than sweet sleep, so I had to wake up.

I lie here sober and awake, feeling particularly strange, like a person just discharged from rehab, intoxicants no longer in my system, having to deal with life in my awaken state and then I miss the sleep. I am nostalgia, I miss the sweet lull, the blissfull oblivion, nostalgia is obvious a seductive liar, cunningly missing out the bad dream, the nightmare from my recollection, but it wasn’t long before true recollection kicked in and I remember that the drug had it’s downside, the hungover, the bitter taste in the mouth, the headache, the hallucinations, the paranoid etc. It was not all pleasant high. I hate to admit, I still miss the sweet part of the sleep, but with clear eyes I look back at my drowsy self as it slipped into the sleep.

I couldn’t help asking, my did I have to sleep? Why was I led into a sleep? I didn’t ask to sleep, I did not ask for the intoxicant. The answer I got was that ‘maybe I needed it’ how could I need the sleep? I was unconscious, I could not fight back when I was trampled all over, I could not talk back when I was abused, I could not participate in anything, I could not not see, I was unconscious!!!! Why do we need sleep when we are alive? Why do we need to be unconscious to maintain our consciousness? Why do we need to experience blindness in order to see clearly? Why do we need to starve to thoroughly enjoy the food? Why was I led to the sleep?

I had to sleep to learn, learn to be still, to allow life to unfold without my interruptions, to allow myself to rejuvenate. Sleep plays a vital role, it helps to reduce stress, helps our emotional well being, makes us happy, enables sweet dreams when we are not having nightmare. The truth is that the sleep aspect of the sleep was very good. Maybe my heart did not deceive me after all. Maybe I just needed a short sleep. Thank you for the sleep!🙏🏽

I am awake now, with consciousness I progress the day.