Diary of a Desperate Exmoor Woman

Dreaming is free

2012-02-01T03:18:00.000-08:00

Goodbye and good riddance, January. Sheesh, what a particularly nasty month you were. I’m still reeling from the amount of death, disease, discord, debt, destruction, desperation, depression, deception and despair you dispensed with such damned doleful dark delight. Doesn’t D just have the very ring of doom? Dread, with a D on either end, sums it up. And really such a dreary month, so dismal, doleful, dank and dire. And so much damp…the windows are breeding mould again; I spend dolorous days digging at the crystal froth sprouting from the damn walls of the dank dungeon.

But. We made it. Well, most of us, anyway. We’re still standing. Okay, so some of us are hobbling on crutches; some of us are clutching our hearts; some of us are poking desperately with sticks at doctors and bailiffs. But we’re still here. More or less.

And now it’s February. Yes, it still seems cold and damp, dreary and dark on the outside but look closely and there are small signs that life is beginning again. Snowdrops are scattering the hedgebanks on Exmoor. In fact, if I squint hard, I can see them out in the garden from my turret window too.

In Native American tradition this is known as the ‘Cleansing Time’; the time when the world is scoured and purified before the cycle of life starts over again. It’s the pause before the fresh start. And before a fresh start, you need trust and hope.

Today or tomorrow (depending on your tradition) is Imbolc, that the Christian Church transformed into Candlemas - the festival of lights. It marks the midpoint of winter, halfway between the shortest day and the spring equinox. It’s the festival of hope, of trust, of dreaming of better times to come.

I’ll brave the icy garden to pick some snowdrops (superstition says you shouldn’t bring them into the house before Imbolc). When Eve sat weeping after being expelled from Eden, the snow fell all around her, her tears turning to ice. An angel took pity on her, caught a snowflake in his hand, breathed on it and let it fall to earth as the first snowdrop. The flower bloomed and hope was born.

I have this little ritual I usually do at Candlemas. I’ll wait until darkness falls and sit quietly in the velvet black. Then, slowly, one by one, I’ll light tiny candles (whispering a wish with every one). Gradually the light will increase. It will, it will.

Our ancestors held on hope as they looked out on the bleak landscape; they had faith that the sun would return. Imbolc is about keeping faith – in ourselves, in those we love, in life.

Even when it seems as though life has taken everything; even when you are let down and hurt, dejected and despairing, the one thing nobody and nothing can take away from you are your dreams.

Dreaming is free.

Of course there is another way. Sometimes you look at the snowdrops and the little candles and you just say, oh feck it! Feck the lot of it! And then you just crank up the music, set the controls for the heart of the sun and you just, just, just….

Taboo - the psychology of the unthinkable

2012-01-30T09:03:00.000-08:00

Lennie in the Chariot of Death

I was working at City Limits magazine back in the 80s when my friend George came up to my desk. ‘I’ve just come back from THE weirdest place,’ she said. ‘And met THE weirdest guy. He’s causing a stir in Hackney with this car called The Chariot of Death. He’s mad. You’d absolutely love him.’

How could I resist? So I trundled off to visit Lennie Lee and, boy, did he love to create an impression. On our first meeting he calmly offered me some of his blood (in a communion goblet) and wondered if I fancied signing a pact with the devil. He then asked if he could paint my portrait – and proceeded to scrawl with thick felt pen on a vast sheet of paper on the floor – I watched my face turn into a series of sigils and symbols. ‘Have you captured my soul?’ I asked with a frown. He just raised a sardonic eyebrow.

We became very good friends.

Lennie is one of those people who simply never compromise. He’s a true artist, a free thinker, a provocateur. He loves to shock, to challenge, to appal. Everything interests him and he sees incredible beauty in the most mundane, commonplace, despised places, people and objects. But, above all, he’s fascinated by taboo. ‘I target things that are hidden,’ he says. ‘I want to confront people with their assumptions in the hope they will be released from fear.’

Taboo. Now, there’s another subject that fascinates me. Why is it that certain subjects, images, objects, practices are deemed not just revolting and disgusting, but beyond that - not to be considered, not even countenanced. Even to think about them is somehow to infect yourself. It’s this belief that some ideas are so incredibly dangerous that the very thought itself is sinful. Interesting, huh?

What are your taboos? What pushes your buttons? Think about it if you dare. What is so sacred you cannot bear even to contemplate it? Psychologists call it the ‘mere contemplation’ effect – the observation that there are times when, merely to contemplate a decision, marks you as morally suspect. One thought too many. The psychology of the unthinkable.

Some taboos are logical, reasonable even. Homicide is generally a sensible taboo (though deep green activists could probably argue against it quite plausibly). Incest isn’t a great idea, from a strictly genetic viewpoint. Cannibalism isn’t too bright, given you can catch a form of encephalitis from human flesh. The rest, really, are moral and shift according to your culture.

Yet they get us very hot under the collar. They even help us clan, herd. Certain issues, images, ideas are considered so sacred that if you even have that ‘one thought too many’ you are instantly outside the herd, you have shown disloyalty to the cause; you’re an apostate. Politics offers a very mild example. The other day someone dared to post on Facebook that she was surprised to find herself agreeing with something a Tory politician had said. Within seconds her post was bombarded with fury. ‘That bastard’; ‘that prick’, and so on. Had they even read the opinion? Of course not. It was pure kneejerk. Tory = evil Etonian rich prat. It works the other way too, of course. Politics? Meh.

Anyhow. Lennie. Not a guy who’s afraid of poking a stick in a nest of rattlesnakes. I won’t post his more extreme images or videos up here as I don’t want to offend delicate sensitivities. If you do decide to click on the link, BE WARNED that there are some pretty extreme images. Here's the link: ENTER. Don't blame me if you don't like them. I have to add, however, that there are some very beautiful images there too - it's not all blood and guts and gore.

But he does look at things most of us shy away from – sickness, personal shame, fear and prejudice. Blood, vomit, disease, death, mental illness, food. He touches the boundaries of morality, taste, religion, politics, shame – and what he calls ‘unpopular culture’.

‘I’m interested in the power of certain objects to create strong emotions,’ he says. ‘Subject matter that people find disgusting and fascinating. The contradiction between the civilised surface we present and the animalistic violence that lies beneath.’

Food for thought. And, talking of food, I’d suggest you don’t visit his site if you’re about to eat your supper. Shock or schlock? You decide.

If you want to read further on taboo, I’d suggest you check out Philip Tetlock, a psychologist who has conducted research on whether certain taboos have logical reasons or if they are pure affect. He questions whether taboo is compatible with any idea of intellectual vigour, arguing that - surely - any idea is worth thinking about...even if only to determine whether it is wrong.

Note: All images are ©Lennie Lee, reproduced here with his permission. Please do not reproduce without his permission. Many of his images are for sale via his website.

You just don't know...

2012-01-27T02:26:00.000-08:00

Communication. Talking. Saying what you feel, what you mean. Being honest. Seriously, why are we so bloody crap at it? I write this agony aunt column every month for Natural Health magazine (yeah, yeah, don’t laugh) and really, I could answer pretty well every dilemma in one word: TALK! Spit it out. Say what you’re feeling.

Don’t be mean: say what you mean.

Cos most people aren’t psychic. They won’t intuit what you feel. They won’t hear the words unspoken. You have to bite the bullet and say it. Not in an aggressive ‘you total manky bitch’ or ‘you ignorant fecking bastard’ way – but in a straightforward, honest ‘this is how I feel’ way. Simple huh?

So why don’t we?

I guess sometimes it’s because of fear. If you know someone will act with anger or aggression, that’s good reason to keep schtum. But then, I wonder, should you really be around someone who reacts that way in the first place? Sometimes, maybe, you don’t want to ask the question because, in your heart of hearts, you’re scared of the answer. Or you’re scared of looking and sounding foolish, of making an arse of yourself.

And some people, of course, use silence and lack of communication as a kind of power game.

But really, all of it drives me crazy. So much misunderstanding. So much time, so many opportunities, lost through lack of words. So much hurt and pain sometimes. Through lack of truth and honesty.

The mind, left to its imaginings, can be an inventive beast. It can come up with all kinds of scenarios; all sorts of hurt and paranoia. And thought is creative. How we think can affect how we feel. Magicians would go one step further and say that how we think can affect matter – because, really, it’s all just different forms of energy. So we should be careful with our words, with our thoughts, with what is said and what is thought. With what is unsaid. Can something be unthought though? No. Only pushed away or buried or – better - replaced with something new.

Anyhow. Let’s be honest (ho ho), I’m not always great at the communication stuff myself. I’m not one of life’s great splurgers. Generally I don’t talk a whole load, truth to tell. I love silence. And silence loves me. And, yes, sometimes there can be too many words banded about. I once spent a car journey pondering the maths on how much Adrian speaks in comparison to me – I think it was a ratio of 750:1 or thereabouts. I’m a good listener though – most journalists are. I guess it's balance again - a question of knowing when to speak and when to shut the feck up.

Last night there was a deep and not remotely comfortable silence in the house. Adrian and James weren’t talking. Again. Ye gods. To be fair, Adrian is pretty good at expressing how he feels. And he will readily admit if he’s done wrong. But James is a tougher nut to crack. He’s a Scorpio, one of life’s natural silent brooding types. I’m determined that, if I can teach James one thing, just one thing (after the self-esteem thingy of course), it will be to communicate; to be honest about how he feels. To state his feelings clearly, openly, without losing the plot. Yes, that will sometimes bring him heartache, of course it will, but it will also save him heartache in the long term. So, after a suitable period elapsed (cos everyone needs to wallow for a bit), I followed him, cornered him in his lair and made him look me in the eye and talk. And eventually he did. And instead of launching off into ‘And he said this…’ or ‘And it’s so unfair…’ he talked about how he felt. He spat it all out and felt – he said - much the better for it.

As the old adage goes, better out than in.

So, today, maybe…try being honest. Say what you feel. Is there an elephant in the room? Name it. Something you’ve wanted to get off your chest for aeons? Shift it. Can’t say it? Write it. Put it in a letter and sign it with a kiss (or knot). Because, really, life can be too short for miscommunication, misunderstanding. Yet another person I know died this week (no, no, please no commiserations – I didn’t know him well – the husband of a friend). She heard his key in the door but he never came in. When she went to see what had happened, she found him dead on the doorstep. You never know how long anybody has got. Use your time wisely eh?

Can you catch a nightmare?

2012-01-26T03:30:00.000-08:00

Every so often an image stops me in my tracks. A few weeks back a friend gave me a pile of old magazines. A few days ago I was flicking through one and this image just smacked me in the face.

It’s huge apparently – 8ft by 11ft – a watercolour entitled The Island by the American painter Walton Ford. No, he’s not some nineteenth century botanist – the painting is recent – 2009.

I just keep staring at it. At this seething writhing knot of creatures. It’s painfully graphic – the thylacines (as I found out they were) are ripping and biting, not only the lambs but one another. And yet somehow it’s not a frenzy. The lambs seem resigned somehow; the thylacines equally uninvolved somehow. And, aside from one creature in the background, the predators are not eating their prey. In fact, one lamb floats, forgotten in the water, as the two nearest thylacines sink their teeth into one another. So it is not hunger? They bite out of habit; out of boredom; out of nature; from enforced captivity? Yet nobody forces them to stay - there is no enclosure, no fence. They are their own prison guards.

The more I looked, the more I saw. The one lamb, quietly swimming away, blood on its coat. The thylacine seeing it (surely?) and looking as though it will pounce. But will it, can it, leave its knot, its island of flesh?

The lamb at the top of the pile stands, almost stoically, the sacrifice, as jaws clamp around its back. Another is, somehow, miraculously, blood-free – right in the centre of the mass. It jumps. Can it escape? Or will it land straight in the maw of the spectator creature, shoulder-deep in the water. The water is curiously calm, blue-green, not stained with blood and gore.

What does it mean? I’m still thinking about what it means to me – which is, ultimately, the bottom line, eh?

The artist called it ‘a sort of fever dream’ and questioned the role of predator and prey. For, see, the thylacine was also called the Tasmanian Wolf or Tiger yet it was neither wolf nor tiger but actually a marsupial (yes, a cousin to kangaroo and wallaby). It was native to Australia and New Guinea and, over several million years apparently it evolved itself into a mean-ass predator, an antipodean velociraptor. It was extincted (yeah I know it’s not really a verb but why not?) on the mainland way back but the thyracine survived on Tasmania until the early twentieth century. As Walton Ford said, in an interview in the New Yorker:

‘The animal scared the hell out of the settlers. It looked like a wolf but with stripes, like a tiger, and they could get up on their hind legs, which made them even scarier. The settlers were sheepherders, and they built up this myth of a huge bipedal nocturnal vampire beast that sucked the blood of sheep. The settlers put a bounty on these animals and began killing them off in every possible way – poison, traps, snares, guns. The last known one died in captivity in the nineteen-thirties, but they lived on in people’s imagination.’

They do. They certainly live on in my imagination. And maybe in others too. This morning, at 5am, I was woken suddenly from a dream by a piercing scream. James.

‘I had a nightmare,’ he said.

‘Tell me,’ I said.

‘There was this creature. Like a wolf or a dog but it stood on its hind legs. There was a light over its head. It was coming for me.’

Had he seen the image? Yet how would he know the thylacine could stand on its hind legs? There was no mention of that in the magazine. Had he read anything about werewolves or anything lately? No, he insisted (and it’s true, he avoids that kind of thing like the plague).

Maybe it was another beast? I’ve been reading lately about familiars, about creatures that can do the bidding of their masters and mistresses. About one, in particular, from Scotland, that appeared like a wolf, standing on two legs, rapacious, blood-thirsty. And I wondered, given we are all connected by subtle energy, can you catch a nightmare? Can you pick up a thought-form, a beast, a fetch, a familiar, by telepathic connection. Had the visions in my head seeped into James’? Yes, that sounds far-fetched (sorry for the pun) but is it, really?

We are careful about what our children read and watch but should we also be careful about our own thoughts and feelings? I do believe that moods can be contagious (if you don't know how to protect yourself from them), that we can (whether consciously or unconsciously) project feelings onto others. Children are particularly impressionable. Sobering thought, huh?

Anyhow, what images have jumped at you lately?

Should writers blog?

2012-01-25T08:50:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I was scrolling through a writing forum and I read a post by an author whining about blogging. Specifically she was moaning that writers are increasingly being urged to blog, to tweet, to engage in social media. Did writers really have to write blogs, she said? My answer was pretty simple: if you don’t like blogging, don’t do it. Doh. Horses for courses and all that.

But then I thought a bit more about it and I started to scratch my head. This is a writer speaking. A WRITER. Someone who uses words; who communicates with words; who presumably loves words. And I was really puzzled.

People often ask me why I blog. After all, writing is my day job. I’m a journalist and an author. Words pay my bills. Well, in theory. J So why on earth would I want to spend my spare time writing for free? Er, because I enjoy it.

This blog is my place: the place I can rant, moan, emote, pontificate, whine, laugh, throw all my toys out the pram, whatever… There is no editor telling me to cover this and that; no marketing department asking me if I'm reaching my demographic.

A blog post – 500 words or thereabouts - takes probably half an hour maximum to write. It’s a limbering up exercise, if you like, before I flex my fingers and start on the usual writing work of the day.

Hmm, maybe not a good reason...

‘But what should I write about?’ say the reluctant author bloggers. Holy crap! Look around you. What excites you? What interests you? What flirts with you? What tugs you by the shirt-tails? If I had the time I could probably write four or five posts a day. Seriously. Because life is interesting. People are interesting. The world is interesting. Isn’t it? Surely, I wonder, it should be, and above all if you're a writer.

I think maybe the problem comes because writers feel they should write about writing (yawn). Or they should be reviewing books (which is all well and good but it’s bloody time-consuming) or interviewing other authors (which can be interesting and is something I do occasionally – but not all the time). But why? Why should you limit yourself to anything?

Blog alpaca!

Some people are very focused in their blogging. They write purely about parenting, or food, or pets, or fitness, or politics or knitting or gardening or…hell, I dunno. Alpacas or juggling. Niche. And niche is nice if you can do it. Niche can be madly commercial. A guy I knew made a tidy living out of baseball mini-league or whatever it’s called. And all power to his bat. But you have to be one of those single-minded people, someone with a particular hobby or a focused passion (or, alternatively, your blog is your business and so you’re talking work). Personally I can’t do that. I get bored staying on message.

But let’s think about writers and blogging again. What purpose does a blog serve a writer? Why might a blog be a “good thing” for a writer? On one hand, it’s a showcase. Firstly, it shows the raw state of your writing, without any editing. Trust me, the copy of even some of the most famous writers looks a bit ropey round the edges before it’s knocked into shape by editors (I would name names but, having been discussing Online Defamation Law with some lawyer friends, I’ll be cautious…) Secondly, it shows you’re flexible, that you can write up a storm on any bloody thing you choose. I’ve been given journalism work via my blog. I’ve been approached by agents because of my blog. I’ve been taken on amazing trips (giving me huge inspiration for my writing) because of this blog.

Connect with your audience...

On the other hand, it’s a way to connect with your readers. A lot of people who read my books also check out the blog. At first I worried that my honesty, my fallibility, would put them off. But it seems not. I think blogging is maybe a way of giving a bit of yourself; of showing what makes you tick; that you’re approachable, human. Of course, as an author that might be exactly what you don’t want to give away. In which case I’d say, why not share other aspects of your work – poetry, short stories, character sketches. Or share some of your inspiration – music, other people’s words, images. If people love your writing, they will want to know more. Why not be generous? Oh how I wish more of my favourite authors would blog, or be more generous in their blogging.

And then, on the one foot (having run out of hands). Blogging as sales ploy? Hmm. Do people buy my books because of my blogging? I doubt it. I don’t mention my books that much. Maybe I should. But then, see, blogging becomes just a form of marketing and that’s boring again. However I’m sure that some people’s blogs encourage readers to buy their books. Why wouldn’t they?

Can I squeeze out another fecking poem?

Then, the argument continued, aren't there too many blogs out there already? Aren't blogs just self-indulgent waffle, word-wanking? Well, maybe. But then again, you could say that about a lot of writing in general, couldn't you? Someone said that they would rather spend their time writing their fiction, or coming up with a poem or whatever. And that's a good argument. Providing you are writing those things. I dunno about you, but I have a limit on sustained creativity of the novel-writing kind. And I sure as hell couldn't sit writing poems all freaking day.

Anyhow. I ask myself again. As a writer, should you blog? No, of course not. No should about it. Do what you bloody well like! Should you want to blog? Well now, that’s a different question altogether. What do you think?

Earth Hour and beansprouts

2012-01-24T03:16:00.000-08:00

I keep writing blog posts and deleting them. You ever do that? Sometimes it’s enough to write something just for you. Once you’ve written it, there’s no longer any need to publish it. Sometimes I feel like that about everything I write, come to think of it. I wonder if this post will make it? J

Anyhow. I got sent an email about Earth Hour. And I took a look. And I thought, yeah, why not? It’s organised by the WWF and the idea is simple. On 31 March 2012, at 8.30pm (GMT), everyone turns off their lights for one hour, right across the planet. Now you can guess why I like this, huh, given that here in Dulverton we had our own mini Earth hour last week?

It’s not just about saving electricity; it’s about thinking about the planet, about our current home and how we have a big global problem going on and that being NIMBYish, sticking our heads in the sand and saying ‘I’m alright, Jack’ ain’t gonna solve it. Maybe it’s too late anyhow… Maybe we’ve already reached the tipping point and swung over. But still…it’s a beautiful world, it really is. Just open your eyes and look around you. While you still can.

But anyhow. Earth Hour. Yes. Nice idea. The guys at WWF suggest you make it special. Go somewhere awesome to watch the switch-off – like the Eiffel Tower, the Pyramids of Gizeh, Sydney Opera House… Or stay at home with candles and fire (so, much like most nights for me.. J) and cook a special meal (so, not like me…)

They’ve got a bunch of chefs on-board to suggest ideas for cool cookouts. Some 'celebrity' (yuck). But I’m rather taken by the recipes of Ching-He Huang – obviously cos they’re vegetarian but also because I’ve never been wild on Chinese cooking (don’t get beansprouts, don’t see the point of water chestnuts) but these look quite…tasty. And I do so love to change my mind...

Red cabbage and edamame salad

Serves 4

50g shredded red cabbage

100g edamame beans (you can buy frozen)

1 medium Fresno chilli, deseeded and finely chopped.

1 tablespoon light soy sauce

1 tablespoon toasted sesame oil

1 tablespoon rice vinegar

Toss all ingredients together in a bowl. Chill for 20 mins and then serve. Yeah, I could do that!

And then she cooks up Veggie Mama – the monster of all stir-fries for Mother Nature. But there’s way too much to type out here so I’ll link you to the vid… Nice.

Sweet potato brown rice

Serves 4 to share

300g brown rice

400g sweet potato (peel and cut into small chunks)

600ml water

Wash the rice well, until the water runs clean. Put all the ingredients into a pan and bring to the boil. Once boiled, reduce to a simmer and cook on a low heat for 20 minutes. Fluff the rice and serve immediately.

Then there’s pudding, of course…

And, finally, tea…

Bon apetit…

Star Wars

2012-01-18T07:34:00.000-08:00

Star Wars have broken out in the Bonkers House. I came back from kettlebells last night in the church (yes, when it's too horrible outside we swing our bells in the Congregational Chapel, being careful to avoid the altar) just in time to catch the end of Stargazing Live on BBC2. Perched on the chair next to the fire I was trying to listen to the bit about black holes when Adrian walked in and talked all over it.

‘Ssssh,’ James and I chorused.

‘But it’s nearly over,’ he replied.

And indeed we’d missed the black holes entirely.

‘Sssh. I want to hear if they’re going to mention Dulverton,’ I said.

But the titles came up and that was that.

‘They probably won’t come after all,’ Adrian said. ‘The weather forecast is atrocious. Won’t be able to see a thing.’

‘But, but… Of course they will.’

He raised an eyebrow.

Adrian has been remarkably dismissive about the whole issue of Dulverton going dark for the BBC. Since I heard we were going to be asked to turn out the lights, I’ve been asking him repeatedly to fix the sensor light on our gate. This is supposed to come on obediently if anyone approaches at night (so any burglars will be able to see their way and won’t sue us for breaking a leg on the steps) but it’s broken, like most things here, and so is on permanently. I'd do it myself except...

‘I’d burn myself,’ he said. (yup, that's why I won't do it). ‘Anyhow, what’s the big deal?’

Then, today, he came back from town having spoken to our neighbour. ‘This BBC thing,’ he said. ‘It’s a bloody big deal, you know.’

Really? Well, stone the flipping crows.

‘There’s going to be police and wardens and everything. They’re going to stop people in cars and not let them go through.’ He looked irritated.

‘Well, of course they are,’ I said. ‘A whole bunch of car headlights isn’t exactly going to help the pitch black bit, is it? Anyhow, it’s not as if they’ve sprung it on us – the notices have been up for weeks.’

He frowned. ‘But I hate all this telling us what to do crap. Controlling bollocks.’

I raised an eyebrow. ‘Since when have you been so anti-establishment?’

As a founding member of the Carshalton Anarchist Front (Greyhound pub branch; complete with black beret and bandit mask) I’ve never been too fond of authority. But I really really want Dulverton to go really really dark. Why? Well, partly because if this comes off, it should help boost the tourism our town needs and deserves. But mainly because this is about stars! Stars. STARS.

Hundreds of billions of galaxies burning in universes. Stars so ancient that their light has taken millions, billions even, of years to reach us. We are seeing history, we are looking outside time. Stars talk to us of mind-freaking infinity, of crazy impossibility, of wild incandescence, of beatific transcendence. No wonder we try to transfer their qualities onto poor human substitutes – onto the shimmery pseudo gods and goddesses of Hollywood onto whom we project our own desire to shine, for immortality. For in the Pyramid texts of ancient Egypt the deceased was told to become the ‘imperishable star’ and hence live forever.

In alchemy the many conflicting parts of the self are brought together to form a supernova, the One. Equally the black hole has been equated with the nigredo – the ‘black blacker than black’ - of psychic fragmentation, of total despair. The soul moves outside the event horizon of space and time.

Okay, so maybe that’s a bit deep. But I think there’s another reason we should look up and stare at stars. Ren Warom touched on it in her comment yesterday. She talked about an experience that was ‘unnerving and humbling’, about the knowledge of how small we really are and how huge the universe is, and how it ‘blew the fuses in my head for a while.’

Yes. Yes, yes, yes. It does. It really does. But, you know, I feel it gives us the perspective we humans often lack. We see our reality as so firm, so certain. We think we have the god-given right to trample all over this planet, and all over our fellow inhabitants. Yet, if you look further, if you project yourself out there into the stars, you see, as Ren says, just how freaking small we are. Then think about our planet and where it fits into that immensity and everything suddenly feels very different. That’s not to say we’re unimportant or that we do not experience physicality around us. But we are not the big cheeses and our reality is not as rock solid as our senses soothe us.

It reminded me of this passage from Symphonic Bridges, talking about how the Earth’s structure is in direct contradiction to the stability that realists value so much.

“Beneath the crust and the brittle upper mantle (the lithosphere), the semi-fuel zone (asthenosphere) and the lower mantle – there is the boiling zone ‘D’, where the mantle meets the iron core: white hot fluid metal (5800 degrees Celsius). So, ‘How do we sleep while our beds are burning?’

This whole bizarre structure rotates on its axis, with the speed of a spot on the equator reaching 1670 km/h. If we add to this the dizzying speed of the earth’s revolution around the sun: 107280 km/h, we’ll see ourselves on a monstrous, breathtaking Ferris wheel, suspended in the infinite space together with other ‘mechanisms’, similar and different… Countless.”

Scary? Maybe. But awesome. Madly awesome. Bit freaky maybe? Yes. Of course. But we have to try to grasp what we can; we have to have the heart and guts to move out of our comfort zones.

“This is what conscious living is about,” Marek continues. “To be aware of the context (as much as we can grasp). Then having our feet firmly fixed on the ground will acquire an entirely different significance.”

So tonight I will be missing Zumba. I’ll be out with the rest of the town, in the dark, concentrating on breaking up the clouds so we can see into the sky. I’ll be thinking about my place, not just in the world but in the universe, in the cosmos, in beyond that event even. Hey, you might see me on television. Except... umm…hopefully it’ll be too dark to see. J

PS – just as I was writing this, Adrian came along and stood at the threshold of my turret.

‘That light,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘Well. We could turn off the electricity from the mains.’

I smiled. ‘Yes, we could.’

Now why the freak didn’t I think of that??

Stargazing

2012-01-17T04:50:00.000-08:00

A full moon is shining, bathing the woodland in a pale unearthly gleam. Then it passes behind clouds and the darkness deepens. At first it seems silent but then I hear the sudden cry of a fox, the hoot of owl; a rustle in the undergrowth; sounds I don’t notice by day. As my eyes become accustomed to the dark, I see and feel the landscape in a totally different way.

Do you fear the dark or embrace it? Me, I love the countryside at night. Whether by moonlight or in the pitch dark of the occult moon, it’s a whole different world.

Everything is more intense. Your senses are more alert. It’s just more…I dunno…spine-tingling, exciting. Yet our society generally shuns the dark, turning almost obsessively towards the light. Why else do we keep the street lights on and bathe every building in brightness? Is it because, deep within us, there still lurks an atavistic fear of the dark – of wild animals and menacing human enemies? Do the shadows conjure nightmares of ghosts and ghouls and things that hiss and rustle in the night? Or is it that we rely so much on the sense of sight? Once darkness falls, the advantage shifts to those creatures which use other senses. What we can’t see often frightens us? But at the edge of fear comes excitement, no?

Try it. Turn off your torch too. Our eyes have something called dark adaptation so that, during low light levels the body produces a photosensitive chemical called rhodopsin. When bright light hits the eye, the rhodopsin splits into two leaving you night blind (which is why you can’t see in the dark after turning a bright torch on and then off again).

Yes, you gotta take sensible precautions but really, don’t let fear put you off embracing the magic of a dark night. Of course, there’s night swimming too, and boating – is there anything more magical than moonlight on water? But I save that for summer. J

Then, of course, there are the stars. One of my greatest joys, when we lived out on the moor, perched on top of a hill, was to lie out on the grass on a summer night and watch the star-tangled magic skies. Dazzling star dancers in stately swirls of symphonic splendour. Okay, that’s enough sidereal alliteration. I used to send myself quite dizzy, projecting myself into the Milky Way to join the dance; imagining myself huge, embraced by supernovas.

But anyhow. I’m pleased that our Exmoor skies have been recognised as some of the darkest in the country. We’ve been designated a Dark Sky Reserve, the first in Europe. Actually this does puzzle me as, when I look at a Google satellite map of Europe there are some helluva big tracts of open countryside out there but hey…I’m not complaining. We’ve got it so we’ll sure as hell milk it!

Truly, if you love dark skies, if you love watching the stars and planets, that whole great big amazing universe out there (and the ones beyond), this is the place to come. Because of our lack of light pollution, it makes it a great place to come to starwatch. We also boast a DarkSky Discovery site over at Wimbleball Lake.

Now, I don’t know if you’ve been watching BBC Two’sStargazing LIVE with Brian Cox and Dara O Briain. But tomorrow (8pm on 18^th January) Dulverton is going to be the star of the show when astronomer Mark Thompson asks all of us here in town to turn off our lights. The idea being that we show the rest of the UK just how amazing a sky without light pollution may be. Apparently they’re bringing astronomers (tame ones, I hope) and telescopes. As they say on their leaflet –

There’s a whole universe of incredible wonders above your head, isn’t it time you looked up?

Oh, and check out Exmoor Star Gazers....

Oh (again), and in typical Dulverton fashion the local businesses have joined in with some fabulous window displays. Even the estate agents are getting in on the act with some truly terrible puns!

light pollution from shop opposite!

Er...I'm cleaning

2012-01-15T12:23:00.000-08:00

Last night I went to my friend Gill’s house for the evening. I love her place. It’s so welcoming, so reassuringly normal, about as far from Bonkers as you can get. It’s not just that it’s deliciously warm, it’s beautifully clean. Ordered. Uncluttered. But above all clean. Her kitchen gleams. No really, it glitters like a vampire’s skin. You can see the wood on her table. Open her fridge and you don’t recoil in disgust. There is no gloopy alien lifeforce colonising her cooker.

It was late when I got home so I didn’t really notice the house much, except for tripping over a pile of something someone had thoughtfully left on the stairs. Why didn’t I see it? Because there's no light on the stairs. Having hurled your entire body weight against the door to shoulder your way in (you wonder why I work out? I need the muscles), you are then plunged into darkness the moment you slam it shut and have to feel your way up two flights of stairs (incidentally passing the Loo of Doom and the Cellar of Spirits – renamed after Lorraine’s visit – and barging your way through the partying entities). Once through the door into the kitchen, you move from pitch darkness to a forgiving penumbra (there are lights but half the bulbs don’t work). Anyhow, shadows hide a multitude of sins.

But this morning, in the unforgiving glare of cool low winter sun? Oh hell. We live in a pigsty. And, given our homes reflect our minds, that what we see around us mirrors our inner world? Oh dear. L

So. I got cleaning. I know, I know. I was shocked too. But I hauled James off the Xbox, armed him with a timely sponge and pointed him in the right direction (ie told him to spin round, pick a spot, any spot, and start scrubbing). Now then, is there anything more beautiful than the sight of a teenage boy on his hands and knees, cleaning? Okay, so you do have to put up with the whole underpants showing over the low-slung jean thing (does ANYONE get that?) but hey…

Incidentally, do your children clean? My mother was adamant that all boys should know how to clean, cook and do the laundry. Just as she believed girls should be able to fix cars and use a drill. She said she’d never forgive herself for bringing up a man who couldn’t fend for himself; who expected women to do all the domestic work.

I’m following her lead. James is a good cook; is handy with mop, duster, scrubbing brush and vacuum cleaner. I’ve taught him the fine art of reading clothing labels and he can sort of iron (because that’s all his teacher can do).

Anyhow. The cleaning was actually relatively pleasant because we’d been given a whole bunch of Greenscents products to try out. Greenscents are a local company who make household products with absolutely no chemical nasties.

I didn’t think I’d get excited about cleaning products but really these are pretty fabulous. I love them mainly because they smell divine – I’m hard pressed to choose between the mint and the citrus scent for general cleaning. Lavender always wins me over in the laundry department. Even Adrian’s a convert. He reckons the wood floor cleaner is ‘the business’. ‘Tell ‘em I like the smell,’ he says. ‘And it does a really good job.’

Yes, I’m plugging these guys, I freely admit it. There are several reasons.

1. I like local. I like to support small businesses, particularly those that give a damn about the environment.

2. I don’t like harsh chemical cleaners. I don’t like what they could potentially do to my family’s health and I don’t like what they do to the environment.

3. They’re damn good products. They do the job and make your home smell nice.

They are more expensive than the stuff you get in Tesco or whatever but I think they’re worth the extra. Will I continue using them when this lot is finished? Yes, I think so. £2.50 for washing up liquid is a bit steep but the laundry liquid is a total keeper. At £4.75 it’s around the price of the conventional stuff and it washes a treat. I don’t usually use fabric conditioner – it’s a hangover from when my son was small and had appalling skin problems (conditioner can exacerbate eczema etc). But I’m hooked now on all our stuff smelling so damn…fresh. However, if essential oils cause irritation (and they can – natural isn’t always the answer!) there is also an unscented range.

Sheesh, all this domestic goddessery and nice housewifery business is a bit alarming. Time to strip off the pinny and get back to my usual slatternly ways.

If you want to find out more about greenscents, check out their website – www.greenscents.co.uk

Hair

2012-01-14T08:42:00.000-08:00

It all started out so well. I woke at 6am after a full six hours’ sleep, having enjoyed some weird dreams and a certain amount of astral decadence.

Zumba had worked its usual magic, the sun was shining, the frost was crisp and the day was bright. I did my morning meditation, Tibetans and then spent a pleasant hour at the gym.

Something was nagging at the back of my mind but I couldn’t for the life of me think what it was.

‘Where is it you’re going this evening?’ asked Adrian, as I got back, shouting over the sound of the vacuum cleaner.

Shit. That was it! Last night at Zumba, Kate had said, ‘You are going tomorrow night, aren’t you?’ I stared at her, head on one side, sweat dripping attractively from my nose. ‘Carolyn’s birthday?' she prompted. 'At Gill’s?’

‘Huh? What? Oh. Yes. Yes. YES! Of course I am. I hadn’t forgotten. Of course I hadn’t. You thought I’d forgotten, didn’t you?’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Right. Well, if you’re not there by 7.30pm I’ll ring you.’

What can I say? I have a bad memory. I blame it on having too much in my head - I need to run defrag on it, get it all filed a bit more neatly. Anyhow, going out was okay. I could do that. Except…shit. I looked in the mirror and the mirror sort of took a little gasp and half-looked away before realising that it was being impolite. What the bejesus had happened to my hair over winter? It had taken on a life of its own; become a small satellite state. Frankly it was a bit scary and I don’t scare that easily. And if it scared me, was it really fair to take it with me to the home of a really nice person; to inflict it on other really nice people; including poor Carolyn who was having a big birthday and needed soothing not stressing? No.

I did wonder about cutting the bastard stuff off altogether, to put it in its place. My mother trained as a hairdresser in the war – her mother had refused to have her evacuated and so apprenticed her to the nearest shop. She got off lightly really; a bit further down the road sat the undertaker and the butcher. But anyhow, I must have the hairdressing gene, right? Plus I used to watch the hairdresser when I had one. And it’s all in the way you run the hair through your fingers. But when I mentioned on Twitter that I had my scalpel ready, poor Erica nearly fell off her pouffe.

Colour then. A while back I’d been sent a couple of packets of Naturtint to try out. I’ve seen this stuff in the health shops – it promises to dye your hair without the really nasty chemical shit that goes in most home-dye products. But then, I also had a packet of henna I’d picked up in the hippy head shop in Taunton. The last time I used henna I was at university, sharing a flat with a girl from Iran and a girl from Iraq (yes, in the early eighties – fortunately they were pretty mature about it). At first I thought they were shitting in the bath and felt very suburban in my outlook (while sticking to the shower). When I found out it was henna, I felt even more parochial. But they just smiled and taught me how to apply it to make red hair even redder. But that was, um, decades ago.

Once again I asked Twitter and it wasn’t terribly forthcoming. Just one firm reply: Henna. Given it was from a guy I decided that I should probably do the opposite so I went for the Naturtint.

Last time I did this I had a lot LOT less hair. This time I seemed to get more of the stuff on my face, neck, cleavage than on my head; not to mention liberally splattered around the bathroom. Given the shade was called Fireland, it looked like I’d been butchering a pig; or taking slices out of myself. Anyhow, I finally got it all on and went about my business, quietly lamenting the fact that, were I in a salon, I’d be sipping tea and reading crap magazines by now. Then, of course, I got caught up reading something interesting and clean forgot all about it.

‘How long have I had this stuff on my head?’ I asked Twitter.

A flurry of alarm came back from the women in the crew – summarised as ‘too freaking long; take it off NOW!’ and a laconic, ‘Keep it on, see what happens’ from the guy. The latter was tempting because, honestly, the idea of taking it off was just too exhausting. Eventually I did – mainly because it smelt a bit odd. Not unpleasant, just…alien. ‘Rinse until the water runs clean,’ said the instructions. Half an hour later I was getting dizzy.

But, at last, tis done. And it’s rather nice really. Now if I could just do something about the sheer VOLUME of the stuff...

Nitty gritty. Why should you worry about using ‘normal’ hair dye? Well. The usual stuff contains some pretty unpleasant chemicals. Ammonia wrecks your hair eventually (I can attest to this having bleached my hair to death in the 80s – seriously, it was slime). Resorcinol is an irritant to eyes and skin and can affect the central nervous system (symptoms can include dizziness, restlessness, unusual heartbeat). Parabens (which are in all kinds of things – check your labels) have been linked to the development of cancer.

Naturtint doesn’t include any of these which has to be a good thing. It uses chemically light alternatives. But does it deliver? Yes, actually, it’s not half bad. The colour is good – bright but not brash. I'll be honest, it doesn't last quite as well as the full-on chemical brigade but that’s a small price to pay. There’s also a range called Reflex (a non-permanent colour rinse) that doesn’t even contain peroxide or PPD and hence is suitable for pregnant women.

Of course, the totally natural solution would have been the henna. Next time maybe. J

Naturtint costs £9.99 . See www.naturesdream.co.uk for details of stockists and videos of how to apply (hmm, probably should have checked that first).

Let's try, try again...

2012-01-13T10:27:00.000-08:00

cosy...

I tell you, left to my own devices I’d probably spend most of the day (not to mention the night) meditating. The place I go to makes much more sense than the ‘real’ world around me. But we live in this world and have to be of it while we’re here so, sadly, it’s not really an option.

‘I sometimes think you’d be happier in a monastery,’ said Adrian the other day. ‘Or tucked away in some cave.’

I paused and frowned, pondering the question.

‘Oh God,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t serious.’

‘Well, ’ I said, smiling. ‘It would have to be a very warm cave. In a desert maybe.’ J

But really…I go through phases – of engagement and disengagement. And I think that’s okay actually. It’s part of my process, what I think of as my alchemy. What people often don’t understand about alchemy (magick, personal growth, call it whatever you fancy) is that it isn’t a linear process; it spirals; it loops back on itself. You often have to repeat the same stages over and over on different levels of that multi-dimensional labyrinth; each time slightly differently, with new insights.

Anyhow, process work is another way of navigating through the labyrinth. I’ve mentioned Arnold Mindell before and now I’ll try to explain a little more. If you find ‘normal’ meditation tough, this might be the key. It’s a bit complicated so, if you’re interested, I’d really recommend you read Working on Yourself Alone, the most accessible of his books. Mindell was a physicist who became a psychoanalyst and he marries science and psyche in a way few can with any aplomb. He believes that the key to change (should you want to change, of course, and many don’t) is not to dampen down the ‘lower’ drives (greed, jealousy, anger etc) but consciously to identify with them; to allow the troublesome parts of the personality to express themselves. Hence, he feels, Eastern meditation practices which focus on detachment are not necessarily advisable for most people.

Riding the horse backwards...

‘A possibly new dimension in meditation would be to accept and process all events, including anger, jealousy and greed, in order to reveal their life-giving potential,’ he says.

So, we don’t reject the shitty bits of ourselves; we don’t stamp all over our anger or fear; we don’t hate and reject our pains, our flesh, our illnesses, our weaknesses. Instead we use those feelings, we amplify them to discover what they’re trying to say.

It’s basic alchemy. You take the signals you receive (from your body, your thoughts, your senses, other people, the world) and apply focus (meditation) and by amplifying and cooking them you bring them to completion.

‘The alchemist’s gold is greater contact with experience of, and sometimes even insight into, our own and other’s nature,’ says Mindell.

But what is process? Basically it’s the information that comes to you, from all kinds of directions. Mindell identifies six main ‘channels’.

1. Body feeling – breathing, sensory perception, aches, pains, body awareness.

2. Visualisation – seeing with the mind’s eye.

3. Hearing – what you hear…externally and internally.

4. Movement – spontaneous movement, tics, twitches, spasms.

5. Relationships – how you and other people relate, including transference

6. World phenomena – how you and the ‘outer’ world interact.

Meditation, says Mindell, is a multi-channelled process which is at work all the time. I love this. It means you take meditation out of the lotus position and into the world, into every moment of your day. Actually, in his later books, he describes how you can take it into the night too (learning how to meditate while asleep – that’s my next challenge).

But to start, close your eyes. Ask yourself, which channel am I in? Start with just three – inner seeing, feeling, hearing. Are you feeling something in your body? Seeing something with your inner eyes? Hearing something (maybe even just your breathing?). Don’t use your outer eyes because looking happens too spontaneously – your eyes are too busy noticing things, being fascinated by what you want to become. Equally, normally our bodies are constantly shifting. So, by closing your eyes and not consciously moving, you become aware of other channels. Whatever you see, hear or feel -amplify. If you have some ache or pain, focus on it, check out where it’s coming from, where it’s going to. If it becomes uncomfortable, you may find you switch channels, to avoid the confrontation – you may stop feeling your body and instead ‘see’ an image in your mind’s eye or become aware of your breathing. For now, that’s fine. Just see what comes up. Don’t judge, just become aware.

Mindell often finds that by working in this way, people not only gain insights into their psyche, their bodies often heal too. He has even worked with people in comas – strange but true. Of course, some people resist change, even when they hurt (psychologically or physically). ‘Pain is not enough to motivate people to change,’ Mindell says. ‘There is something else, a strange, unpredictable element which is required before people can work out problems and alter their lives. This element is a mixture of discipline, love and enlightenment.’ Interesting.

But should we work on ourselves? Actually yes, we should probably try. If you consider the earth is a system, a field – then you can’t just throw stuff out. There’s nowhere for it to go - you’re simply putting your crap out into the system. We all have a duty, really, to process our psychic waste just as much as we should compost our peelings and recycle our bottles.

What will our children be eating?

2012-01-12T07:31:00.000-08:00

The problem with progress is that often you reach a tipping point. You can’t go back. Sometimes this can be good of course. Someone commented on my last blog post that maybe the answer to racism is to mix up our genes until we are all one big juicy gene chowder. That would be good, yes? Well, it might be one solution though it would take quite some time and inclination.

But when it comes to turning our food into genetic soup, well, I think we need to need to be deeply racist; we keep to keep the genes firmly segregated. Spiders should not mate with tomatoes. No sirree.

I spent a fair bit of time researching this many years back and what I saw scared the bejesus out of me. Because the thing is, once you let GM loose in the environment, you can’t put it back in the lab. The genie is well and truly out of its bottle.

Yesterday Linda Lazarides, a nutritional expert I’ve known for decades, sent me a message via LinkedIn:

“Hi Jane, I was horrified to be informed Sainsbury's may be taking a positive stance in favour of GM foods.”

What? I checked out the link she sent and it seems that Sainsbury’s brand director had given an ill-advised quote to Farmer’s Weekly saying, in effect, that Sainsbury’s were missing an opportunity to be involved in the GM industry. The CEO of Sainsbury’s has now apologised and reassured customers that Sainsbury’s will continue to listen to their customers and won't be stocking GM food. (is it just me that hears 'for now' tacked onto that?)

But I’m not reassured. Not remotely. Because, even if the UK stands firm, the rest of the world isn’t. And you can’t contain GM. You simply cannot have GM and non-GM. GM contamination of conventional and organic crops is already increasing. The US rice supply has already been contaminated by a ONE YEAR field trial of GM rice. In Canada, the organic oilseed rape industry has been destroyed by contamination from GM rape. In Spain, GM maize is wiping out organic cultivation. The time has come to choose between a GM-based, or a non-GM-based, world food supply. The two can’t co-exist. The problem is that, if some places choose to grow GM, it affects us all. Effectively we’re all stuffed.

Why does it worry me? Because we simply don’t know the environmental consequences or the health consequences. We have no idea. It’s an imprecise science with unpredictable outcomes. We have NO idea what GM food could do. There are very few studies on the effects of humans eating GM food (interesting that) but animal studies have shown that GM foods can have toxic effects, including shifts in the immune system, accelerated ageing and genetic alterations.

As toxicologist Dr Suzanne Wuerthele of the EPA (US Environmental Protection Agency) says, ‘We are confronted with the most powerful technology the world has ever known, and it is being rapidly deployed with almost no thought whatsoever to its consequences.’

Oh but, say the pro-GM brigade, people in the US have been eating GM food for ages with no ill-effects. But how would they know? They’re not labelled.

So why is it being promoted? The powerful pro-GM lobby says that it is going to save the world, that GM will feed the world. No. GM food won’t solve the world food crisis. Expert analysts also doubt the much-touted ability of GM crops to increase crop yields and to decrease or end the need for pesticides. In fact, data shows that GM crops in the US need more, not less, pesticides.

So then. Why? Money. Politics. What else? L

It’s your choice of course. Although, sadly, it won’t be our children’s choice. They will have no choice.

My devildaughter, the Mistress of All Evil (coming up to 14) lent me a book recently. It's a dystopian YA novel called Uglies by Scott Westerfield and it's pretty (ho ho) good. But the scene that stayed with me, long after I shut the book, was one in which the protagonist, escaping from the 'perfect' world comes across a vast field of beautiful white flowers. Then, suddenly, a helicopter appears and flame-throwers burn the ground. Why? she asks. Why did you do that? Because, the flame thrower explains, the white orchids were once the rarest flowers but genetic modification turned them into the ultimate weed - a monoculture, crowding out every other species of plant and animal. Biological zero.

Want to know more? Probably not. But should you feel inclined GM Watch is very informative.

They also have a great links page which will plug you into all the latest research, campaigns and actions, wherever you are.

We're all racists

2012-01-11T03:09:00.000-08:00

‘We’re all racists,’ Bea Campbell said to me, way back in the day. At the time I was affronted. ‘How can I be a racist?’ I spluttered defensively. ‘My adopted father is part aborigine and my foster sister is West Indian.’ I nearly went on to say, ‘and I have loads of black friends and if I don’t have a black boyfriend it’s not for want of serious trying’ (but, thankfully, I stopped myself). Bea just looked at me and sighed.

It took me nigh on twenty years to realise that she was absolutely right. We are all racists.

Of course, on a physiological level, racism is totally absurd, quite risible. Peel away our skin and you’d have to be a forensic pathologist to tell the difference between us. Our rational, civilised, nice psyche baulks at it too - and quite rightly so. But on a deeper level, psychologically, it’s a very different story.

Of course you’re already spluttering; already planning your defensive/appalled/caustic comment. Because that’s what we do. We make up our minds before we have even read something through to the end. We jump to conclusions. We do what I did with Bea Campbell. And, (particularly when it comes to racism) we tie ourselves in knots (I read Liz Jones’ piece on the Diane Abbott affair with a deeply furrowed brow – in fact I read it three times and still can’t make head nor tail of it).

I've thought about writing this post several times but over the last few days I've watched the old game play out on the Authonomy forum and so I figured it was time.

Anyhow, let’s pull back a bit and look at why we make these boundaries, why we put ourselves in groups, why we have this urge to divide. In fact, let’s not even talk about black and white to begin with…let’s start with something a little less …emotive.

‘Why do you feel so strongly about being Welsh?’ I asked Adrian back during the rugby world cup or whatever when he was in full Cymru am byth (Wales Forever!) mode. Again.

‘It’s my heritage,’ he replied with a shrug. ‘It’s what I am; it’s where I come from.’

‘But, see,’ I said. ‘If you came from the borders, back in time, you would have been – alternatively – Welsh and English.’

‘Well…politically,’ he conceded. ‘But I’d still be Welsh.’ Is that racist? In that the corollary is ‘and thank feck I’m not bastard English’ then yes, of course it is. J

But what does it mean to be Welsh? I looked up ethnicity online and it seems nobody really knows why we do this; there is no *real* reason for our tribalising. It’s a societal thing. There are a whole bunch of views and, to be very honest, none of them really answered my question. Take this…which probably came the closest.

"Constructivism" sees both primordialist and perennialist views as basically flawed, and rejects the notion of ethnicity as a basic human condition. It holds that ethnic groups are only products of human social interaction, maintained only in so far as they are maintained as valid social constructs in societies.”

So having tribes helps us hold together as societies. Really? But it still doesn’t really answer my question. And then, see, a few days later Adrian was at it again… ‘Bloody South Waleans…’ he muttered. Not sure what they’d done this time, apart from existing and being south of Dolgellau. ‘Bloody Cardiff. ’ Yup, even the Welsh (a small nation for sure) can’t help dividing itself further – North v South. And in Llandudno, Adrian’s home town, they do it too. ‘Oh they’re from up the valley…’ said with a certain element of scorn. ‘Llanwyrst.’ With an eyeroll.

I see it here too – on Exmoor – within our tiny towns. Dulverton v Bampton. Within Dulverton itself – cliques, groups, sub-divisions. If it’s not race, it’s class, or sexuality or politics or – shit knows – football teams, werewolves v vampires.

So I started looking into sociology and social psychology and there aren’t really any definite answers there either. We humans compete for material resources or for social rewards, I’m told. We have a ‘natural inclination’ for aggression and if that aggression is not unleashed on an agreed ‘enemy’ it turns inwards onto our own societies.

Rene Girard saw ‘collective violence as sacred’; as the ‘great remedy’ for communal life. He talked about the scapegoat as ‘absorbing all the internal tensions, feuds, and rivalries pent up within the community…a deliberate act of collective substitution.’ Scapegoat? Yes. We have lynched and burned and gassed the scapegoat many the time before. Hold that thought – I’ll come back to it.

But really, why is conflict latent at our core?

Psychically, I think, it’s because we’re set up to divide things into two. Me and you; us and them. Difference is part of the human condition. If we didn't feel different, we would be One. We wouldn’t be here. We’d have moved on. We see the world in twos so we can make choices; so we can say No. Two is freedom. Yet, paradoxically, it is also irresolvable conflict, standoffs, stalemates, obstinacy. So One is impossible and Two is a pain in the arse. Is there a solution? Think about that word and hold that thought.

Meanwhile, back on the Authonomy forum a big brave knight jousted a dragon (I mean, a filthy racist). Did he ask the dragon what it was doing? Did he seek to understand why the dragon said what it did? No. Instead he chose to hit the ‘report abuse’ button and incited the mob (I mean, other members of the forum) to do likewise. And, because racism is such an emotive word and we’re all so damn scared of it, people did just that and the government booted the dragon off the site.

'Hurrah,’ yelled the crowd, waving their pitchforks. ‘We killed the dragon.’

‘No,’ said the brave knight, polishing his spear. ‘I was the dragon slayer.’

And then it all got very messy indeed as, having made one scapegoat, they felt better for a bit but then a few people went, ‘Huh?’ and so they hunted around for another one and found another guy (this time he just happened to be black) and started all over again with him.

But really. Why do we scapegoat? Because it’s far more comfortable to point a finger at someone and go ‘Look! Filthy racist’ than to confront the racism, the separation within ourselves. There was an opportunity, on that forum, for people to feel the discomfort in what they saw as racism and to explore that feeling; to try, maybe to understand its source rather than just push it under, squash it down…again. This is contentious, I know, but truly – have our other ways of dealing with racism worked?

I believe there was an opportunity to look at the ‘field’- what Arnold Mindell calls the unconscious, collective, polarised patterns that lie behind racism and collective conflict. To engage in ‘worldwork’, working with the psychosocial fields that reach beyond boundaries of race. To use a little deep democracy (in which all voices are heard – both those around us and those inside us – often they’re the same!). As Mindell puts it: ‘Deep democracy is based upon the realisation that everyone is needed to represent reality. A sense of justice arises only in connection with community, with inner peace of mind, sustainable ongoing relationships, and worldwork that processes the tensions between groups.’

It’s interesting stuff – check out The Global Process Institute & Worldwork website at www.worldwork.org I’m not sure I agree with all of what he says but it’s a bloody good start.

But people didn’t question; they didn’t look within. More correctly, they didn’t look between. In alchemy, separation is the process of establishing Two. You and me. Us and them. The next stage is Conjunction. People mistake this – they see it as the two becoming one. No. Conjunction is reaching Three – you, me and Between. Yes, it’s subtle, I know. But just think about it. I reckon it’s the saving grace.

Meanwhile, about that particular filthy dragon. Is he a racist? No more than you or I. And, actually, if people knew his ancestry, they might be very very surprised. J

Okay, I've said my piece...over to you...

Lie back and relax...

2012-01-09T07:29:00.000-08:00

Okay, so this may surprise you but I don’t believe in January detoxing. I don’t believe in harsh resolutions. I don’t believe in punishing regimes. Sheesh, guys, this is January. JANUARY! Some of you are lucky enough to live in lovely warm places but for those of us who don’t, the last thing our bodies need is being brutalised right now.

I worry that by focusing on this idea of ‘detoxing’ as a short sharp process, we’re missing out on longterm health and wellbeing. Far better, surely, to shift your mindset so you simply don’t want to tox your body, your mind, your spirit anymore?

And, anyhow, when it’s cold outside and lonely inside, the last thing you need is more stricture. Which is why I buck the trend and make January pampering month. I don’t eat crap but I do tend to eat slightly more than usual; warm nourishing food. Alright, so that’s mainly dhal – because, dear God, I do love dhal. Yes, I work out and I am beyond grateful that Zumba and Kettlercise have started up again. But you wouldn’t catch me pounding the pavements at dawn (but, hey, if you enjoy it, go for it).

Those of you who know me will know I’m not remotely high maintenance. Even if I weren’t broke I wouldn’t spend a fortune on clothes or stuff generally. If I lost all my worldly goods tomorrow it wouldn’t really bother me – in fact, I’d likely feel quite liberated. But the one thing I would lament would be my bath.

I figure the world is divided between those who shower and those who bath. Don’t get me wrong: if you’re hot and sweaty after a morning workout, the shower’s the place. But, come evening, my before bedtime ritual always involves a hot deep bath. Immersion in water. Total immersion in water – yeah, sometimes I go under and make like a mermaid…it’s a habit started in childhood and hard to break. J But mainly I just float.

Y’know how I was talking about being solutions the other day? Well, water is the universal solvent. A glass of water is charged particles dancing – a fandango of minerals and elements. We are composed of 85 percent water and water makes up nine tenths of our blood, plasma, lymph, urine, saliva…even our cerebrospinal fluid, even our synovial fluid.

Check out any creation story and water will be there… Check out pretty well any ancient culture and there will be rituals for bathing. Check out any form of spirituality and water flows through. Look at the work of Japanese photographer Masuro Emoto who photographed the effects of loving words and prayers versus harsh and harming words and thoughts on frozen water crystals. The thoughts that harmed produced forbidding whirls while the prayer created lacelike formations. Check out old Leonard Orr who discovered rebirthing in his tub. Look all over the world – from the Mayan cenotes to the banias of Russia; from the Turkish hammam to the Jewish mikvah; from Hindu temple bathing to the Japanese cult of the bath.

Ah, I could go on and on. There are a million and one ways you can bathe. A gazillion rituals and routines for physical health and psychological wellbeing. Me? I tend just to soak and muse; to relax into the breath and to let my mind wander in pleasant places.

Yes, I add unguents. Of course I do. But never nasty synthetic stuff – I don’t get why anyone would want to bath in chemicals. I’m supremely lucky in that I get sent a fair amount of bath products for testing. Some I quietly lose to the local raffle but some I just adore...

These are my keepers...

Aromatherapy Associates – I still adore their Deep Relax bath oil but lately I’ve been quite turned onto their Support blend (lavender and peppermint)

Ila-spa – Sheer, total decadence. Their rose Bath Oil for Glowing Radiance is an all-time favourite. One of these days I must also test out their salts.

Weleda – Seriously good prices for lovely pure scents. Their lavender is a world away from sickly synthetics – deeply calming.

REN – It’s the Morrocan Rose otto bath oil here – divine. Complete the experience by using their scrub beforehand for silky skin.

Connock London – Their soothing bath oil is heaven – a more exotic scent than the others with oils of kukui, macadamia and tamanu. I massage this one into my skin first and then soak in the bath – it leaves the whole body decadently soft.

Taer – This Icelandic company has a range that looks as beautiful as it smells and feels. I’m in thrall to the Glacier Bath Oil that somehow makes your body feel hot and cold at the same time! Not to be used during pregnancy or if you’re breastfeeding.

Think those are the main ones. Having road-tested Pukka Herb’s (www.pukkaherbs.com) new ayurvedic skincare range (it’s excellent) I’m really hoping they will come up with some bath goodies soon.

However, if you can’t run to purpose-bought potions, never fear. If I run out, there’s no way I reach for the synthetic stuff. I’d rather use a couple of drops of essential oil mixed with a little milk. Or pop a few drops of essential oil (lavender or citrus scents work well) on a handful of salts (a mix of sea salt and Epsom salts works well).

Then just lie back….and dream… Happy January.

Connections...

2012-01-09T02:58:00.000-08:00

Did you look out for signs over the Twelve Days? Those inbetween, interstitial, liminal days? Did you snatch a glimpse of the year ahead by paying attention to the oracles all around you? I did. Well, of course I did. What did I see? Let’s not go there. Let’s just say it’s going to be an interesting year.

One word kept coming up again and again. Connection. And one symbol kept coming up over and over. A web. It culminated in the beautiful image Caitlin Matthews posted on Facebook of not one, but several webs, webs within webs. The Web of Wyrd. That links everything, everyone. Touch the edge of a web and the reverberations are felt throughout the entire structure. For yes, we are all connected. Each and every one of us.

I watch the interwebs (there we go again) and I see people who are scared; who are worried about the world. They are scared about what we’re doing to the environment; to the economy; to one another. And they have good reason to be concerned. We are doing terrible things to our beautiful world. We do terrible things to one another. We do terrible things to ourselves.

Several months back I remember saying to Marek, ‘How can we save the world?’ and he replied. ‘We can’t. We can only save ourselves.’ And I thought about it and I figured he was absolutely right. For, truly, you can’t ever change other people. You can only change yourself. I'm not talking about being selfish; about ignoring what is going on in the world - far from it. It's simply that you cannot force people to change; you cannot make them see the world your way. No matter how much you would love them to do so.
In Symphonic Bridges, Marek puts it like this...
"I wish my parents would choose to join me in my spiritual exploration. I wish they would decide to take up the rejuvenation and longevity. The latter doesn’t make sense without the former, of(f) course. I wish my mother would learn to swim and ride a bike finally. Even at the age of eighty or something. I wish I didn’t think that I should have rather used Simple Past tense after all the above ‘I wish’s’. Wishful thinking…

Wishing is all I can do really. I can’t even persuade my sons that eating meat is bad for them. Will they blame me in the future for my not being strict enough with them about it now. If they ever go on vegetarian diet. Maybe I should just make them give up this barbarian habit. But wouldn’t it be a violation of their freedom of choice? We all have free will. Though freedom ends where our decision would lead to hurting other people.

Therefore, I choose to avoid enforcement of any ‘spiritual imperatives’. Instead of telling my wife, children, parents and other people what they have to do to live a better life, I just keep setting a good example. That’s what I believe it is anyway."

And that's just talking about simple things like diet. We're contrary creatures - the moment someone says we 'should' do something, we tend to want to do the polar opposite. Look at the storm in a teacup today over the government telling us how much alcohol we should be drinking - or rather not drinking. Look how defensive the US becomes over genetically engineered food or carbon emissions. We don't like being told off.
But if we all changed…? If we all became alchemists…? If we all saw beyond the greed and the need and the fear and the defensiveness? Oh then, then…who knows what would happen? Remember the tale of the hundredth monkey?

And at Zumba the other night, Debbie played this as our cool-down track…

And this morning, on Twitter, lovely Melpomene played a Cat Stevens track which made me think of this…

And this…

Yeah, it always adds up to one thing… Love. Just Love.

Resolutions? Solutions?

2012-01-04T03:42:00.000-08:00

2012, eh? I’ve been a long way away, a long way awhen… So forgive me while I come back, while I come to. It may take some time...

Resolutions? We toss the word around but what are resolutions? A breaking into parts, a reducing of things into simpler forms. Where does the root of resolution come from? Solvere, the Latin verb that means to loosen, to untie. What is a solution? Solutio – the resolution of a difficulty. In chemistry, a liquid containing a dissolved substance. In alchemy… Well…

I dunno, you can pursue this if it interests you. If it doesn’t, just skip to the music (it says the same anyway, just in a different way). I’m simply throwing out thoughts…images…words… I can't tell you anything. Only you can tell you.

Today, I wonder. What does it mean, to dissolve? To become a solution? Resolution of a difficulty? The end of Self, of separation? Purification? Knowledge of our consciousness/ subconsciousness/ unconsciousness? Clear running water dissolving the elements of the rocks through which it passes. Clarity of thought and action. Letting go of poison, of toxicity, releasing the rigidity of the past, of our inheritance (what MaSte would call our genetic and contextual conditioning) our ‘karma’. And finally, of course, the river leads to the sea, the wide open sea. The Great Sea. Mara. Binah. Emotions - of all kinds. 'Bad' as well as 'good'. Acceptance.

So, anyway. You wanna resolve? You want to be a solution? Yeah, me too. J

Under the Same Sky

2011-12-29T06:57:00.000-08:00

This reality thing… How is it that so many of the people I am closest to are those I have never met in ‘real’ life? What is real life? Adrian laughs at me when I talk about my online friends, my ‘tribe’, my ‘family’, my whatever. ‘Have you actually met this one?’ he says. And I frown. Because, really, unreally, I don’t see it matters. And I have this suspicion that the internet has a deeper purpose – of putting back in touch people who are geographically disparate but connected in far more important, yet subtle, ways.

You’ve already met quite a few of my people but today I’m going to introduce to another. Genevieve Graham. I met Genevieve on Authonomy – she had posted her book Under the Same Sky and the moment I started reading it, I just knew it was a winner. It’s the story of a girl, Maggie, gifted with ‘the Sight’. She dreams of a boy she calls Wolf and – oh my – he also dreams of her. As they grow up, she in South Carolina, he in the Scottish Highlands, their dreams become clearer, turning into visions that bring them comfort, love and inspiration. Even life-saving protection. They yearn for one another but, slight problem, they’re on different continents. And, even more problematic, this isn’t the era of bucketshop airlines. It’s 1746 and – if you know your history – you’ll know it isn’t the best time to be a young guy in the Highlands. After war ravages his home and his family, Andrew (Wolf) sets out on a journey to the New World to find the woman he has always loved. But she isn’t living an easy life either. Under the Same Sky may look like a bodice-ripper (my one gripe is the cover that Penguin have chosen for the book). Appearances are deceptive…but I’ll let Genevieve tell you about that.

Anyhow. Under the Same Sky is poised on the verge of publication so I figured it was time to talk to Genevieve about her book.

EJ: Where did you find the idea for this book? Did it spring into your head fully-formed or did you start with an image, an idea?

GG: I had a rough idea in my head that I wanted to write an adventure. How’s that? Oh. A little more info, huh? Okay. I’d read Diana Gabaldon’s “Outlander” series four times, and I’d just watched Colin Farrell in “The New World” for the umpteenth time, so I was definitely in that frame of mind. I love sagas, stories about journeys. I wanted the plot to stretch out for the duration, not knowing within the first couple of pages who will be doing whom.

EJ: How do you write? Are you a plotter or do you let the story unfold as you go along?

GG: I’m a … what’s that term? Pantzer. I write by the seat of my pants. At some point I put my foot down and figure out the general direction, try to figure out what the plot actually is, but my favourite thing is writing whatever’s playing out in my head, then going back and not remembering actually writing that part.

EJ: Why Scotland?

GG: It started with the “Outlander” books. Those growling Scottish burrs and grungy kilts got it all going for me. Scotland’s a place I’ve always wanted to experience. Lots of people say Scotland “calls to them”, and I’m one of those people. So, since I haven’t been able to go physically, why not travel in my head and on my keyboard?

EJ: Grungy kilts eh? J And why 1746? Why was it important to set your novel at this particular time?

GG: Again, Gabaldon’s books influenced that. Until I read that series I’d had no clue about Scottish history. I didn’t really care about history at all until then, and now I’m amazed by all of it. 1746 was not only an exciting time period, but it was a monumental year for Scots. That one day on Culloden Moor wiped out their entire way of life, meaning they had to create a whole new existence.

EJ: Maggie and Andrew have visions of one another, can see and hear one another on another dimension. Have you experienced anything like that? Are you psychic in any way?

GG: I love the world of psychics and have some gifted friends. I’ve experienced “things”, and I definitely believe in it all. I’ve been told I am psychic and just need to learn how to listen, but so far all I can do is read what my characters are saying. My husband and I know what each other is thinking most of the time, for which we’ve coined the silly phrase “psychicivity”.

I saw a psychic about four years ago, and she had no idea I’d written anything. She was reading tarot for me and said every card she turned over screamed, “published”. Good thing she didn’t see something a little less … happy.

EJ: Why do they have this link? You don’t explain in the book why they are so drawn to one another.

GG: I suppose you could say it’s destiny, a destiny they can fulfill because of the strength of their individual psychic gifts. They say we only use 10% of our brains. What’s the rest of it doing? If we were all that gifted, if we all could feel like they could, maybe discovering our destiny and finding our soulmate would be just as clear. Just imagine.

EJ: Under the Same Sky is marketed as ‘historical romance’ but it feels more than that to me – how would you describe it?

GG: Though the cover definitely suggests romance, I shy away from that term. I was very fortunate that Berkley/Penguin saw it that way, though. I call it ‘historical adventure’ with strands of fantasy woven throughout.

A little note about the cover: When an author is fortunate enough to be published by a major publishing house, they rarely have input into their covers. The cover of Under the Same Sky is absolutely beautiful, its imagery and colours eye-catching. Unfortunately, it’s not representative of the story. This book is not a “bodice ripper”, as many people say the cover suggests. It’s not a stereotypical romance.

EJ: Inevitably I loved the shamanic aspects of this book – tell us a little about how you researched the Cherokee. Why did you pick this particular people?

GG: I loved working with the Cherokee. Truth is, I had absolutely no idea there were going to be Cherokee in that book until they burst out of the trees that day. Most of the research I did about both them and the Highlanders was through historical re-enactors, who are passionate about all things in “their” time period. I met them online. The man with the insight to the Cherokee (who I chose because they were the prevalent tribe in that area at that time) was Iron Head Vann. I found him through his terrific website, www.cherokeebyblood.com Iron Head (also known as David) is the great-great-great grandson of ‘Chief’ Rich Joe Vann of the Old Cherokee Nation. He is hugely knowledgeable about all things Cherokee and has been very generous with that knowledge.

EJ: Tell us about your publishing journey? You went the traditional route of finding an agent first, yes? Any tips for would-be novelists on getting published?

GG: Yes, I queried for an agent for a while (felt like forever), and, like most authors, I almost gave up. Everywhere I posted the book it was met with compliments, but most agents replied with something like “No one’s buying historical fantasy genre crossovers” or “Nobody’s signing debut authors right now.” Then I joined Authonomy.com where I met so many terrific authors, including both you and Gemini Sasson, author of Isabeau and many others. Gemi generously referred me to her agent, and he decided he wanted to represent me and my book. I am tremendously lucky to be represented by Jacques de Spoelberch, a well-respected agent with an incredible reputation.

My #1 tip for writing has to be that writers need to write from the heart, not the head. Let the story take you on a journey. That way readers will want to take the voyage with you.

EJ: Are you going to be doing a lot of publicity for the book? Will people be able to meet you anywhere for signings etc? Point us in the direction of your schedule maybe?

GG: Authors these days—especially debut authors—have to do a lot of publicity on their own. I’m doing what I can, through a full blog tour this month, through facebook, through my newsletter … I’m always open to ideas! I’m also doing readings and signings at two libraries in Nova Scotia as well as in a couple of other places. Here’s my schedule.

EJ: Tell us about your next book, Sound of the Heart – which is being published in May. And what are working on now?

GG: Sound of the Heart was a surprise to me. When Berkley/Penguin US contracted me to write Under the Same Sky, it was with the request that I write a companion novel as well. I don’t want to give away anything in the book, but I can say the story occurs in the same time period and begins in Scotland. The hero in Sound of the Heart is a Scottish warrior. He is forced to join the very army he despises in order to search for the woman he loves.

So, there you have it. And what are you waiting for? Go buy Under the Same Sky (yes, you can pre-order) rightaway! Huge good luck, Genevieve…my as yet unmet friend… J

Anyone for rejuvenation?

2011-12-28T03:07:00.000-08:00

Right now I’m missing my favourite forms of exercise. Classes close over Christmas; so does the gym. No Zumba, no kettlebells, no supersets. I love exercising with other people – it makes me work that bit harder; it pushes me; it gets my competitive edge going. But, hey ho, needs must and if I’m thrown back on my own devices, so be it.

Way back I said I’d talk about yoga and I will. In fact, let’s start with Tibetan yoga. Five deceptively simple exercises that promise to give you vitality and wellbeing; longevity and rejuvenation. Nice huh? I discovered them way back when and did experiment with them but never made them a regular part of my regime. Then MaSte talked about them in the Labyrinth, said he did them every day, and so I dug out my old book and had another go. They’re good; they’re damn good. Actually they’re damn tough to begin with but you can take them at your own pace and gradually build up to the recommended 21 repetitions.

Sooo. What’s the story? Legend held that a hidden monastery deep inside Tibet zealously guarded a secret of everlasting youth and remarkable rejuvenation. Then, in the early part of the last century, a frail and elderly retired military officer, named Colonel Bradford, journeyed to Tibet in search of the rumoured “Fountain of Youth”. He found the monastery and was surprised to find that the magical rites were no more than five simple exercises, based mainly on yoga. They were easy to learn and only took only around 15 minutes a day to perform. But the effects were incredible. When Colonel Bradford returned to the West his friends simply did not recognise him - he looked half his age.

How can such a simple routine prove so effective? Esoterically speaking the five rites are based on balancing the chakras, the seven swirling vortices of subtle energy located roughly along the spinal column. They are also connected with various glands in the body. The first (lowest) chakra centres on the reproductive glands; the second on the pancreas; the third on the adrenal glands; the fourth on the thymus; the fifth on the thyroid; the sixth on the pineal and the seventh and highest on the pituitary gland. The five Tibetan rites stimulate the flow of energy throughout the body and encourage the chakras to function at peak capacity. Mind and body are brought into harmony. When we are young and full of vitality, our chakras all spin at the same, very high, speed. As we get older, stress, unhealthy lifestyle choices and emotional distress all take their toll and the chakras no longer work in harmony but start to spin out of synchronisation, eventually causing disease, decay and other symptoms of ageing. The five rites are designed to persuade your chakras to click back into gear once more.

But hey, even if you don’t believe in chakras, even if you’re making those little whirling circles with your forefinger round by your head (which, incidentally, is giving your crown chakra a mini workout) there is little doubt that the exercises would still have far-reaching benefits on both body and mind. They provide the body with a programme of deep but gentle stretching that can help keep both the spine and its supporting muscles supple.

They cost nothing to do and you don’t have to stir out of your living room. Yes, some are tough to begin with but start off slowly and gradually build up strength and stamina. However if you have a bad back or serious health problems, check with a qualified yoga teacher or physiotherapist before embarking on them. They are pretty challenging for the back so take it easy until you build up strength.

THE FIVE RITES

Ideally, perform the five rites first thing in the morning as they are highly energizing. Wear loose comfortable clothes and work on a yoga mat if you can. Eventually you will perform each exercise twenty-one times. However to begin with, aim for ten or twelve repetitions of each move. Make sure you breathe fully during each exercise. Allow yourself a few moments in between each rite. Simply stand quietly, with your hands on your hips and breathe in, through the nose and out through the mouth. Repeat and then move on to the next rite.

Once you’re comfortable with the rites you can perform them two or three times a day if you wish.

THE FIRST RITE: Spinning. Simply stand erect with your arms outstretched, horizontal to the floor. Now, spin around until you feel slightly dizzy. Make sure you are spinning clockwise, from left to right. Don’t be surprised if you can only manage half a dozen spins to begin with - with time you will be able to build up your spinning.

Tip: before you begin to spin, focus your vision on a single point straight ahead. As you begin to turn, hold your vision on that point for as long as possible and then refocus on the point as soon as possible.

THE SECOND RITE: Lie on your back with your palms resting on the floor. Inhale and gently pull your chin towards your chest (as if you were doing an abdominal crunch), at the same time as you point your toes and lift both legs straight up, keeping your lower back pressed against the floor. Now exhale as you slowly lower your legs and head to the starting position. Rest and then repeat.

Tip: this will be difficult unless you have very strong abdominal muscles. Try lifting your legs in a bent position to begin with.

THE THIRD RITE: Kneel with the balls of your feet on the floor and your knees about four inches apart. Place your hands behind you with the palms resting against the tops of your legs, just below the buttocks. Keep your back straight, and allow your head to drop forward so that your chin is resting against your chest. Now, inhale through the nose and arch your back, pulling your shoulders back, and lifting your head up and back. This will open the chest. Hold for a few seconds and then exhale and return to the starting position. Repeat.

Tip: take in as deep a breath as you can, to expand your lungs fully. Be careful and take it slowly. Don’t overstretch or strain.

THE FOURTH RITE: Sit with your legs in front of you, your palms on the floor and your fingers facing forward. Rest your chin against your chest. Inhale, and lift your buttocks and let your head drop back so that, in one smooth move, you’ve straightened your body from shoulders to knees to make a table. Your feet should be about six inches apart, your knees bent at right angles and your chest and abdomen parallel to the floor. Your arms are straight. Contract the muscles in your legs, buttocks, and abdomen and hold for a few seconds. Exhale, return to the starting position and repeat.

Tip: Keep your breathing steady and relaxed through this movement. If you feel out of breath, stop and rest.

THE FIFTH RITE: Lie face down, and push your torso up so you’re supporting yourself on your hands, as if you’re in an extended push-up/cobra position. Both hands and feet should be about shoulder-width apart. Only the palms of your hands and the balls of your feet should be touching the floor. Tilt your head back and arch your back so that you’re looking up and ahead. Now inhale and lift your hips straight up so your legs and spine are both in a straight line and your body forms a perfect triangle with the floor (downward dog). Hold for a few seconds, then exhale and return to the starting push-up position and repeat.

Tip: If you have back problems try a modified version: start in the push-up position and then move your buttocks back as you inhale until they are almost resting on your heels. Lower your head towards your chest and keep your arms straight.

Actually, there is also a sixth rite. But it’s all about transmuting sexual energy and I think we’ll leave that for a later date, eh? There’s enough here already to be going on with… J

For more information read Tibetan Secrets of Youth and Vitality by Peter Kelder (HarperCollins)

There are plenty of demonstrations of the Tibetans on YouTube. Some (like the example below) are very fast and energetic. I have always performed them quite slowly, meditatively but I guess it’s up to you. This video shows them clearly but the chap demonstrating isn’t terribly aesthetic – though, of course, he’s not doing badly for someone who’s 150!

If he’s too off-putting, try her instead… J The stretches inbetween help a fair bit…

Do you know where you're going?

2011-12-27T08:29:00.000-08:00

We are in the Other days, the Omen days, the days outside of Time. According to Celtic tradition, this is a time of signs. Each day, from Christmas Day until Twelfth Night, holds an oracle for the year ahead. Thus Christmas Day governs January; Boxing Day February and so forth. So be aware - what attracts your attention? What flirts with you? What catches your eye? Inside or out, it doesn't matter. So I ask myself the question. What is catching my eye today? And the answer is: mandalas. Oh yes, we're right back in Labyrinth territory.

Of course we never really left it. There is no One Way. And really, it's not a case of leaving the mundane behind but rather of dancing between the two - between the practicalities of everyday life and the mysteries of the life within/without/beyond. Truly All is One.

Are you meditating yet? Have you found a way of tuning yourself into Everything? Did sound not work for you? Maybe try image. It doesn't matter; it really doesn't...there are a million ways into the Labyrinth...it's just a case of finding the one that lets you slip past the siren calls of the mundane and allows you to slip sideways (sidheways) to the sun...

I love mandalas. I always have. I have made them in nature. I have scribbled them on the covers of my schoolbooks. I have run my finger around them in the crocheted blanket that still sits on my bed. I have painted them. I have stitched them. I have danced them. I have dreamed them. I have shaken them in a kaleidoscope. I have sung them. I have meandered through them on the earth and in my mind. Perpetual motion combined with perpetual rest.

The mandala is a map of the cosmos. Limitless space. Wholeness. Unity. Gateway to the divine. Circle. Nierika. The face of God. Your own face. Look out into space and there are mandalas - universes dancing. Look into the tiniest speck of creation and there are mandalas - universes dancing. Oh yes there are. Infinity.

You can use the mandala in so many ways. You can draw your own as Jung advised his patients to do. Finding yourself in the circle; figuring out your place in the world. You don't have to be an artist. You can draw it with your eyes shut if you prefer. Just the motion of a hand circling is sweet balm to a troubled soul.

Or you can use other people's - either ancient or modern - gazing calmly, reflectively at the centre point - or just allowing your eyes to wander where they will. Tumble into the rabbit hole if you dare...who knows where you might end up? If you look on YouTube you will find a myriad of mandalas - moving meditations. I will leave the right one to find you...

There are mandalas in pretty well every tradition - Christian, Buddhist, Taoist, Hindu, Bon, Tantra, Kabbalah, shamanism... how could there not be? One of my favourite mandalas is the one at the top of this post - it comes from the eighteenth-century, from Rajasthan and takes the form of a labyrinthine swastika - the path the initiate must walk to Oneness.

Look around you and you will find mandalas in nature, in shell and leaf, in bark and snowflake, in a circle of pebbles on the beach, in the ripples of a lake in the centre of a forest or in an inner city puddle. Blink at the sun; gaze on the moon; smile at crop circles; tumble into fractal geometry.

You can feel mandalas inside yourself, your spinning chakras, your own cosmos within... The mandala is not only a cosmogram but a psychocosmogram. Or should that be psychosomatocosmogram? *smile*

The mandala can also be an astral doorway, a link to other places, other times, other dimensions... sometimes you should tread carefully, very softly... Do you know where you need to go? Do you know whom you want to meet?

A mandala can be a springboard...a key...a seal...a promise...a gateway. No, those elements do not contradict one another. Will you use the key? Will you break the seal? Are you sure? Are you sure you're sure?

"Leave the past behind; leave the future behind; leave the present behind. Thou art then ready to go to the other shore. Never more shalt thou return to a life that ends in death." The Dhammapada.

Those magi...

2011-12-24T03:58:00.000-08:00

Christmas Eve. Magi travelling. Those magi fascinate me, they do, they really do…priests, warriors, interpreters of dreams, seekers, bearers of prophetic gifts.

I can't travel. I have no camel or horse. And, anyhow, this kind of journeying is not done in the physical realm. So this is a contemplative, inward day for me. Yeah, yeah, I know – you’re all racing round like headless chickens doing a ton of cooking and preparation. Ah, the bliss of a simple Christmas, huh?

James and I might bake a few mince pies later. I have also promised a cheesecake (a proper baked one) as nobody here likes Christmas pudding and, seeing as it’s only the three of us this year, well, we suit ourselves. But it’s hardly arduous. So that leaves…time. A fire, of course. Rosemary in from the garden – for remembrance of the dear ones who won’t be with us (Mum enjoyed last night btw, when friends dropped by unexpectedly and said hello to her). Tiny lights sparkling. Frankincense winding tendrils through the house.

Shall I go to midnight mass? Probably not. More likely I’ll just muse and meditate and think about journeys…about magi…

One of my earliest Christmas memories is of my father singing We Three Kings in his deep brown bass voice. This is a Celtic instrumental version which I rather love…

Now then, The Three Kings (from Persian Lands Afar)… We sang this carol at school and it always chokes me. I can’t find a version that really encapsulates the spine-tingling quality of this. But this isn’t bad…

And my other magic Magi song…

Yeah, you know my Christmas message alright. Don't you? Love. And magi... (of course).

The wolves are running...

2011-12-22T02:36:00.000-08:00

Solstice day. Shortest day. Midwinter. The dark is at its height, the wolves are running, the shadows looming.
And what do we humans do when the dark gathers around us? We light fire. We retreat to our caves. We hang in there. We dream.

Sometimes this time of year can feel so hard. It can feel like everyone is out there, partying, playing, spending, smiling. And then it’s easy to beat yourself up if you’re not feeling like the life and soul of the party. Yet, hang about. Solstice, Christmas, Yule, was never originally about drunken bacchanalia – that was saved for the warmer festivals! Getting shit-faced is certainly one way of dealing with the dark, but it's not the only one.

You know, Christmas wasn’t always about marketing and hype; about stuffing your face and wrecking your credit cards. It wasn’t about rigid rituals and drear duty. Once upon a time, it was about getting through the dark days; about cosying up to the hearth; about celebrating the people we need to survive – not necessarily the people we like!

Yes, there are fights. Tell me about it. This week it seems like every evening ends on an argument. However hard you try, misunderstandings arise. But that’s part of Yuletide too. In the old days, Yule saw a ritualized combat between the King of the Waning Year and the King of the New Year (the Holly King and the Oak King). Two men would strip to the waist and fight with swords or bare hands while the women…drummed. And doubtless admired their muscles. Rows and arguments are as natural a part of this season as the holly and the ivy.

For those who say bah humbug to the lot of it, it’s worth remembering that humans have celebrated this turning point of the year for millennia. Remember Mithra, the ancient god supposedly born in a cave at this time – surrounded by the zodiac (and attended by snake, bull, lion, dog). The concept of a god born in midwinter is common throughout ancient religions of the world. What is our Yule log but the World Tree, the Tree of Life. As far back as 2,000 BCE, the ancient Mesopotamians decorated trees with ribbons in honour of fertility and life.

I don’t really go to parties any more. I let the guys go down the pub alone. I prefer the fire-side. I love to sit with just the light of the flames, watching them jump and dance and flicker, see stories in their salamander colours; watch the shadows they throw up around the walls of my cave. Usually I sit in silence – for the sound of the fire is music enough, isn’t it?

What am I saying here? I dunno. Don’t beat yourself up if you don’t feel ‘Christmassy’? Don’t feel guilty if the thought of your relatives descending makes you want to murder? Ditch the idea of perfection because it don’t exist? Or maybe, just maybe, just stop for a moment or two in the hurly burly – listen to a flame (a candle if not a fire); breathe; just be.

I wish you a peaceful solstice, a merry Yule…light in your darkness. Love.

Oh and a couple of posts I've read recently on this theme - here and over here...

Ritual wars?

2011-12-20T01:41:00.000-08:00

My heart, my glacial heart

Rituals. We all have ‘em.Even more so at festivals like Christmas. When I was small, Christmas always began with my mother choosing a colourtheme. She would buy two or threepackets of crepe paper, cut them into strips and make the most bizarrelyinventive decorations by stringing them into vast complicated cat’s cradlesacross the ceiling of our living room. Theletter to Santa was always sent up the chimney; the same dog-eared decorationswould adorn the home-made cake; the same lights and baubles would be reverentlyhung on the tree. There were presents in a pillow case in the morning and, comeevening, teeny tiny ‘tree presents’ – a bath cube, a tiny plastic figurine, atin of tomato puree (don’t ask me why, I had a thing about tomato puree). ‘Snowballs’ made from advocaat and lemonade(dear God!). After Eight mints seemedthe height of sophistication. My fatherwent down the pub and there was usually a row at some point (timing variable). J

stained glass and alchemy

When my mother married theViking, the presents became bigger, the rituals ever more complicated andextravagant. There were no rows because we were all too sozzled to care muchabout anything. It seemed like every hour of the day was marked by some kind ofbooze. Buck’s Fizz with bagels forbreakfast; Brandy Alexanders (of course) plus liqueur coffee for elevenses;champagne and various wines and ports for lunch… Dear gods, after that it wasall we could do to stagger to the sofa and burp drunkenly at the afternoon film,before realizing with horror that the carol singers were due and we hadn’t gotthe wine mulling and the mince pies heating and…. Aaaghhh. One year we turned out all the lights, hidbehind the sofa and pretended we’d gone away. Yeah, right…

It all got a bit much, truthto tell, and so, when my parents died, we had a ritual cull. Cos rituals are important but you have tomake them your own and you have to know when to shift and adapt them. If theybecome rigid, if they live beyond their sell-by date, they run the risk ofbecoming atrophied and even sour. You gotta know a good ritual from one that’sgone a bit mouldy round the edges.

shamanic moose

Good rituals are comfortingand children, in particular, love them. They mark the passage of time; theyshow that things are in their rightful place, that all is well in theworld. Even now James is 13 he willstill cling fervently to the rituals of his childhood. ‘This is when we…’ and ‘It’s time to do…’

And we do. We get the treethe weekend before Christmas and we decorate it together, he and I, to theaccompaniment of medieval carols. Wetake out each decoration and bauble (discarding, with a sigh, the ones that the mice have gnawed past recognition) and remember its history, its provenance. I love them - with their mix of symbols from a huge number of traditions, they represent all manner of wonderful things. Each year we usually buy one new decorationfor the tree and, over the years, James has chosen some crackers – including histotem fox and, bizarrely, a jeweled shoe. But most of all I love the ones he made, when he was very small –various disintegrating angels which I stroke fondly while he rolls his eyes.

One of James' angels

But anyhow. Some rituals aregone. We no longer cut down our own Christmas tree. I no longer make garlandsand wreaths. I no longer bake puddings and cake. We no longer track Santa. AndI wonder if, this year, we will still leave out the sherry, mince pie andcarrot on Christmas Eve. Things change and really, that is inevitable.

I always remember aconversation I had with a friend whose husband was adamant that present-givinghappened in the late afternoon. The presents would sit, winking enticingly,under the tree until lunch had not only been eaten but digested and the dishesall cleared away. Then, and only then,with due ceremony, were the presents opened, slowly, one by one. Which was fine, my friend said, except thatby this time their young daughters were climbing up the walls in small whirlingfrenzies of frustration.

Baroque bauble & broken-winged butterflies

‘Surely you might be a bitflexible while they’re so small?’ I suggested. 'Even if they just had one present to tide them over?'

‘You tell him,’ she snorted.

So…foolishly… I raised the issue.

‘Absolutely not,’ he said,his face like fury. ‘That’s the way it is always done in my family.’ Ah, in his family... See there's another thing - when families come together, whose rituals do you follow? Do you suffer from ritual wars?

So. Rituals. Good, bad? Carvedin stone or bending with the wind? Do you go through the motions or love each and every one? Do you follow someone else's rituals with gritted teeth? Or ....you tell me.

Astral cookies

2011-12-17T02:24:00.000-08:00

I have decided to shift the focus of my life to the dream world. Really. It’s much nicer there and, major plus point, it’s warm. Last night I spent the majority of my time splashing around in the Pacific and running down waterfalls. It was heaven. Okay, so there was the small matter of all the dead/sleeping people littering the boats by the cliffs but hey… Then I wake up and there is ice on the inside of the window and even the dog is shivering. But no…this isn’t going to be a post about astral travel and lucid dreaming…not quite yet…

Adrian comes in and stands at the foot of the bed looking revoltingly cheerful.
‘I’m off then…’
He’s going shooting. Not some big fancy shoot, I hasten to add, just a bunch of mates.
‘Looking forward to it?’ I say, just eyes and nose visible over the four duvets, still shaking off the turquoise waters in my mind.
‘I dunno,’ he replies. ‘Seems a bit weird to be looking forward to killing something…’

Huh? Don’t tell me the vegetarianism is catching? He has been eating a lot less meat lately. And going to the gym. Last night he even had a cup of tea instead of another beer. Hmm.

But then, when I drag myself out of bed and creep to the kitchen there’s a slab of Sherman’s bacon defrosting on the top (no, it’s not really carved from Sherman’s haunches – not much meat there, come to think of it – but from one of his ex-pigs). And Hugh F-W’s MEAT (you gotta like the open honesty of that title, huh?) cookbook is open on the page for pork pies. Ah well…

Anyhow, his departure leaves me and James home alone… again. The poor boy is in the wars… again. He’s injured himself…again. Policeman’s foot apparently (plantar fasciitis). ‘He’s the youngest person I’ve ever seen with it,’ said the doctor, with that gleam of eye that medical people can’t quite suppress at something more interesting than piles and flu.

‘Yeah, well he’s got form,’ I replied. ‘He was the youngest person to have Bell’s palsy too.’
‘So he was!’ Dr B’s eyes light up even more. ‘Maybe he’s a medical conundrum.’
James wasn’t remotely impressed. He didn’t want to be a conundrum; he wanted the magic wand of medicine. He wanted to jump up and walk out cured, like the guy in the Bible. Dr B would make a cracking Jesus, come to think of it – he’s got the bone structure and does a good line in pithy comments. But he’s not hot on miracles. Instead he told James exactly what the apostle St Google had already told me – do the exercises, rest, get some orthotics.

It’s tough though. When you’re thirteen and your greatest joy is to run, to play rugby, to play squash, to play football, to do anything really that involves getting out there, being physical, hurling your body around cos, like a puppy, you have way too much energy. Yes, he reads; yes, he plays on the Xbox; yes, he watches TV; yes, he chats on Facebook but still…

So, don’t laugh…we’ve been baking, he and I. Well, he’s been baking; I’ve been nicking the cake mix. Cos, though food in general doesn’t really rock my boat, I’m a sucker for cake mix. And – of course – baking involves ovens and oven involve…heat. Delicious heat.

Marbled chocolate brownies; raspberry muffins; festive nibbles; spicy cocktail biscuits… Sheesh, no wonder people put on weight – these things are made of slabs of butter and crateloads of sugar and not much else! Favourite so far? Peanut cookies. Oh yeah. Seriously, butter AND peanut butter – your arteries probably wince just at the name but boy, are they good.
So good, in fact, that you should try them. I suppose you could argue there’s protein in there, eh? Vegetarian protein at that.

Peanut cookies

1 cup/225g butter
2tbsp/30ml crunchy peanut butter (if you prefer a smooth cookie, go for smooth peanut butter…doh!)
1 cup/115g icing sugar
½ cup/50g cornflour
2 cups/225g plain flour
Unsalted peanuts (optional)

1. Preheat oven to 180C, 350F or Gas mark 4. Lightly grease two baking sheets.

2. Beat the butter and peanut butter together and add the dry ingredients. Mix like hell…If you have a mixer this will probably be easy. If not (like me), you’re best off kinda giving up with the spoon and just kneading it with your hands… It’s a very dry mix so keep going. Squish every last bit in.

3. Grab a bit of mix and roll it into a ball. This recipe will make around 25 normal sized cookies – if you like giant ones, go bigger. Place the balls on the baking sheet leaving plenty of room for them to spread out and make themselves comfortable.

4. Press the tops of the balls flat using the back of a fork. If you like (I do, James doesn’t) press a few whole peanuts into each cookie.

5. Bake for around 15 minutes (depends on your oven) until lightly browned. Then the usual stuff about letting them cool a tad (or they will crumble apart) before putting on a wire rack. Then just see if you can stop yourself from scarfing the whole lot in one sitting.

Yeah, they don't look any great shakes but...

In other news...my new book Walker (available for Kindle only - it's an eco-adventure so couldn't really justify the trees!) got a plug in the Telegraph today. Feel free to make my Christmas merry by downloading a copy to your Kindle. Click here for the US and here for the UK.

My anti-guru has been off on a brave quest for the Light recently so he could probably do with a boost to the coffers too...download his books right here and now.

And for those who roll their eyes at all this shamanic and spiritual stuff, you can still order Adrian's book Great British Pubs and still get it in time for that astral pub crawl at Christmas...

Buying books

2011-12-15T08:36:00.000-08:00

Does Christmas panic you? Don’t let it. Times is tough and anyone who expects the whole perfect full-on malarkey this year is living in cloud cuckoo land. As regards presents, when in doubt, buy a book. Because I’m all heart (no, really, you should see my heart chakra glow – I don’t need no Christmas lights!) I’m offering you a list of books for absolutely anyone. Now, of course, in an ideal world you would go to your local bookstore to buy them and if you can possibly support this endangered breed, then please do so.

For the sake of speed, however, I'm linking to Amazon. Not because I like Amazon for, to be honest, I'm not so wild. But, hey, needs must. If you can find them elsewhere, then fantastic. By the way, just how bloody STUPID is it that a gift voucher for Amazon can’t be used across the various sites? My lovely brother has just given me one but I’m going to have to order from the States and get stuff shipped over here. *eyeroll*.

Anyhow, without further ado, my guide to books that might solve a few present crises. Some are cheap as chips – look hard and you’ll even find some freebies! I confess freely I haven’t read them all…quite a few on this list are on my own to-read list. Oh, and yes there is Total Rank Nepotism going on here – these are all written by people I know… some out there in the mainstream, some resolutely indie...

For armchair boozers: Great British Pubs by Adrian Tierney-Jones (yes, he's my husband but hey, it's a really good book. Well, the Financial Times thinks so and who am I to argue with such a bastion of the system?)

For smart romantics: Marriage and Other Games by Veronica Henry (Ronnie lives not too far from here and is just damn nice as well as one seriously smart writer. Don't fall into the trap of thinking her books are 'just' chicklit...no sirree.

For intelligent Goths and supernatural SF addicts: The Fallen Blade by Jon Courtenay Grimwood. I don't really *do* sci-fi but I make an exception for Jon cos he's just a truly fabulous writer with a wicked imagination. And now he's written about vampires - what's not to like?

For imaginative teens who dream of having superpowers: Invisible Justice by Kim Jewell. My son, James (13), loves Kim's writing and he's not the only one. If you're buying a Kindle for teens this Christmas, load up her books.

For shamanic eco-warriors: Walker by Jane Alexander. Um, yeah... Well, thought I'd slide that one in quietly... My own YA book (though so far the adults seem to be enjoying it too) just published. Cheap as chips for Kindle.

For those who dream of a summer of love: The Villa Girls by Nicky Pellegrino. One of my oldest friends (no, she's not that old; just that we've known one another for way too long). Nicky's books are always a feast for the senses. She makes me feel warm just thinking about them.

For bloodthirsty crime lovers: Burn Baby Burn by Jake Barton. Okay, I don't really read crime but those who know say Jake's books are the real deal. And by the look of his sales he's obviously doing something right.

For sensitive souls: Daisychains of Silence by Catherine MacLeod. One I'm looking forward to reading. I loved the chapters I read of this on Authonomy and have no doubt that the rest of the book delivers...

For deep thinkers: Quintessence by Andrew Meek. Andrew always makes me think - he is a lover of science but has, to my mind, the soul of a mystic. Another one I'm looking forward to reading.

For old dope-heads with a sense of humour: The Beauregarde Affair by Brian Talgo. Another book I loved on Authonomy by a smart funny guy.

For spiritual James Joyce lovers: SymphonicBridges by Marek Stefanowicz. Well, you already know I love this book. Sure it ain't to all tastes but if you love language, are interested in New Age thinking and have a penchant for Joyce and Syd Barrett, well...

For mystical mavens: Away with the Fairies and Strangers & Pilgrims by Vivienne Tuffnell. Vivienne is another author I can't wait to read - I adore her blog so am pretty sure her fiction will be just as good.

For lovers of dark Japanese homoeroticism: Shinobi by Sessha Batto. Well, you've all got a few of those tucked away in the family, haven't you? Sessha certainly has pinpointed (so to speak) her market. Lovely warm woman with a deeply dark imagination.

For donnish Inspector Morse types: The Company of Fellows by Dan Holloway. Crime again but highly literary this time from the delightful Indie writer/performer, Dan.

For bipolar princesses: My Kind of Crazy by Janine Crowley Haynes. Just one of the best books I've read on the whole 'mental health' thingy. Janine is a stunning writer and a warm, brave and all-round lovely human being.

For sceptical would-be mediums: A Sceptical Medium by Lorraine Holloway-White. I'll be honest, I have never been to a medium or spiritualist church. Yes, I talk to dead people but they're family and friends, for pity's sake - not any old strangers! But for those who wonder, take a look at her books.

For those who loved the romantic bits in Star Wars, Avatar etc: The Iron Admiral by Greta van der Rol. Like I say, I don't really *do* sci-fi but I love Greta's writing and she don't half tell a yarn.

For starstruck young girls: Olivia's First Term by Lyn Gardner: Guardian theatre critic Lyn also has daughters so she really knows her stuff. Perfect for young girls into ballet, acting and circus skills.

For anyone who loves fishing, cooking or Exmoor: Fishing for Life edited by Ceri Keene. I've yacked on about this before - the cookbook produced by a local friend in aid of a breast cancer charity.

Oh gawd, I've missed tons out, I just know... But that should keep you going for a bit, eh?

My friends

2011-12-15T03:38:00.000-08:00

Ah Christmas. It’s a strange old time of year for me. I go inwards at Christmas, more and more each year that passes. Anyhow. It’s crept up again, as I was looking elsewhen. Usually I splurt out a Christmas Gift Guide on the blog, in memory of the days when I used to trawl the shops for newspaper or magazine guides. And, actually, I started popping images into a file a while back. Yet, funny thing, as I look in the file this morning, I find they are all of the same thing – friendship bracelets. Those little strings that started out as childhood or teen tokens of bonding. And I smiled…

Friends.

What is a friend? How many friends have you got? How many friends do you feel you need? Does it upset you when a friend leaves you, abandons you, walks away? I’m not talking about lovers here but friends, just friends.

In the last week two very different people said pretty much the same thing to me: ‘If you stick with me, you’ll lose your friends.’

And my response? So be it. Because I know full well that I would never lose the people who really count. As for the rest? Let them walk. Because, see, I truly believe that if you can’t be who you are with people, if they can’t accept your true self, then that friendship is over. I am fiercely loyal to my true friends and I expect no less in return.

I think people come into our lives for reasons; I truly do. Yeah, even the crappy people (as discussed before). Friendships however come in many forms and I think that often we mistake the nature of some of them. Sometimes people come into our lives very briefly, just to give a message. Others stay around for longer; sometimes burning very bright and then vanishing – almost in a puff of smoke. And others are for life.

www.reddirect.co.uk

Recently I thought I’d lost a life friend. And that hurt. I tried to rationalize it. Let’s be honest, I haven’t been an easy-to-be-with friend this last year. Living half in other worlds, reneging on social niceties, absconding from the usual pleasantries. And yes, I’ve lost a fair few friends but, to be honest, that was just fine. It meant I didn’t have to keep justifying myself – why should I? Is that harsh? No, I don't think so. So often we keep up with friendships from habit; from expectation; from social mores, even when they have long passed their sell-by date. We grow out of clothes, we change our hair style, we move houses, we shift jobs - so why on earth should we keep friendships static, in aspic?

But this friend? Oh yeah, this one hurt. I could remember the first time we met, so so clearly. I needed a flat-mate and someone at work suggested her. For reasons too complicated to go into, I was expecting to open the door to a seriously trendy black DJ or musician. Instead there stood a small, very conservatively dressed, very small, very white lawyer. We shared a house for years. I screwed up her love life with a spell that backfired quite spectacularly – but she never blamed me. We laughed, we cried together; we mopped one another up after the usual life disasters. We used to joke that, when we were old, we’d share a house again and be mad bad witches again.

www.reddirect.co.uk

But then…silence. Long, long silence. And I figured, hey. Why would she still want to be friends with me? She was hugely successful; her career trajectory had soared in reverse proportion to my crash. But so be it. Anyway, what could I do? You can’t force people to be your mates, can you? Sometimes you have to let go...

And then, just a few days ago, when I was at a very low ebb indeed, an email. Oh. And I replied saying, softly, 'I thought I’d lost you.' And she replied:

“Baby I will always be here. Friendships like ours run so deep that nothing changes that. Nothing.”

And I smiled. And cried. And the world felt a little warmer.

www.chambersandbeau.com

You don’t need tons of friends. I suppose, if one is being brutal, you don't need any. But life is far nicer if you have a few people in the world who *get* you. Or – and this is the clever bit – you have people who don’t remotely *get* you; who haven’t a clue what you’re about…who shake their heads and mutter “bloody woman is barking nuts” but love you nonetheless. And I have a fair few of both varieties, so I am truly blessed.

Will they stay forever? Who knows? If they do, it is meant. If they don’t, it is meant. But for now, I’m saying ‘thank you’ to those who have stood by me and loved me even when I’ve been a very hard person to love. You know who you are…no need to name names. And so here’s my Christmas Gift Guide…a whole line of friendship bracelets. J

So you wanna self-publish?

2011-12-09T04:58:00.000-08:00

Self-publishing, eh? As I told you yesterday, I have just sent my first YA novel, Walker, out into the world as an e-book. It’s a whole new world for me. In the past, I’ve had publishers making all the major marketing and sales decisions for me. I wrote the books and that was it. Now I’m floundering with all this other malarkey. So I asked Jake Barton if he’d write a guest post. Jake was another writer I met on Authonomy who has become a good friend. He has also achieved prodigious success with his self-published books. So, without further ado, over to the maestro...

Jake Barton writes... “A good friend sent her first fiction book to Kindle today. She’s been an inspiration to me in many ways and I was glad to have played a part in encouraging the splendid [I like that!] Jane Alexander to self-publish her book, Walker.

Self-publishing has moved on from the days of being sniffily regarded as ‘vanity publishing.’ What other motive for publication is there? Kindle, eBooks, changed all the rules. All the mainstream publishing houses are dashing to get involved or risk being left behind. In a digital age, the pace is relentless. Remember the fuss when the CD appeared? It became the norm, in no time. Now, it’s all downloads. Massive change, in next to no time.

Jake Barton - the bestselling author prepares for a back flip

With the onset of eBooks, a rash of companies have sprung up, offering to handle all the fiddly bits of self publishing. For a price (typically £99 and they retain 60 percent of your royalties). It’s an option.

Certainly, the conventional publishers have only themselves to blame for all this competition. Many still insist on hard copy: actual typed sheets of paper, to be sent out, only for the author to wait for months and then receive a rejection slip. I know this, only too well. I suspected I had a viable novel, but failed to convince a publisher. I looked at the dawn of the new Kindle phenomenon and thought, ‘Why not?’ I’m the ultimate Luddite. Really. Yet even I, with help from cleverer friends, managed to self publish. I have four books out now and that first book has sold 60,000 copies this year.

So, what to look out for? This isn’t about ‘rules.’ I don’t ‘do’ rules and was told by a noted critic that my writing ‘breaks all the rules.’ It’s intended as thoughts about what works and what doesn’t, when offering a book to a potential reader.

Editing. The book should be edited to within an inch of its life by this stage. Every error removed, every typo spotted and rectified. Even books where an army of proofreaders check every word, every line, aren’t immune to mistakes creeping in – I spotted five errors in a John Grisham novel, elementary mistakes, recently – but the smaller publisher or Indie writer has to be certain the book is as good as it can be when it reaches publication stage.

Formatting. You will need to format your book but it's not as hard as it might seem. Look at Amazon’s guide to preparing a book for Kindle

One of my favourite writers has the best guide to Kindle submission I’ve come across so far in her blog. Read this, and read her book, Daisychains of Silence, too! [I concur, heartily… J]

I’d also recommend a talented man I met on Authonomy who writes ‘how to’ books on this and other subjects and has a blog where he talks about the subject. Check out Jason Matthews here

Yes, fine, but all this effort counts for nothing if nobody ever gets to read the book. Three elements are crucial. Title, cover and pitch. All vital but the latter is crucial.

The title. Titles – the hardest part of a book for me. Relevance is essential, eye-catching too. Don’t worry too much if you pick a title and then find it elsewhere - as with song titles, there are very few unique titles about. Short and snappy is best.

Sold 60,000 copies this year alone.

The cover. The cover picture doesn’t have to cost the Earth. Although you’ll have no problem finding someone to make a cover for you, expect to pay a considerable sum for this. You may already have an appropriate photograph you could use or look up royalty free images online, see what’s out there. Be careful of copyright on images; if in doubt, ask the ‘owner’ of the image. My latest ‘paper’ book, I did the cover myself, just using Word. No fancy design packages necessary. Bottom line, your cover should be eye-catching and effective even at the size of a postage stamp which is all the Amazon site permits. It should also reflect the title. Common sense.

The pitch, the blurb, call it what you will; it’s the key to getting your book noticed. It’s what everyone looks at in a book shop when looking to buy a book. The back cover, inside the front page, the position may vary, but the tiny piece of information telling us what the book’s about, what to expect, is often all we have, all we need, to make a decision: buy the book or move on, look elsewhere. A browser on Amazon has seemingly endless choice, but the same principle applies. It’s the author’s opportunity to sell themselves to a prospective reader. To say, ‘Buy me. Not the others. Buy me,’ to a browsing potential purchaser.

My first book, Burn, Baby, Burn reached the Amazon Top Ten this year despite having no publicity department to support it and an author without a clue about marketing. When hundreds of people a day are buying a book by an unknown writer, there has to be a reason. In my case, it was the pitch. I’d already decided I would write a ‘commercial’ book, but I had to ensure those browsers didn’t just glance at it and move on to authors they already knew. Here’s the ‘attention-getting’ passage from the pitch for Burn, Baby, Burn.

‘Marcus was special. He’d always known it. Even at the age of six when he’d decided to kill his father. His privileged background should have produced a doctor, an academic, perhaps a diplomat. Instead, he killed people for fun’.

See, it works, doesn’t it? It focuses on the villain as he’s the one character readers will always remember in this genre. It says, ‘This is me. I’m interesting. Read about me.’ Or I hope it does as that was my intention. The sales figures of the book suggest I got it right.

The pitch is all the potential reader has before them when browsing the vast expanses of Amazon’s bookstore. In that blurb, just a few lines, lies the success or failure of your offering. Get the pitch right; make it enticing enough to compel the casual browser to click on your book, that’s the real secret.

Price. The price structure is almost infinitely variable. An author can change their price point in an instant. Nothing is set in stone. I looked at the books that were selling in vast quantities Many were household names, authors with a loyal following whose readers clamour for the next book, but there was the odd ‘Indie’ writer without any track record as a published writer there too. A few of the established names set a premium price point. Fair enough. But what I found most interesting were the established authors at the top of the charts who offered their work at the lowest possible price point. If that worked for them, why not for me?

Offering a book at the lowest price point brings casual readers, impulse buyers, into the equation. It will always be a balancing act – more sales at a lower return against fewer sales at a higher return.

Gay vampires eh?

I decided on the lowest point for a specific reason – chart positions. Charts are vital to success on Amazon and readers are undoubtedly swayed by charts. If we see a book that’s successful it sparks our interest.

Getting into the All Books Top 100 was never even on my mind in those early days. Since then I’ve had two books in the Top Ten. There are an almost infinite number of sub-charts, all of which have an effect on the buying public. A reader can search for his/her area of interest, find books that reflect that interest, with a couple of mouse clicks. Whether it be Thrillers, Short Stories, Japanese Poetry or Gay Vampires there’s a chart for it.

Categories. When you finally enter your book to the Kindle site, you’ll be prompted to choose its ‘category.’ This is an important stage as it helps you to find one of those elusive charts. My third book was languishing as a ‘Thriller’ but because I’d made a careful selection of categories, it charted very well under ‘Female Sleuths,’ thereby gaining attention.

Marketing. There’s a dedicated forum on the Kindle site where you’ll find answers to just about any question and can also give your book a mention. As for ‘marketing,’ at which I’m utterly useless, use your blog. If you haven’t got one yet, think about getting one. Use Facebook, Twitter and other means to engage an online audience. If you can cope with it, try your local paper, radio, TV station – tell them what you’re doing; that there’s a new author in their area. Nothing to lose.

The Kindle experience has been wonderful. Complete strangers read my books; plucking them from the vast range on offer. That was nice. If you’re thinking about ‘Kindling’ – what’s stopping you? Worried a traditional publisher won’t want to see your work? Don’t be. In my experience, the reverse is the case. Since I posted my book on Kindle I’ve been contacted by three agents and three publishers, all very keen to discuss a future partnership. Evidence of a saleable product will have that effect. I’m not rushing into anything. Why should I? Do I need them? Not really.'

Thanks, Jake... I would just add that you can buy Burn Baby Burn by clicking on this link...

And check out all his other books on his Amazon page.

He also has, though it pains me to say it, a very good blog... Ramblings of a Deluded Soul. Check it out.

And don't forget to click the links on the right-hand side of my blog for more fabulous self-published books. ;)

Eco-literature for teens? Can books help save the planet?

2011-12-08T08:15:00.000-08:00

Well, here’s a surprise. My teen novel, Walker, is out on Amazon for Kindle. I know, I know, it shouldn’t be a surprise given I wrote the darn thing (though I did lose a book before)…but I guess I just wasn’t expecting it to be out right now. Blame Kim Jewell. Kim is one of my very best friends (we don’t let the small matter of never having physically met get in the way of that, of course). Kim has been self-publishing her own wonderful YA books for some time now and she nagged and pushed me into doing the same. In other words, she demanded I send her the manuscript and she edited and formatted it and has put it out there on Amazon. With a wonderful cover by the hugely talented (writer and artist) Bradley Wind.

I wrote Walker several years ago.

It’s the story of a boy who dies and who comes back to life as a shaman, a walker between worlds.

It’s aimed at the mid-grade/YA market (hard to be precise as reading tastes vary so much but I’d say if someone likes Percy Jackson, Michelle Paver, Rick Riordan etc, they should like this.)

Walker had an agent and did the rounds of publishing houses but never quite found a home. It got onto the editor’s desk at Authonomy and the feedback I received from the editor at HarperCollins made me rethink the book quite radically. So I rewrote it. Rewrote it twice, actually. Well, gazillions of times really, but ended up with two main versions – a ‘boy’ version and a ‘girl’ version. Which appealed to me for all sorts of shamanic reasons. J And Kim and I were all set to put out the two together. But then my dear friend Jake Barton (who I have met, incidentally) advised against the idea and, hey, who am I to argue with the God of Self-Publishing (guest post by said guru coming soon)?

Cow Castle - built by pixies

So. Why Walker?

Firstly Walker is set on Exmoor and really this place is one of my constant muses. Can a place be a muse? I think so. There are just so many legends here; so much history and prehistory, magic and mythology. Nature is so darn...elemental. Its mood shifts round every corner - whether on the wild bleak moorland, in the deeply forested combes, the swift running rivers, the crashing waves against cliff or sultry slap against shore. I wanted to try to capture/encase/enchant in words some of its tricksy, tempestuous, rugged charm (yeah, I like my muses like that). *smile*

Secondly Walker is about shamanism.

I love shamanism.

I wanna talk about it more, in more detail, later as it’s part of the Labyrinth. But, for now, for starters, think of a practice where you can journey into other worlds, other realms – where you can find spirit guides and animals; where you can go for healing, for self-knowledge, for wisdom, for inspiration, for education. It’s not always a gentle process. Spirits often play rough, pulling you apart before putting you back together. It’s a journey of self-awareness and also a journey of connection – with other people, animals, places, times. Above all, shamanism is about the Earth – and this brings me onto the third point…

Cos thirdly, Walker is about the Earth. It's got an underlying environmental plea for sanity running through it. It’s not a worthy book; it doesn’t ram points down your throat but it does have the life blood of the planet running through its pages. One of the reasons I rather like the fact that it’s e-pubbed is that no trees (bearms as my Anglo-Saxon speaking Ferish would call them) were harmed in the making of this book. J I dunno, that may change but for now it’s nice.

But really, this is eco-lit…just as much as any fist-thumping non-fiction tome on climate change.

Fourthly, fine ally, Walker is a yarn. I wanted to write the kind of book I loved as a child; the kind that lures you in and makes you turn page after page, reading by torchlight under the covers. The kind written by people like Alan Garner, Susan Cooper, Rosemary Sutcliff. When I met one of my total heroes, Alan Garner, a couple of years ago, I told him that his book The Weirdstone of Brisingamen was my lodestone, my template for Walker. ‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘Is that really a good idea?’ J Jeez, I love that guy. You've never read Alan Garner? For shame on you!

Anyhow, there you have it. Walker is my paean to Exmoor, my homage to storytelling, my head-bowing to shamanism and my earnest hope that we can learn to love our world and respect it before we pull it to pieces.

Did I succeed? I dunno. You tell me.

You can read more about shamanism and the world of Walker on its own blog – here…

Oh, and if you don’t want to commit to 99c or 86p, you can read the first few chapters here…

Oh, oh and, is this part of the Labyrinth? Of course it is. J