In my daughters’ eyes …

IMG_1998smallcropA few days before mothers’ day I am a mess of emotions, thoughts and reflections. I am not normally big on this day but this year I wrote a post on Facebook to speak up against something that triggered both my inner protector and my lover. I had no idea it would speak to so many people and resonate so much. Through this experience, I realised again how incredibly connected we are as mothers and people. The women in the mall who look so different and seem so distant really have so much in common. Our vulnerabilities are not that different after all.
Yesterday, I dedicated a song to my daughters. Martina McBride goes to the heart of my vulnerability as a mother when she sings “In my daughter’s eyes”. The mystics and the alchemists speak about the language of the world. Those feelings, thoughts and experiences that can’t be captured but we know to be true in a place deep inside of us. Perhaps this is why it is so hard to explain motherhood. It is a grand and epic mixture of courage and vulnerability and all else. At any one time we dance somewhere between these two crazy extremes.

The younger my children were the more I was a hero and my vulnerability was so easy to conceal. The older they get, the harder it is to hide my failure, shame and vulnerability from them. It’s even harder in my case with my daughter being a 2nd year psychology student. So I don’t worry too much any more because trying to hide my vulnerabilities would be an epic fail as the younger generation would say. There are times I wish I could be back in the bathroom pretending I got soap in my eyes. That was my fave! There are also times I am relieved I can look up with a face full of tears and say “mmmm just busy with my inner child here!” And what a blessing when they give me the space to do it and carry on with whatever, allowing my sadness, grief and pain the space it needs.

My anger and nastiness is also brought to trial regularly now that my girls are older, bolder and wiser. Where once there were only blind spots, I now have mirrors saying “Oh dear let’s have a look at this Miche!” I hate and I love it! The journey with my children from newborn to toddler, tween, teen and adult has been the most life changing of all my many journeys. It has transformed me like no workshop, short course, sermon or ritual ever did or ever could.

So when I sit and listen to Martina sing that soul song over and over and over I cry because all my vulnerabilities are seated in front of me. I cannot deny any of them. I laugh because all my joys are standing along side me giving praise to the Great Spirit for the miracle of being mother. All of my fears are present and mother-courage helps me to stay standing. My hopelessness and fatigue find the strength to lift me up and see this glorious light of Love. My daughters’ eyes are indeed the most beautiful place my soul has ever visited in this life.

Much Love, M

Martina McBride performing In my daughter’s eyes live

Enchanted Gardens

I had the delightful opportunity to be raised in an enchanted garden with a king – The Orchid King as my dad was called. Thousands of exotic blooms graced the pathways and as a little mite I was very familiar with phalaenopsis, cymbidiums, finlaysonianum and cattleya blooms. I observed many visitors gasp with delight at the splendor exploding from the greenhouses.  At the age of 6, I understood in those apartheid years that for white people to be in our home must have meant that there was something amazing happening there.

This oasis on the desolate Cape Flats was a symbol of the tenacity and genius of my father. My parents had survived the devastating forced removals of the Apartheid regime.  Their properties stolen and possessions scattered in the carnage, they began again to create a home for themselves and the family they planned.  My father possessed the Midas Touch and no regime could dispossess him of this.  Soil and water was all he needed.  The infertile soil of the dusty townships to which they were forced presented no obstacle.

The front garden boasted gigantic Cycads which competed easily with those at the internationally acclaimed Kirstenbosch Botanical Gardens.  The back door opened onto a sanctuary that I would in time embrace as a temple for consciousness and worship.  Bonsai trees added mystery and intrigue to every corner of the garden and delicate moss lined the magical pathways. Gnomes peeked out from the shady places pretending to be statues. Luscious ferns nurtured my forest fae being and I drank it all in. This was home to my already wild imagination and whimsical nature.

My siblings all seemed to inherit the King’s touch quite easily. My sister seemed to manage the bonsai with ease and I envied her.  The eldest managed to copy the secret potting mix and her efforts provided my dad with much amusement.  The boys both inherited his capacity for nurturing the exotic species.  Then there was me looking on at everyone’s success.  At one point I wondered if perhaps I was adopted.  How else could his genes have escaped me?

Noticing my lack of green fingers my dad planted a mini garden in an effort to encourage me.  No exotic blooms – just simple green shrubs that only required a little water and some sun.  It was the sweetest thing and I treasured it.  It grew beautifully in my home.  A whole garden in a bowl – it was perfect! The idea of a garden in bowl made so much sense and I imagined two or three such bowls.  It took 18 years before bowls two and three were created.  Raising babies, managing a career, studies and working towards a sustainable democracy in our country gobbled up the time.  Finally, a series of events meant that I had that delicious thing called time.  I could make bowls two and three which lead to bowls four five.  And so began the fairy gardens! I am every bit as imaginative as I was then and my fantasies survived the throws of adulthood. My green fingers began to bloom much later and now, nearing my fifties my childhood memories of life in the enchanted gardens are being rekindled …

Blessed be the legacy of my dad the Orchid King, Ronnie SamuelsIMG_20151220_173115small

The Wall n Profile before Facebook

Sometime back I connected with high school friends and fits of laughter escaped from the windows of my study.  I am sure it will not surprise you to hear that I also sat in one of those conversations where somebody said “What did we do before Facebook?” I had probably heard that question many times before but that particular night at Rascals, sharing pizza with friends, I suddenly remembered the Wall and what it looked like before Facebook.

The wall was yellow and wide enough to sit comfortably. The days when crime never forced security gates and electric fencing. Further down the street the Wall extended to Mrs Petersen’s porch. All the way down the street there were walls – places where knock kneed youngsters gathered to connect, make plans and comment on each others’ lives.

It was a time when school was a place to learn the ABC’s and never took over our lives with the pressure of projects, assignments and extra mural achievements. At the end of the school day, khaki canvass haversacks were flung carelessly over the garden wall or down the passage and we went tearing down the street. We did not always change uniforms and sometimes you logged on before you got home because someone’s wall was on the way home from school.

We did not send flowers but we did pick “sierangs” (tiny yellow daisy with a green sour stem) and chewed it merrily while we rested carefree heads on our school satchels. We did not get rewards playing candy crush but we sported big knee grazes after a zealous game of Kimberly Jim. We did not send cupcakes but we celebrated the peanut butter and jam sandwiches from Mama Vickers. We never collected hearts but we had hours of unsurpassed pleasure collecting tadpoles in the flooded fields that now form Jan Smuts Drive.

Your profile was free of masks, filetrs and pretense. Acne, knock-knees, af-dakkie fringes, shy awkward personalities or spoilt brat manners greeted your friends and you were known for who you were. We could not add and delete friends. We had to learn to cope with whoever was presented – even Spider – the boy with the uni brow who chased us after school.

Before Facebook we also had groups and a Group was very different to a Wall. The Wall was intimate and in front of your house or Debbie’s house or Marlene’s or Ruwayda’s house. You had to manage your wall carefully as it said everything about you. You controlled who came to your Wall and how much time they spent there. Your wall could be as busy or as quiet as you wanted and was very much affected by your mood. Stervy (elitist) and religious guys had very boring Walls even then. Many many love dramas played out on the Wall like the saga of John n Audette. Some people had well resourced walls and we knew exactly where to go to lay our hands on stories, snacks and interesting gadgets like CB radio parts.

The Group before Facebook was sort of public and sort of private. Along the red and yellow railings of the park outside Mr Orrie’s shop members of the group met regularly. Being a group, people could leave and join depending on the admins and the admins were made up of the in-group. In these groups the friends from Lyndon Crescent, Gateway Crescent, Cassandra Road and Alison Road connected and contributed to the dynamics. You were as active in the group as the admins allowed – Argus delivery boys, those who were tasked with watering the garden and the poor kids who were forced off to piano missed out and never quite made the grade.

We never spent our afternoons playing Scrabble or Mafia Wars but table tennis and soccer at Stephanian’s Table Tennis Club was a given. Whether you played the game or not you were found at Pedro Meyer’s home in Cassandra Road. You never had to fight a busy network but you had to work your way pass the canine brute who just never got used to the multitude of children, teenagers and adults making their way to club. In the treasured clubhouse we also had a photo album – printouts of countless tournaments, practice sessions and award ceremonies graced the club Wall!

Before Facebook I never needed to be driven to my friend’s house. Before Facebook I could play till after dark and know I was safe. Before Facebook all the moms in the street were responsible for all the children in the street. They monitored our Walls and checked for spam. Before Facebook we were never bored – exhausted yes – but never bored … rollerskates, dingbats, yo-yo’s, bamboo kites, bok-bok, drie-blikkies, tok-tokkie, BMX, street tennis and after dark athletics when the heat of the sun exuded from the tar … and in between all of that there was that first kiss and a childhood romance. Before Facebook we knew what our childhood sweethearts looked like and did not rely on an emoticon.

So indee,d before Facebook we had a Wall and Groups and Profiles. Before Facebook neighbourhoods were interactive communities. Before Facebook birthday parties mattered and we could afford them and we really ate cupcakes.

For now, we have Facebook and I am still doing the same thing I did then – connecting with people, living in community, sharing my joys and sorrows with the people who choose to visit my wall, meeting with the guys who hang out in the same groups and sharing our pics and the memories they hold. I can’t walk to Heathfield and the United Arab Emirates but I still go by Marlene and Ruwaydah’s Wall everyday. I don’t eat doughnuts at the clubhouse but Crystal and I still compare notes on our Status. I still moan at David n Andre for leaving me out of the game which has progressed from BMX rides to boat trips in Gansbaai when I check their photos. And at forty plus, I still get into trouble with the things that happen on my Wall just like I did when I was fourteen …

Many things have changed and many things remain the same … I am fortunate that I see many of the friends on my Wall regularly (in real life) … and when I cannot  …  I am glad to still have a Wall and a Group …

First published 2009

Discipline and conflicts with children – a minefield for the adults

back to childhoodOverhearing a snippet from a documentary on Lady Dianna, as I whisked the dust cloth over the television, I heard one of the contributors make this comment; “why do we pretend that the gap between childhood and adulthood is so big when in fact it is very tiny?”  The comment has plagued my conscious thinking today and no doubt caused a stir in the sub-conscious and shadow so aptly explained by Carl Jung.

And if we were to accept this view that the gap between adult and child is so very tiny it would follow that those pesky little critters we call triggers would have us be back in pigtails and school shirts in an instant.  After some years in the counselling room, on both sides of the couch and just from my everyday life I must agree.  It is not so much that there are many triggers or that triggers have a great mysterious power.  Rather, that this gap between adult and the unresolved child is in fact so tiny or more accurately put, so obscure, that it does not really take much of a potion to conjure up a time warp or dreaded portal that has us back in the past in a flash.

As things turned out, subsequent events in the day conspired to have me delve a little deeper into this narrowing gap.  Specifically, a conversation about child discipline became the launch pad for me to consider the question raised in the documentary.  While my conclusions are valid only in the space decorated by my brunette locks, I decided to record them here.

I am unashamedly a disciplinarian and quite resigned about it.  At least two of my siblings are the same way and we know which apple tree we have not fallen too far from.  We have at least rolled some distance I would hope but in essence the protruding root still has us know from whence we hail.  For my children’s sake, I hope that it is tempered with a balance of wisdom and the critical ingredient of compassion.

Outside of the relationship between biological parent-child disciplining another whole fascinating world exists.  A world of triggers, hooks, blind spots, tactics and age-old survival mechanisms.  Of course it all exists inside the biological relationship too.  I see and catch myself trying desperately to avoid what my parents did at times while at other times I am awfully proud to be following what was handed  down to me.  All of it completely subjective in essence … when it suits us, what our parents did was good and when it does not we declare indignantly we will never be guilty of the same and stand nobly as martyrs against those who perpetuate such evils.

Outside the biological parent-child relationship this subjectivity reaches exponential levels and reveals the reality beneath the seemingly inactive volcanoes we all are.  At every school, parents moan with teachers when they discipline children.  In every family, parents have fall-outs when grandparents, aunts and uncles admonish their children.  And sadly, many a step-family breaks apart in the name of “disciplining the kids.”

I trust that as a reader you would have the assurance that the realm of abuse is not dealt with in this article.  The abuse of children is a disease and needs to be dealt with inside the appropriate framework.    Also, the nature of the punishment and  the events surrounding the discipline are all up for discussion.  As a mother, I have investigated a number of interludes in the classroom and had a few discussions with teachers.  I have also supported many punishments and supervised the writing of lines.

I am attempting here to raise the awareness that our reactions to the discipline of and conflicts around our children are firmly rooted in our childhood experience of discipline and conflict.  While we are all aware that our offspring represent (especially in the early years) our inner child and most often the unresolved inner child, we lose sight of the extent to which we are dealing with ourselves and our past while we are in the present.  We lose sight of the extent to which others are dealing with themselves and their unresolved inner child while we think things are pretty clear.

I have observed adults and I have observed the children.  I have observed what is apparent and wondered about what is not apparent.  I have observed myself and analysed the triggers and the projections.  I watched the upsets, the tempers flairs and barriers to healing.  From the playground to the living room there is always a common thread.  The children and the presenting problem fade into background while the adults have it out.  Not long thereafter and almost always there is a breakdown in relationship between the adults – both of them doing what they wanted to do when they were nine or doing what their parents should have done when they were five.  Neither of them have the capacity to avoid slipping through the portal beyond that tiny gap between adult and child.

In the realisation of how tiny this gap really is, I recognise that the primary issue is almost never what one is dealing with.  The misdemeanour of the child in the present is hardly ever the focus of the discussion.  At best, we could perhaps hope that a high-level of self-awareness will be met with a willingness to resolve.  Realistically, we are cautioned to remember that the gap between adult and child is not as great as we would like to believe.  As such, the discipline of a child or any conflict around a child launches an adult to the world as it existed for them at that age.  And whoever it was that caused their upset then is who the other adult becomes in that moment.  This is known as projection.  Your attempts at dealing with the child are all filtered through the inner-child who perceived the world as unfair, cruel, embarrassing and not-the-way-I-want-it.  Whether the teacher, the grandparent or the step-parent, your goalposts have shifted from dealing with the child of the present to dealing with the child of the present and their parent’s inner child of the past.  It is worth noting that the child of the past has been unsuccessfully trying to change the world of then for years and you now appear to be yet another obstacle in their quest.

In considering the idea that this gap between childhood and adulthood is very  tiny and knowing how much our children represent our inner child, I am realising what we actually take on when we engage with and care for other people’s children.  It has also made me realise that a highly charged relationship between adults is most likely set ablaze quite simply with the conflict over a child – however it may look.

Whether a peaceful relationship that became tense or a tense relationship that exploded as a result of a conflict around a child, it is worth remembering how tiny the gap between adult and child is and how easily our inner child is triggered by the events around our children.

The language of the world – An alchemist moment

In loving memory of Brother Dan, who first taught me of the Urim and the Thummim and spent many Sabbaths teaching me about Avram’s encounter with Melchizedek at Mamre – Ahava

Caught between my fear that the motorists behind me would, in their rush hour impatience, not appreciate my holding up the traffic and my compelling realisation that this Egyptian Goose needed to get his family across the road, I had no idea of the blessing awaiting me.  With  a long stretched neck it had a funny way of beckoning from the pavement curb.  The six little goslings were pecking at the ground around their mother as little goslings are meant to do early in the morning.  I have seen them every morning and every afternoon that I cross the Princess Vlei (lake) at Roscommon Road.  Every morning and every afternoon they do what geese do.  But this particular morning the father goose had a definite sort of mission as he stood looking at the oncoming traffic.  His family seemed unperturbed continuing to peck in the gritty path as if trusting that he had it sorted.  I thought perhaps he wanted to cross the road and get his family to the other side.  With no cars behind me I stopped – it was after all a pedestrian crossing!  I hoped and prayed quite unrealistically, with all fingers crossed that there would not be another car behind me for a while at least.   I did not at that moment have any idea of how to stop the oncoming traffic in the other lane. But if a person desires a thing enough the universe conspires right?

It was then … in the moments to follow that I had an Alchemist moment.  Motorists unable to hear one another in the rush hour traffic, a father goose needing to take his family across a bridge, six busy little goslings and a mother goose, all … in the midst of a strange silence …  heard the Language of the World. I saw the need of the goose, the woman in the oncoming lane saw my need, the motorist behind me saw my daughter’s need through the windscreen, the Goose trusted all of us to know his need, the goslings knew instinctively where to go and the Gander waddled some steps behind her family nodding elegantly to the left and to the right as she acknowledged us, It seemed as though she understood the needs of human egos and obliged most gracefully.

Being present to the present I received the omen as I crossed the water … in the midst of great danger one can trust when one knows the Language of the World. Normally that road bend seems busy but this morning it all seemed a little calmer and I somehow I think I  was not the only one present to the omen.

I also think that before reading the Alchemist I might have missed this completely attributing it all to my love for animals.  After reading the Alchemist, I have a language for things I always believed in and I feel incredibly blessed.   I realise now that all that happened in all that time was that I knew my omens and I trust I still do. This morning they came as a family of geese – Egyptian Geese and a stream of motorists who used the Language of the World.  I don’t know what they will be tomorrow.  I have though the shalom that the Urim and the Thummim are with me.

Perhaps you will not have Egyptian Geese when your omen arrives.  Perhaps it may not involve elements of danger and many motorists but “All is written by the same hand” or as they say in Egypt, “Muktab” …

May you be present to your omen …

First published in 2012

Unto each their own unique journey

The journey of life is a very unique one indeed.  Our life stories are filled with intricate details, adventures, personalities, circumstances and histories.  The purpose and the meaning of our lives is viewed through all of these to create even more unique flavour to the journey.  There are so many people we can relate to as they share experiences, thoughts and feelings very similar to our own.  Then there are those who we listen to with absolute puzzlement and we wonder how this person operates and where they come from.

In the self development and transformation journey, we each have our own unique course to chart.  Perhaps the most important starting point is willingness to take any journey at all.  Whether we are willing or not life continues to happen all around us and we get swept along by the force of life.  The willing traveller chooses to be part of plotting the course and greets each adventure with intrigue. They see the events of the past, the present and the future as being uniquely designed to bring about every experience, opportunity, failure, loss, joy and sorrow that was required for the growth, healing and transformation of their soul.

The unique course has its own pace, content, duration and intensity.  No journey is more than or less than another.  A journey is only more than or less than itself – meaning, the choices we make will determine how much we enable and participate in a  journey or how much we disable, retard and disembark from a journey.  In honest reflection, most of us can say whether we are participating in our journey or whether we have disembarked and look on with yearning to the horizons of where we might have been, could have loved, should have known.

There is no template course to follow.  No tried and tested sorrow-proof map.  There is no straight line to the treasure because even the treasure is unique.  The answers that provide one with salvation offer another no great help at all.  The insight of one counts for naught to another.  Unto each is their own unique journey…

You took the post right out of my blog … or is it our blog?

It is incredible how many times I have seen a post on a blog or a website which seems to capture my exact thoughts and feelings on a subject or an experience. Normally, I am elated because it means someone has gone through the trouble of capturing my thoughts and expressing my emotions. When they add a great graphic it is a bonus and it adds to my “gems along the way” collections. Although not often, there are times when I feel like they stole my words and cheated me out of expressing it myself. Lately, I am seeing it very differently.

Extremely trying times over the last year have led me to do some intense inner work. Financial challenges and a second divorce have wreaked havoc with fibromyalgia flare ups. These are but a few of the challenges which conspired to direct me to a very dark night of the soul. Thomas Moore in his book Dark Nights of the Soul so aptly describes my experience that I would struggle to choose a quote since every line resonates. However, the post “a different kind of wise” suggests where I am headed here. In this dark night of my soul I was forced to change my intelligence.

I was led through a series of “coincidences” to many great teachers. Among them were the likes of Deepak Chopra, Marianne Williamson, Neil Donald Walsche, Gary Zukav and of course Thomas Moore. Sure enough my intelligence changed.

I came to realise how incredibly connected we all are. The extent to which we perceive ourselves as different and separate – black and white, rich and poor, young and old, good and bad seemed more and more bizarre as my understanding opened up. This journey is not an easy one and reading through the chapters on quantum physics required some discipline. The journey is however also very magical. More and more evidence for our deep connectedness manifested. My thoughts and feelings were expressed by others with uncanny accuracy. I found it so much easier to relate to others with complete authenticity but little effort. There were also some intense connections that might have been astral travel or premonition (see the post on Beyond Difference – touching souls).

There is a developmental stage in the life of a toddler where we learn about same and different, me and you. Of course this is necessary and helpful. It is the way we learn not to take Jonny’s lollipop and understand that it’s Suzy’s turn now. Unfortunately, it seems we never move beyond that stage once the purpose of that stage is achieved. We go on focussing on yours and mine and never get to experience “ours”. The authors I have mentioned above all teach about our connection as human beings. Such terms as non-local intelligence, absolute reality, source, high consciousness and non duality all point to our interconnectedness. At the lowest level of thought I see all that is different between us. With more evolved intelligence, the boundaries appear more as mere illusions of the world of relativity. These authors all refer (in some or other way) to the profound work of CG Jung known as the Collective Unconscious.

I now understand why I am seeing my posts on your blogs and why you see yours on mine. The stranger who captures my thoughts with eerie accuracy is no stranger at all. She is intimately known to me and to my experience in our connectedness. The post I have been meaning to write and which will appear in a few days’ time is already being brought into the world of the here and now by an individual I am deeply connected to. I may never meet him but I know him.

Perhaps, with this awareness, it is less a case of my posts on your blogs or your posts on my blog and more a case of the posts of all the world on our global blog. It is given to the writers to record the thoughts. It is given to the musician to sing our songs. It is given to the painter to colour our story. It is given to the dancer to portray our lives. It is given to poets to record our praise and our lamentations.

And so it is that we find ourselves expressed everywhere ….

A matriachal blessing

FOR ALEXANDRA on your 13th | Michelene Dianne Benson

Words could not explain
The mysteries that women hold
Like the moon she will wax and wane
Listen carefully when her story is told

From mother to daughter we pass it on
Our knowing our power our eternal bond
Throughout the ages our perpetual song
Awaken now our enchanted wand

Held securely by mother earth
With moonlight kisses upon your face
Through my womb you were given birth
Divinely chosen for this time and place

My prayers ascend as a fragrance of love
May wisdom flow through me to you
Your purpose declared and inscribed above
Guided and guarded by all that is true

Photograph | Michelene Dianne Benson

Conscious Engagement – never wasted, never lost!

CONSCIOUS ENGAGEMENT is never ever wasted. I had to prepare a summary of what I do for a brochure of a conference I will be speaking at. I speedily typed it up and then read through for typos. I paused when I read the line “Ms Benson engages extensively with the global community to strengthen the work in South Africa.” In that moment I realised that every effort on this and that meeting enables me to speak. Every message and comment from you flavours my words. All the teleconferences I attend at EST with burning, scratchy eyes informs me of the world work. The connections I have in India and Israel, California and Norway, to name but a few, all come together in an intricate web which supports and informs.


For the many times I asked myself WHY DO I DO THIS? – I had an answer. Conscious engagement is never wasted and in spirituality nothing is ever lost. The seeds I scattered over the past while had blossomed behind me. Wondering what I had to offer, I glanced over my shoulder and I was greeted by a glorious orchard.

Yesterday on a global teleconference a woman said something to the effect of – work hard and make sure you are found working. My sisters, I share this encouragement with you. Though your blooms may not sprout immediately, know that in the fullness of time you will see your labour transformed. If you dance, keep dancing. If you serve, keep serving. If you write, keep writing. In all things pursue it consciously, freely and with love for only then will it return to you as a joy and a celebration. Only then will you recognise your seed.

First published 31 October 2013

My petticoats are showing

A heart felt discussion among sisters had us sharing the vulnerability of lonely. We tried to analyse and soon gave it up paying attention to the wisdom of the wise woman within. Wise woman wisdom that leads us via the valleys of vulnerability and into the shadows to find the wounds that have come up for healing.

This delightful discussion happened via a modern portal we call facebook. We weren’t at all bothered by “who might see” and even less concerned about the traditional conservatives who would prefer us never to speak of our wounds and our shame – let alone admit them publicly. One shared, another listened, more shared, others simply held the space. Compassion embraced authenticity and inevitability the path to healing was revealed.

A sister joined the circle and found her tears flowing which she shared with us on the wall. “Oops my slip is showing!” she said bowing out to catch her heart. I read it and smiled contently celebrating the freedom we have to show our slips (petticoat but the Freudian slip and now pun works well) whenever we choose. Our petticoats – the undergarments and intimate delicates which are frowned upon if revealed. They are much like our like our vulnerabilities – hidden truths and intimate struggles which we are expected to keep out of sight and out of mind. Heaven help us if they show for it will invoke all manner of criticism. We spend so much energy to keep up the façade that makes others happy and has us fit in. Tuck it in, pin it up, tie it down but never let it show! Make sure the garment of ego covers all.

In the Red Tent we grow to love our petticoats – embracing all our wounds and healing processes, our stories and scars! We honour them and are most enriched when we are trusted enough to gaze upon them with love. We even consider them quite delightful and they often cause raucous outbursts of knee slapping fun. We learn to dance in such a way that our petticoats show and spice up the room. Perhaps this is why I always loved gypsy skirts. The more lace hanging from the undergarments the more I celebrated myself wearing it. The layers of petticoats adorned with all sorts of bells and whistles and interesting trimmings always have me smiling in the most mischievous sort of way. My recent instructions to the seamstress stated – there should be lots of underbits and all sorts of stuff added to it. My petticoats complete the garment of me and as such they have great worth. I have no need to satisfy the dictates of those who are uncomfortable with my scars and wish them away. On the contrary, I will wear them a little longer than my dress of ego and adorn them with trinkets of meditation and celebration …

So don’t mind petticoats … admire them!

First published 23 April 2014