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So Much More

I wish I fitted into my brown trousers comfortably.

But I don’t.

I wish I could love this fat body.

But I don’t.

And who is the I in this case?

Small I soaked in patriarchal values.

Sexist.

Racist.

Ableist.

All the ists exist in this I

That has narrow eyes,

Pursed lips,

Calculates and demands,

Constructs beliefs from spurious evidence

So it can fold in on itself with narcissistic glee.

A smirk twitches the corner of its lips

As it caves into itself with denigration.

The other I watches,

Curious,

Loving,

And sees without judgement

The games played,

The means manipulated,

And utters a simple phrase,

“That makes sense,”

As her gaze

Casts wider 

Into the contexts

That pattern themselves restrictive

For all involved.

She breathes deep and long,

Appreciates the battles

With self,

With others,

With the world,

Feels the sharp sadness spike her heart,

Sheds soft, soft tears

That roll and tickle their way

To her throat

Where a hatch opens,

A tiny hand reaches out

To catch the rain,

So beautiful in the sunlight

That dapples into the darkness,

Touches the pipes

That begin to warm

So she can make the sounds of love.

She sings

Of warmth

And beauty 

And rage

And soon the I’s are soothed into remembering:

There is more than this.

Always.

So much more.

Power flows through me in ways subtle and gross

Power flows through me in ways subtle and gross.

The whisper of spirit gently surges as I walk by trees,

Notice bumble bees buzzing and swaying on their homeward approach

To dark, damp holes amongst tree roots;

I see brambles turn and twist themselves into spiky knots

As if to tie in for eternity, or, at least, until Autumn’s nimble fingers begin to unpick them.

I watch the tiny waves crosshatch on the canal’s surface 

And wonder what kind of musical sound they’d make.

I approach the beautiful Birch with my swollen heart 

And see the paper white adorned by crispy orange and green.

I feel warmth as I stand with a friend, arms enveloping, hearts beating together.

This power is gentle, loving, curious, connected and feels so, so freeing.

Then, suddenly, the other power rears its head and demands some dramatic attention.

It needs me to be more than or less than 

So it can exist and hide the hurt that’s bubbling beneath 

And MUST NOT BE FELT or… or… or what?

Too vulnerable!

Not safe!

Scared.

And yet these things, when felt, dissipate.

But the anticipation of feeling makes me want to flee myself.

I want to come home, like the bumble bee, heavy with nectar, 

Hips swaying with the weight of it;

Home to the community where I feel safe;

Home to hive where we work together to live.

I’m tired of this world where money is a token of power 

And the getting of it extracts from the Great Mother, 

Who is being destroyed by this foolishness.

Different threads linking me to the past

Different threads linking me to the past

Through my time and beyond.

I carry the ancestors’ blood,

Their woes and joys

And unspoken trauma.

Like lightning it finds its path

To easy ground.

I stand helpless as it works

Its way through me.

Tired, I want to rest

From the touch of

Its relentless fingers,

But I fear there is no end.

I feel pains in my flesh

As if time collapsed

And the trauma is happening now.

This will pass, I tell myself.

Yes, and it will come again.

I bow my head and weep.

Rejection Sensitivity Hurts Like Hell

a man sits on the ground staring ahead. Around his head are squiggles and question marks representing myriad thoughts he's having.

Rejection sensitivity dysphoria (RSD) is a term coined by William Dodson, an American Doctor who works in prescribing medicines for ADHD. Whilst that may be contentious because he benefits financially from prescribing drugs for ADHD, RSD is something that many people with ADHD and other neurodivergences talk about. Dodson describes RSD as: 

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Locus of Evaluation Part 2

In Locus of Evaluation Part 1 I wrote about how I believed my art teacher, Mr Yates, when he told me I wasn’t good enough to do art at ‘O’ Level (equivalent to GCSE), and my journey to becoming an artist in adulthood despite that. In this post I’m going to write about why I believed Mr Yates so readily, and it may (or may not) relate to your own story about locus of evaluation.

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Love Builds Weird and Wonderful Structures

The Black Hole, Watercolour pencils and chalk pastels on Legal Pad, A4
Continue reading “Love Builds Weird and Wonderful Structures”