I'm leaving - on a jet-plane

I tell you, this Israel trip could not have come at a better time.  I need to be outside my head for a while, I really do.  I need a change of scene.  I’m like some old cranky computer that needs a major reboot.  I suppose it’s running away really.  But then again, I’m going to one of the spiritual homes of Kabbalah, how exciting is that? 

My brother introduced me to Kabbalah when I was in my early twenties.  I spent a year in the US, part of it writing a novel (but let’s not dwell on that, eh? I literally wince at the memory of it – yeah, that bad).  But the house was on Cape Ann, on top of a cliff overlooking the sea.  I can still feel the warmth of the sun, still see the diamond-glinting on waves as dawn broke. 

My body clock was still on UK time so I woke early every day and sat with a mug of coffee on my balcony just drinking in the sound of the gulls and the sight of the occasional small boat, pulling up lobster pots.  It was heaven – a supremely happy time of extreme simplicity.  I had just what I could fit into my small case.  When I wasn’t writing, I prowled through my brother’s books and his record collection.  I developed a love of Bach and early church music and started studying Kabbalah. 

Here, at last, it seemed, was a map, a glyph of life, the universe, everything.  You could take every religion, mythology, every item of faith, every aspect of creation, science and spirituality, magic and mathematics, and find a place for them on the Tree of Life.  It was like a multi-dimensional labyrinth, a glass bead game – both an intellectual challenge and a song to the heart.  I fell hook, line and sinker – and it remains the basis of my spirituality to this day. 

Anyhow, this wasn’t supposed to be a rant or a sermon.  I must also say that I don’t belong to any groups and I don’t tie bits of string round my wrist or drink overpriced water endorsed by Madonna – and I’m truly saddened that people are profiting from what should be a totally free resource.  But hey…ain’t it ever thus?

So.  Anyhow. Israel. I’m flying out on Monday – and I just can’t wait.  My brazen attempt at getting new clothes via blogging failed dismally.  However, I took advantage of the sales and have cobbled together a sort of wardrobe (mainly in tones of black, it has to be said).  I am packing my bruised and battered soul and heading for the sun.  It will be good for me to be with people; to have some light-heartedness and hopefully some inspiration.  I know how lucky I am to have such an opportunity.  Many people just have to battle on in the stranglehold of everyday life.  So it’s a huge grateful thank-you to Kinetis for inviting me. 

I’d love to be able to tell you our itinerary but they’re being all mysterious about it… Apparently my plea for desert and camels is being taken into consideration…But really, who cares?  We’re staying in a hotel a few minutes from the beach in Tel Aviv – and, by heck, what a beach!

Above all I’m really looking forward to meeting my fellow travellers – the UK bloggers Rosie and Sally – and Spanish bloggers Monica and Eva.  I took Spanish A level (and got a flipping A grade too) but, alas, the years have sucked it out of me.  Never mind – when the spirit is willing, the communication will follow. 

We're also meeting up with the lovely Susie...I love her blog and suspect she's a bit of a kindred spirit...

Stop press:  Oh my.  You remember how I put out a pitiful plea to Figleaves?  Which – after some initial flirtation on Twitter - they stoically ignored, of course.  Well… my bestest baddest friend (she of the flat in London and the Saudi sheiks and the ayurvedic rib-bruising massages) only went and sent me a care package from the place… and I now possess a swimsuit that shows off WAY too much cleavage and a seriously posh bra and knickers set… So, if I get caught in cross-fire or am mown down by a runaway Segway at least I’ll be showing a flash of purple lace as they cart me into an ambulance…

Meet Ninshubah

Those of you who know me well (well, as well as can be known from what one says – and doesn’t say – in writing) will know how much I love the myth of Inanna, the Sumerian goddess and queen who seems – to me at least – to represent the totality of a woman’s experience.  She moves from youthful innocence, exuberance and heady sensuality, through maturity, power, motherhood and queendom (queenery? queenness? queenity?) to soul-searching, darkness and, ultimately, inner wisdom and knowledge. 

She realises that there is meaning below ground as well as above and takes one of the great archetypal descents in mythology – to visit her dark sister Erishkegal (her shadow side).  As she descends she sheds the outer trappings of success and the world, faces the dark and is killed and hangs on the meat-hook.  Meanwhile, above ground, she is betrayed, abandoned, let down, forgotten. 

Ah, but we are always alone in the underworld.  Ultimately we are all alone.  Wherever we are.

Now there is a character in this who is usually overlooked in the commentaries.  No, not Dumuzi, Inanna’s consort, who frankly doesn’t give a damn that she is stuck in hell.  No.  It’s Ninshubar, Inanna’s sukkal, her servant.  Servant is not really the right word - a sukkal can often have powers greater than his or her master or mistress (which, in itself, is worth pondering). 

Bear with me.  Now it is Ninshubar who arranges Inanna’s rescue.  At which point every woman reading this is probably nodding vigorously. Because, let’s face it, if you wanna be rescued, never rely on a man – your girlfriends are always the ones to pull you up from a pit. Men often fear the dark emotions - they shudder at the meat-hook - despite their love of war, their desire for violence, they generally shy from bloody and messy emotions.  But a woman will jump up and hold your weight, won't take a blind bit of notice of the blood and gore, will stand firm and hold you.

But, more than that (and this is – finally – my point); it is Ninshubar who does the ‘above ground’ stuff while Inanna is shifting, changing, going down deep within; plunging the depths of the abyss; being ripped to tiny shreds.  And yes, as in all myths, Ninshubar is another part of Inanna – a fraction of the whole.

And so it is in life.  Few of us are able to sink totally into our deepest selves when the meat-hook commands.  All those who battle with the dark know this. We have responsibilities; we have children; we have partners; we have jobs and mortgages and bills to pay.  So somehow – no matter how hard it may be - we have to put on the brave face, we have to strap on a mask and pretend we’re okay – to ourselves as well as the outer world.  We have to function – at some basic level – even if we feel like our limbs are being torn apart.  And that’s Ninshubar – the quiet, necessary part of the psyche that puts on the semblance of normality; that smiles, that laughs, that says the right things, that keeps everything ticking over.  No more than ticking, because that would be superhuman.  But ticking is enough.

Thank feck for Ninshubah.

Just don’t look too closely.  Don’t look into her eyes.  Because they are dead.  Stone cold dead.

I have yurt envy

‘Turn here,’ said Trish, gesturing at a gap in the hedge as we were halfway up a one in five track.  ‘Are you sure?’
‘I think so.’
I swung the car onto a field and we bumped over a wide expanse of grass.
‘There it is!’
And there it was.  A small yurt set on top of the world.  Next to it a wooden structure, topped with tarpaulin, open on two sides, housing an outdoor kitchen. 

It's home for Hen and Leo, plus Willow the border collie.  And it’s beautiful. 

I’d been in my pit of course. Hadn’t really felt like doing anything much except curl up in a ball and cry but this had been planned weeks back and Trish doesn’t take prisoners.  She’s bootcamp mama, the woman partly responsible for my rippling quads and newly toned shoulders – she shouts, I just meekly obey.  So I went and it was what I needed. 

As we got out of the car, Hen came over, Willow bounding at her heels, and hugged Trish and hugged me.  The SP wriggled out and just fell on Willow in complete delight.

the stove  - pic by Hen

‘The soup is a disaster,’ said Hen, shaking her head. ‘Truly, it’s just gakkitygak!’
‘Hey, that’s okay.  The scones didn’t work out either,’ I said.  

Usually I make great scones. They’re my one area of culinary expertise.  Sod it, I’ve even won a prize for the darn things.  Except now, it seems, even that minor domestic skill has vanished.  I’d planned on taking some home-made japonica jelly to go with them but when I pulled down the last jar it had developed a nice furry crust of mould.  So it was fudge from the Tantivy instead.

Hen is one of those people who are just so *so* fabulous. Again, I *met* her on Twitter (so, see, it's not all bad!) - in fact you should follow her...here.  Sustainable land management is her “big thing”.  She lives in a yurt on the edge of an ancient oak woodland on Exmoor where she cares for 47 acres of oak wood, river and meadow.  Her aim is to help the woodland recover from years of over-grazing and lack of management.  She is also hoping to plant 6,000 trees to ‘fill in a break in a woodland corridor that runs from the North Devon coast, along a river to the moor.’

She showed us around the land and it’s heartbreakingly beautiful.  She gave us wood sorrel to nibble – ‘just like biting into a Granny Smith’ and pointed out the areas she’d cleared and where she wanted to plant trees and it made me think all over again that the environment has to our prime concern really.  Isn’t it obvious?  We can have the best society in the world but if we don’t have a world in which to live it… Or am I being stupid?

We walked back, with Willow and the SP playing all the way, and sat down on stools that Leo had made from greenwood, and ate our soup (which was delicious actually) outside and nibbled fudge and drank mugs of tea.  Then it started to rain so we went into the yurt and, by god, it was warm and cosy and lovely. 

And we talked about trees and baskets and long bows and deer and we talked about yurts and life in Mongolia, and about people and how they live on landscapes – either marching with clunky boots or dancing with light bare feet, all the while the dogs playing at our feet.

Anyhow.  I’m not really full of words right now so all I can do is suggest you take a walk to Hen’s website and blog and read about her vision.  And think about dancing rather than clod-hopping.  

Let me give you one small taster from her blog:

"You've met Old Bert before. He is my favourite tree. Bert is completely hollow inside (but he still has a huge heart), and he's so old he has lots of plants living on him. There's Old Ivy, who loves him so much that fifty years ago she wrapped herself around him and never let go, there's young Campion and Wood sorrel, and many old friend Lichens and Moss. He's a house for lots of little mammals, bugs and birds too. He doesn't mind though, Old Bert loves the company and life by the river is good."

Old Bert (pic by Hen)

Life by the river does look good, to be sure. Surrounded by trees, not people.  So does life in an isolated yurt, to be honest.  I have yurt envy. Deep deep deep yurt envy. 

actually this looks like a good spot for me!

Not so social media

Hello online world.  Did you miss me?  Did you miss me at all?  No, thought not.  And it’s okay.  It doesn’t remotely matter. 

I’ve been in one of my bad places…possibly the worst one for a very long time.  One of those declines – oh, okay, let’s not mince words – it was freefall skydiving without checking you’ve got a parachute first.  Which is a really fecking stupid thing to do.  At first I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t get my fingers to type. Couldn’t do anything much really.  And as I sat at my desk, doing nothing, I watched social media drift by for a day or so.  And I wondered…what’s it all about?  What is it all about?

Yeah, I could have tweeted.  Yeah, I could have put out a ‘poor little me’ yelp on Facebook.  I could have written a ‘hug me’ blog.  But, you know, that’s not my style.  Anyhow at first, I really didn’t have the capacity.  And then, as the days went by, I began to wonder. 

Does anyone even notice if you’re not there? 

Bald answer?  No. 

I had to laugh really.  I was the online equivalent of the old lady in the council flat, lying on the floor being eaten by her cats.

I tell you, it’s a good lesson for the ego.  Bottom line, if you’re not out there shouting or wailing or emoting or waving your arms in the air, nobody notices.  And, let’s be honest, why should anyone?  We’ve all got so many ‘friends’, so many followers and followees, how on earth can we keep tabs?  Would I notice if one of my online *friends* wasn’t around for a week or so?  Probably not.  I’d assume they were busy or on holiday or just going ‘dark’ to get work done.  One shouldn’t take these things personally.  Yet one does. Stupidly. And I take first prize in stupid, I really do.

Social media does have strengths. It's a virtual water cooler. It’s great for wasting time, for procrastination – superlative in fact.  It’s incredibly useful for driving traffic to your business (if you use it right).  

Twitter can be fun. Sometimes it’s downright funny.  And I still hold that, if you look or if you get lucky, here are some gems of people to be found.  There is inspiration; there is information; there is interconnection.  And there are messages – there are always messages.

lonelypierot @ deviantart

But, but, but…is it any good if you’re low?  Now I am just not convinced by that.  Because when you’re way down low, when you’re really in the pit or hanging on the meat-hook or the black dog is slowly and methodically chewing out your throat, you don’t have the energy to make contact.  You watch people ‘being normal’, laughing, joshing, discussing minutiae or whatever and you simply can’t join in.  Because none of it makes sense.  It’s like they’re talking a totally different language. 

Anyhow, that’s it really…  Just an observation.  What do you think?   Maybe it’s just me.  After all, I just don’t talk about my “stuff”, not to anyone (though sometimes, in the very dead of night, I whisper in the SP’s velvety ear).  I know talking is supposed to help but hey…I’m not big on talking.  I did do a whole bunch of therapy many years ago but, when I think back, it was hilarious really - we would settle down in our chairs with the box of tissues between us and my therapist would tell me about her problems and then we’d spend the next hour brainstorming how to fix them.  Then I’d get up, hug her, tell her it would all be okay and then I’d say ‘thank you’ and pay her thirty quid or whatever. 

What a prize plonker, eh? 

The Exam Gene

‘I’m scared.’ 
My boy, in bed, looking suddenly so very small and vulnerable.
I wrinkle my nose in puzzlement. ‘Scared?’
‘Of my exams.’
Oh.
‘No, no, no… Exams are fun. They’re the best.’
He looks doubtful. ‘But they are,’ I continue firmly. ‘You just do what you can, work like fury for…what?...45 minutes or so and then that’s it. Over. Done.’
‘It’s okay for you.  You liked exams. Dad says you were weird like that.’
‘Yeah, well.  And you’re my son so you’ll probably be weird like that too.  There’s an exam gene you know and I’ve given it to you. It’s about the only useful one I’ve got, so make the most of it.’

The edges of his mouth start to curl and I know I’ve nearly got him.  ‘Are you really scared?’ I go on. ‘Or are you only going along with the crowd?’

He tugs at the sheet. ‘Well, everyone else is shitting bricks…’ 
I raise an eyebrow.
‘Oh, okay,’ he looks down. ‘It’s just English really.  She says if I don’t do well, I’ll be dropped down a set. I’m terrified of getting a bad mark.’

I mentally stick pins into the prone voodoo doll of a teacher who thinks this is the way to encourage a (admittedly lazy) twelve year old boy to do better.
‘Okay…’  I let out a long sigh.  ‘Sooo….  What is the worst that can happen?  You get a crappy mark.  So what?’
He looks puzzled.
‘Well, really.  Do you really think that, when you go to do whatever it is you will want to do, off in the future, that they, whoever they are, will be standing there, shaking their heads and pointing at a sheet of paper and saying…’
He laughs out loud and finishes the sentence. ‘….he got a fail in his Year 7 English exam?’

‘Exactly!  I couldn’t begin to tell you what I got for those exams…’ 

Except, weirdly, I could.  But I don’t tell him that.  Instead I sit on the bed and wrap my arms round him and he lets me and relaxes into me and his eyes close gratefully and I stroke his hair and I feel all the tension melt out of his body. And I hope I have banished his dark thoughts.  And I throw a poisoned spear of loathing at the system that sets us up for fear and anxiety so very young.

Occasionally I still have nightmares about exams – and I know I’m not the only one.  I am about to sit an exam, in a language I don’t know; in a science I don’t understand.  And I feel it afresh, all those years down the line – the fear and the dread and the anticipation of humiliation.

‘Stuff exams,’ I whisper against his soft hair, inhaling his clean skin scent adulterated with Lynx.  He smiles happily. ‘Yeah, stuff ‘em.’  He hugs my arm a little tighter.

‘I love you, Mum.’
‘I love you too, Love.’

How do you help a child with exams?  These are the other things I told James – just not last thing at night…

·         Relax.  Your mind can’t work when your body is tense.  Do some stretching.  Release the shoulders; release the jaw – we hold so much tension in our jaws.

      ·         Plan. So often schools don’t teach children how to divide their time according to the questions.  Teach them how to prioritise – how to play the game.

·         Don’t panic.  If they get frozen with fear, teach them the ‘right now’ technique.  Instead of worrying about the future, ask them if they are okay, right here and now, in this precise minute?  Then tell them they can always come back to the minute and be alright.

·         Focus on the finish. A nifty little technique.  Get them to imagine they have written a blinding paper; answered every question with total ease and project that image really clearly – have them see themselves leaving the exam room, punching the air with pride.

The world is going mad

The world is going totally mad, it really is. Or is it me?  Increasingly I feel like I’m living in some kind of bizarre cosmic joke.  I’m off to Israel in about a week which, in itself, is blissfully weird.  I mean – me, why?  And, just as I was pondering the beautiful insanity of it all and staring in bemusement at my ticket, a tweet popped up on my screen. It said:

Jewish court sentences dog to death by stoning - suspects it's reincarnation of lawyer who insulted a judge 20yrs ago. http://bit.ly/jr7q5r

What the heck?  In case you can’t be bothered to click on the link, this is what it says:

“JERUSALEM — A Jerusalem rabbinical court condemned to death by stoning a dog it suspects is the reincarnation of a secular lawyer who insulted the court's judges 20 years ago, Ynet website reported Friday.
According to Ynet, the large dog made its way into the Monetary Affairs Court in the ultra-Orthodox Jewish neighbourhood of Mea Shearim in Jerusalem, frightening judges and plaintiffs.

Despite attempts to drive the dog out of the court, the hound refused to leave the premises.

One of the sitting judges then recalled a curse the court had passed down upon a secular lawyer who had insulted the judges two decades previously.

Their preferred divine retribution was for the lawyer's spirit to move into the body of a dog, an animal considered impure by traditional Judaism.

Clearly still offended, one of the judges sentenced the animal to death by stoning by local children.

The canine target, however, managed to escape.

"Let the Animals Live", an animal-welfare organisation filed a complaint with the police against the head of the court, Rabbi Avraham Dov Levin, who denied that the judges had called for the dog's stoning, Ynet reported.

One of the court's managers, however, confirmed the report of the lapidation sentence to Israeli daily Yediot Aharonot.

"It was ordered... as an appropriate way to 'get back at' the spirit which entered the poor dog," the paper reported the manager as saying, according to Ynet.

Certain schools of thought within Judaism believe in the transmigration of souls, or reincarnation.”

Seriously, you couldn’t make it up.  So really it’s just too too perfect.  I am going totally bonkers and now it looks like I'm going to exactly the right place! 

Pop v Sex (don't be a numpty)

So, we’re driving down the M5 in the pouring rain en route to Cardiff and Mike Stock is going moralistic on the radio.  He reckons that, "As far as music is concerned, it has been a slow but unmistakable descent into pornography... Put some sexualised dancing and scantily-clad females in the video, and get it on the box.  Job done."
‘Who is this twat?’ I ask Adrian.
‘Mike Stock.  Stock Aitken Waterman? That Stock.’
‘Huh?’
‘Kylie Minogue?  FFS, you were a rock journalist once.’
Yeah, well, another lifetime.  Anyhow.  He’s blowing a storm of biblical righteous indignation. He being Mike Stock, not Adrian.  Seems those bad broadcasters and record labels should “clean up their act’.  Lady Gaga is “just a pole dancer”. Nicole Scherzinger was a disgrace on Britain’s Got Talent.  Rihanna is a bit of a slut and Katy Perry is just..just…just…beyond.  Or words to that effect. 

"I've always held out for decent pop, which to me is music that can be appreciated by all ages," he rambles on. "The more racy stuff that you see going on nowadays is not something you could put two to ten-year-olds in front of, and you're embarrassed if you sit there with your mum. I find that [style] almost anti-pop because it targets the 18-25 year-olds to the exclusion of everybody else." 

Okay, so he didn’t say that on the radio (and, no, I didn’t take down notes while I was bombing down the outside lane) but I looked it up afterwards because, really, WTF?

Take sex out of pop music?  Don’t be a numpty.  Pop music IS sex.  It always has been.  If you take out the sex you’re left with the Teletubby song or Cliff Richards singing Summer Holiday (and, hey, if you’re ingenious enough, you can even find sex in those).

Okay, so you’re thinking ‘oh gawd, liberal fecking parent rant’ but no, not really.  I don’t like children being exposed to inappropriate sexuality any more than anyone else. 

* Should young girls wear t-shirts with PORN STAR in sequins across their non-existent breasts?  Feck no.
* Should they be given pole dancing kits and taught provocative dances for their stage-school shows?  Not in my book.
* Should they totter round in high heels and go to ‘pamper parties’ to get makeup slathered over their soft perfect faces, when they should be running round with bare feet and mud on their mushes?  Shit no. 

But, see, who chooses those things?  Okay, you can argue that the manufacturers are responsible but seriously guys, you don’t like them?  Don’t bloody buy them.  I listened to Stock whine on about how parents were telling him they didn’t like their children watching sexy videos and I just wanted to shout at him and them and say, well don’t let them!  Be a bit more proactive.  Don't just let your children wander compass-less around cyberspace (yes, there are bandits; yes there are dragons); don't just park them in front of a TV and presume broadcasters will be honourable babysitters.

I had to YouTube Nichole Scherzinger and her BGT “performance” and, yeah, they shouldn’t have shown it.  No way.  Because, let’s be honest, she is a crap singer and can’t move for toffee.  It’s a lame song.  Was it suitable for a ‘family show’ – no, because children should see better quality than that.  But really – the sexual innuendos of the song would go straight over a small child’s head and, hey, don’t you think that it might be interesting and maybe responsible to engage with older children about the messages going on here?   Except we’re all too scared to talk about sex, aren’t we? 

And maybe this is why people get so uptight about all this.  It’s not about protecting children from sexuality; it’s about us as parents protecting ourselves against having to talk to our children about sexuality…

Go on.  Shoot me!