My Mother isn’t a Cushion (and the Beagle Oracle)

So Jane rang up to congratulate James on the rugby (and to smirk at Adrian). When that was done and the dust had settled, we picked up where we’d left off.
‘This quantum flirting,’ she said.
‘Yes?’
‘It’s not happening. I just don’t meet the right people.’
‘Noooo. You do. You’re just not listening.’

And I explained that it really is a huge mistake to dismiss people and things because they appear mundane or stupid. That you don’t necessarily get the answers or the illuminations from the great gurus or masters (and I’m deeply suspicious of anyone who calls themself a guru) – that sometimes the universe winks at you through the most bizarre channels. It’s all a bit Forrest Gump, I suppose.

‘Look. Take Random Twitter Guy for example,’ I said. ‘He’s coming along nicely.’

When Jane was here at New Year, we were sitting in my study and I was explaining how messages can come from curious and interesting places. At that precise moment, an email pinged in to say I had a new follower on Twitter. Nothing odd about that – but the timing was, well, interesting.

‘See...’ I said. ‘This guy here. I don’t know him from Adam but he could be a conduit. He might have some important stuff to say. Hey, I’m not sure I need another one: maybe he’s your oracle.’
‘Hmm.’ She frowned so deeply I could have fallen down the crevice between her eyebrows. ‘I’m not buying it.’
‘Fair enough. But I’ll follow him back and let’s see.’ I clicked the mouse.

Frankly I was only playing but, hey, get this.  RTG does say some pretty cool things sometimes. Very gnomic, but I like a bit of gnomic. A bit depressed, but I can relate. Basically kind though, and I lap up kind. Nice RTG. Jane wasn’t buying it though.
‘I still prefer the Beagle Oracle.’
‘You would.’

The Beagle Oracle had been my second offering. The Soul Puppy (thankfully no longer Shag Puppy) is now just plain Bad Puppy. But still cute. Jane is helplessly in love (who isn’t?) and so I’d suggested he could act as her oracle. ‘When in doubt,’ I said to her, in my cod wise sage voice. ‘Ask yourself: “What would The Beagle do?”’

No, I know he’s not a Beagle but everyone assumes he is and I think you’ll agree that 'Beagle Oracle' (while a bit of a spluttering globule of a phrase) is less of a mouthful than ‘JackRussellterriercrossedwithaSpringerSpanielandCavalierKingCharles Oracle.’

Jane laughed. She loves Beagle Oracle (BO). I send her emails with his picture and a pithy BO saying every so often when she's low.
‘Yeah, but now he’s become so bad, is he really still an oracle?’
‘Sure he is. Go on, try me. I’ll give you the hidden message in anything he does.’
‘Okay. Running off chasing blackbirds he won’t ever catch.’
‘Sometimes you have to follow the impossible dream.’
‘Oh very good. Hmm. Rolling in fox crap?’
‘Sometimes it’s wise to hide your true colours. While truth and honesty are beautiful; disguise and deception may sometimes be necessary and even wise.’
‘Ho ho. Very Machiavelli.’

She paused. ‘Right. Um...taking strong drugs?’
The BO had, very stupidly, broken into a friend’s handbag and snaffled a heavy duty pill (don’t worry, we checked online and it seemed he’d be okay – just a bit spacey and maybe he’d get the squits – sound familiar?).
‘Shit (ho ho), I dunno. Um, chill out, let go, get high?’
‘You’re struggling. What about wrecking the cushion you needlepointed for your mother?’ In an ‘I got you on this one, honey’ voice.
‘Easy. Let go of attachment to things. Yes, even things you worked hard for; that caused you huge struggle and effort. Love isn’t a cushion. Memory isn’t a cushion. My mother isn’t a cushion.’

Helpless laughter followed.

‘So. You gonna give the flirting another go?’ I asked.
‘Maybe. But you haven’t told me about Zumba yet.’
‘Oh, okay. But not now. And that’s not flirting; you do realise?’
‘Really?’

‘Oh no. Zumba is more a case of throwing you up against the nearest wall and shagging you senseless.’
‘In that case,’ said Jane. ‘Sod the bloody flirting lark. I’ll move straight to Zumba.’

Quantum flirting

Before I became cynical, I used to believe that life would show you exactly what you needed to know. All you had to do was to keep your eyes and ears and heart open. Sometimes important things would plonk themselves right in front of you; at other times they would flirt with you, a flash of neon pink, the lyrics of a song, an image on the web.

‘Watch out for the flirting,’ said my friend Sarah. ‘It’s important.’ She died three years ago and the Sarah-shaped hole in my life is just too deep to contemplate. Sarah was/is/maybe will be a Jungian psychotherapist, a knower of I Ching, a hunter of dreams. I met her on assignment but forgot I was supposed to be a journalist within seconds. She touched my soul, became a heart and mind friend, a wise teacher, a fellow pilgrim. She would be/is/definitely will be grinning all over her lovely face right now because the flirting is back. Quantum flirting. :) And my cynicism is shattered into tiny shards.

‘Spooky action at a distance,’ Einstein called it. Entangled connections. [at this point I thought I should explain about locality; about non-locality; about how some things can be connected, part of some inherent oneness, even if they become separated at the furthest ends of the universe.] But then I thought, sod it.

You really don’t have to understand the physics (and if you do, there’s St Google). Just enjoy the ride.

I dunno if this is something that interests you...probably not. But if it does, just watch out for the coincidences; for the simple twists of fate; for the little things that catch the corner of your eye.

It’s about the book that suddenly appears a little further out than the rest. It’s about looking for one thing on Google and stumbling over something entirely different. It’s opening the right page at precisely the right moment. It’s the butterfly that I found on my bedroom floor (which the SP then promptly ate). It’s about the little flask that winks at you and says, ‘drink me’. It’s about the missing tarot card.  It's about following your soul, not your head. It’s about peering into the void, seeing something shiny at the bottom and just pitching forwards. It’s about believing in miracles.

Sooo. The piles of books on my desk are getting even higher. I’m hurtling through the labyrinth, spiralling so fast down tunnels, crashing into dead ends and then catching sight again and heading off, faster than ever. I’m a crazy old Alice but that's alright.

Today I’m reading Arnie Mindell; doing a whole loada meditation; still not eating a whole lot; listening to Blood on the Tracks; doing the tarot; thinking a lot about a new book. Spinning wildly...getting more than a little dizzy....falling over and laughing out loud.

 

 

Woodpeckers and general weirdness

Things aren’t right. I have that horrible sense of life sliding away in the wrong direction. As you know I look for signs all over the place. A dear friend, a Jungian psychotherapist and dream analyst, once told me that you should keep a beady eye out for the things that flirt with you – things that pop up and catch your eye. Sometimes they will be subtle – a colour, a shape, a pebble (Lixtroll!). Sometimes they will hammer themselves into your head as if you’re a stupid child who refuses to understand. However they arrive, they have a lesson to teach you.
The last few days it’s been a woodpecker. James and I were sitting in the living room chatting when we heard this strange tapping.
‘Is it Daddy?’
‘I don’t think so. Daddy doesn’t do DIY.’
‘Good point.’
‘I think it’s coming from the garden.’ And I walked towards the window to see a flash of black and white disappearing.
‘I think it was a magpie, tapping on the wheelbarrow.’
A few minutes passed and it started up again, more insistent this time. James crept over. ‘No. It’s a woodpecker.’
And so it was. A large one with bits of red. The wheelbarrow is leaning against the picnic bench and – don’t ask me why – but the daft bird is pecking it. Not the table, which might make some kind of sense, being wood. No, it’s the wheelbarrow, made of whatever it is that wheelbarrows are made of – some kind of metal for certain.

So, this woodpecker obviously had some kind of message and, as I do in these situations, I pondered what it might be. The woodpecker is associated with storms and thunder – it is said to give a particularly shrill call and become very active before storms and so can be an indication that a storm is on its way. Woodpeckers don’t only drum or hammer for food, as is commonly known, but they also use it as a form of communication – to tap out their territory, to attract a mate, to keep track of one another.
So I felt it was warning me – possibly of storms to come. And come they did. First we had shenanigans with James, not wanting to go to school, playing up, feigning illness. He loves his school and is very happy there but I do wonder if the uncertainty of the move and all is starting to get to him a bit. Or then again, maybe he just fancied a day at home. But when you balance your entire life like a pack of cards, it’s tough when one falls out of place. Then we started getting nervous about the move. Our buyer promised it would take a maximum of two weeks to sort out the issues that are holding up his own sale. Eight weeks have now passed and still no resolution is in sight. We are beginning to wonder if, once again, we have been suckered by this guy. Adrian has been uncharacteristically irritable. He’s been yelling at Jack (not so uncharacteristic, come to think of it) and stomping round using the Hoover like some kind of weapon (which is more unusual).
We had hoped that we would get some decent news today but no, nothing, nada.
I was so cross that I wrote a stiff email to our estate agent, warning that if he didn’t honour our exchange deadline (two weeks away now), we would pull out. In the past we have rolled over all too easily – this time we have to be tough.
Woodpecker can bode that we’re out of sync or out of step. I hope that’s not true. Sometimes its message is that we need to rest up, to pull together our strength. I know that’s true but it’s just not possible right now. At other times it – interestingly – is said to call people to the shamanic path. I have been fascinated with shamanism for many years and have done several trainings in it, including soul retrieval which is truly intriguing. I’ll tell you more about it another time as it’s quite involved. I based my children’s book Walker Between Words (which some of you are so kindly critiquing for me) on its practice – all the shamanic practices described in the book are based on fact. But in the last year or so I have stopped journeying (the shamanic technique for travelling to other realms for guidance and healing) so maybe the woodpecker is urging me to get back to that (it is supremely soothing, quite apart from anything else).
But then again, and I am clinging to this more than anything, Woodpecker can mean an uprooting, a change of abode.