Pyrite And Purrsonality…

20517376_163233007565240_1015633897_oFascinating cubic Pyrite, thank you to Lizian for letting me photograph them

I’ve written about Pyrite before, but it’s a purrsonal favourite (hehehe!) so I think it will take a little bit more, especially since it ties in so nicely with the second part of the title. The second part of the title was arrived at through an initial reply by Dolly of koolkosherkitchen, please go and visit – she has a wonderful blog that consists combines a fascinating mix of recipes and history – irresistible! The point of debate was: “Does neutering arrest a cat’s development and make them kittenish forever, or is it purely personality?”

I must actually apologise as I don’t remember where I saw the original claim – I’ve looked everywhere, but it was either obviously a figment of my imagination… or it’s been hidden by fairies.

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Do cats’ personalities change as they get older, like humans do… I’ve known some perfectly pleasant sixteen year olds grow into unbearable adults. Does anybody feel that their cats did indeed change in temperament after being neutered? I must confess, I do feel that Charlie became a little more bad tempered, and less tolerant of Lily, as they did used to sleep curled up together, but now they very rarely bother with each other, save the occasional:

“All right?”

Yeah, not so bad – yourself?”

Tooty and Ting have always had a very strong sisterly bond – apart from when they’re fighting – so they continue to get along well with each other and still make friendly overtures towards the big girls, even though they’re likely to get a slap for their trouble!


Maybe I’m just reading too much into the situation, and the reason that cats still sometimes adopt a kittenish persona is to get their own way/

I’m so beautiful… How can you possibly say NO!”


Oh yes of course, I’m sorry, Mummy’s little princess, I’ll rush out and get fresh chicken right this very minute even though it’s 12 o’clock at night, pouring with rain and local shops are shut…”

Yeah right. Crazy cat lady.

20472626_162915264263681_1093126036_oA beautiful and shiny Pyrite sphere, courtesy of Lizian’s wonderful stall

Perhaps I should carry my Pyrite more often… sometimes known as ‘Fool’s Gold’, this stone is very protective and will encourage you to trust your own judgement, take stock of a situation and implement solutions where needed. Its shiny gold surfaces act as a spiritual mirror and enable us to look within, to see our own characters, aspects, both good and bad, uncovering suppressed memories that are ready to be dealt with. A warming, magical stone, it has traditionally been used in amulets and in healing as a ‘warming’ stone – Pyrite suns have a special pain alleviating quality to them as well. So. A warming and grounding crystal… as warming as the love you share with your cat.

20464803_162867477601793_496060702_o (1)A splendid Pyrite sun, from Lizian 

So, please, opinions about personality please, whether feline or otherwise…




Thought we’d squeeze in another Poetry Pimple before the end of the month…


Every unkind word,
Every mean look
Or spiteful gesture

Each nasty word
Each liberty you took
The casual blatant disregard

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I will gather these gems of bitterness
And hoard them to me
Greedily like a dragon with its gold.

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Then, one day when you are watching,
I will cast these gems before you
And watch you squirm

Then as you are watching
I will laugh
And you will burn.


“Star Light… Star Bright”


She was sad. Dreadfully, bone achingly sad and weary both in spirit and body. Her husband had done his very best to reduce her, to consume her and quench her brilliance beneath his own dull cloak of mediocrity, tarnishing her shine with the black hole of everyday.

He ridiculed her beliefs, berated her values and derided her loves. Her rage burned dully, smouldered against his expectations of “Yes dear, no dear”, roasts on a Sunday, fish on a Friday and sex timetabled somewhere in between. She resented the physical intrusion, she hated his ageing body, the encroach of hair in unexpected places and the rigid, unbending mindset.

They had a son. The man tried to dim his particular sparkle; but he escaped and grew, unshackled from familial duty and set free by his mother. He watched and yearned from a distance as his mother struggled within.

Star Light, Star Bright…” she would chant the old rhyme with longing and love as she closed the bedroom curtains at night. Above her, the stars spun and sparkled in their golden cycle.

Then one day that was it, he had belittled her enough, she shone forth into super nova brilliance, lifted by rage, emboldened by hate.

The wild spirit of her heart broke free as it beat its wings against her empty ribcage and soared away unfettered into the dark.

The man married again, a dull, pleasant lady who was happy to have him think for her. The son? He watched and made his way in the world, touched sometimes by the wild spark of his mother, until at last, the brilliant shine faded to the warm glow of peace.




To be honest, I don’t really like feet… they’re odd. Obviously, I am aware they have a purpose to serve but they are a bodily extremity of which I’m not too fond. They’re too… naked and vulnerable looking, somehow. I suppose the recent summer weather has sparked this train of thought as flip flops, sandals and other cute, tiny shoes appear.

I love shoes, although I don’t often wear fancy shoes myself. I had a foot operation to remove a lump which didn’t quite go according to plan, so I still have the lump, a horrible scar and the original foot pain.


I am undecided about men’s feet… (sorry gentlemen) Hobbit feet fill me with horror, but strong, manly feet… well, they can be o.k. I suppose. I once went out with a man who had a foot fetish which struck me as… odd. And rather annoying actually, as I am one of those people who hate having their feet touched.

Possibly my mother is partly responsible for this, as I remember her coming home from work, one day – she was a nurse – and relating to me with grim humour how she was changing the dressings on one old man’s gangrenous toes when as she carefully pulled the dressing away two toes fell off…

Won’t be needing those any more, Mr. Jones!”

or some such other macabre utterance was my mother’s way of comforting the digit-light gentleman.

This story filled me with a shuddering sorrow and fear… both for the gentleman and myself… Even now, at forty-ahem- years on, I sometimes check my shoes and socks to make sure I’ve lost nothing en route, so to speak. I think that’s possibly why I like to go barefoot when I can… keep an eye on everything!

Dog feet amuse me… Rocky’s paws are totally different to Erin’s.She has very dainty paws, beautifully shaped, with golden hair protecting each toe from its neighbour, and black pads, careful cushions so she can creep about.


Rocky, on the other hand, (see what I did there?!) has splendid, high – arched toes, curved, like the flying buttresses of cathedrals, with powerful webbing and thick pink pads to propel him forwards in great, leaping bounds… or for standing casually on bare feet…

And of course, cat feet are utterly delightful. Soft, yet practical, concealing toe-knives… Charlie has the sweetest, most delicately deceptive paws, as they are completely capable of delivering a ringing slap.


I have watched in wonder as my son’s feet grew from squashy pink marshmallows to hairy, bony man feet… and a size ten shoe.

Ever heard the phrase “feet of clay”? It’s used to mean a weakness in someone you may have previously admired. It originates from the Bible, the book of Daniel, I think, where Nebuchadnezzar was telling Daniel about a dream he had of a fabulous statue made of precious metals and gems… with feet fashioned from clay.

Well. My feet aren’t made of clay and they are definitely somewhat battered, but they serve their purpose well enough and get me from A to B. Still going to keep checking my shoes and socks though…


Obsidian and Older…


There have been quite a few losses this month, here among the people I know and call friends on WordPress – I’m not naming names or giving details as it’s not my place, but I just want to let them know our thoughts and love are with them.

July is both mine and my son’s birthday month, a bittersweet one this year as it was his 18th and as my regular readers know ~ many thanks too for all your good wishes ~ he received a Distinction in his final performance, allowing him to take up his place at university this September.


All part of getting older… you move on and leave certain things behind to make your own way in the world. I was forcibly reminded the other day of how I am getting older – my mother’s dog Rocky tripped me up so I fell smack on my face. My knees took the worst of it, but I was rolling on the floor in agony… ( I know some very bad swearwords…) laughing… while my mother stood and watched and my son tried vainly to help me.

Don’t touch me!”

I roared through tears of pain, laughing hysterically… yeah I know, a confusing reaction, but I just needed a minute’s solitude to inspect my knees which felt like they should be a bloodied mass of shards of bone and shredded skin, and ascertain whether I needed an ambulance.

I didn’t. But… oh my God, my knees still feel like they’ve been snapped and put back together the wrong way. One consequence of getting older is that you definitely don’t recover from physical injury as quickly. My girls too, are getting older now. Charlie is a matronly seven years old, with the sometimes temper of a particularly grouchy ninety three year old; yet still she retains a kittenish sweetness that makes me pick her up to cuddle and play with.

20273489_161019477786593_1086887932_oCharlie with my old cat, Walter

I think Ting, at four, will always be a perpetual kitten – she’s just one of Life’s optimists, unfailingly cheerful and ready to play. Lily, at seven, is slightly stiff in the joints now, requiring special attention in the colder months, while Tooty can be prone to catching cold.


However, they are still all Mummy’s little girls, but as with any living creature as it ages, they require a little more specialised attention, whether it’s diet, supplements, medical attention or just a bit of peace and quiet in a warm place for an extra snooze.

Along with getting older, there is the inevitable sadness that this can bring… the Obsidian family can help to manage this. Obsidian will bring up negative energies and emotions so they can be dealt with and resolved.

I am always quite cautious with black Obsidian as it can be quite overwhelming, so I would advise caution yourself when using it; and because it is such a useful spiritual mop, cleanse it carefully after each use. Gold and black Obsidian are good for scrying and pinpointing the cause of distress which can then be resolved and new, more positive patterns put in place.


Snowflake Obsidian is my personal favourite if any highly emotional issues call, as it teaches there is value in mistakes too – all part of the learning curve. Snowflake Obsidian shows that being by your Self needn’t necessarily be sad… Apache Tear is another useful crystal that is gentler and perhaps more comforting than black Obsidian. It’s highly protective and soothes grief.


Silver Sheen Obsidian, a recent acquisition of mine, allows you to see the bigger picture, and your own part in Mother Earth’s never-ending cycle that even as we, ourselves grow older, continues to renew and regrow. I feel that there is comfort to be had in continuity. And love always.


Walk your way with grace and care
Cherish every day
Be not afraid to enter Night
For Love will meet you there.




As I no longer have my own dog and the girls pretty much take care of their own exercise regime, I help my mother walk her dogs.

Not only is this practical – she had a fall at the beginning of winter last year and lost a lot of confidence – but it also gives me a chance to poke about in Nature in our local country park, draw creative inspiration and my mother to do some training with Rocky while I occupy Erin.


It should be a serene, calm time… but Erin generally has other ideas. The dogs know their walk time, and as I set foot on the garden path I see two eager faces appear at the front room window.

Then the drama starts. I’m trying to put my walking shoes on, Rocky is thundering about and Erin is jumping up and down screaming – literally –

YAROOO – AH! Wah! Wah! GRRRR!!”

This last growl at Rocky as he ventures too close…


Dogs safely on leads, we are on our way. We have to walk down a particularly narrow, steep flight of concrete steps. A Staffordshire bull terrier lives in the house to one side and regards the whole area as his property. Rocky objects to this and consequently I am pinged back and forth between the two sets of fence like a pinball.

Mum and Erin descend in a generally more sedate fashion, Erin resembling a Victorian lady lifting up her skirts and tripping daintily down the stairs.


Having reached the bottom and asked to sit, the dogs are given a biscuit each and allowed off the lead, and armed with plastic bags and more biscuits we set off.

I enjoy these walks as they are also an opportunity for me to practise my photography on my phone camera. I like to look at things in miniature and see the wonder of all creation in tiny scale, trying to capture it so I can share.


However, I have discovered that photography and dogs don’t really mix. Well. Rocky and photography to be precise… I was tracking the flight of a beautiful butterfly, hoping it would settle for a photo – SNAP!


No… not me. The dog. A tiny yellow flower, that caught my attention… SNAP! An empty pigeon shell, carefully nestled in the grass… SNAP!

But how can I be irritated, as despite my howl of anguish, Rocky beams at me cheerfully:

Come on! Let’s WALK!”


Round To It… Or Getting Things Done

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Once upon a time there was a fairy, and her name was Roundtuit. She tried to be kind, and she tried to be good, so as a result of this, people were always asking her to do things for them.

She didn’t mind – how could she, for she was nothing if not a good-natured and pleasant fairy. Consequently, every passing squirrel popped in for a manicure, every travelling hedgehog, a haircut, and the neighbourhood foxes, a regular shampoo.

Added to this, the fairy villagers were forever popping by asking for help with little odd-jobs, like brushing the mushrooms and beating the dust out of the moss. All the poor fairy could do was say cheerfully: “Oh yes, I’m getting round to it!”

Her own house fell into disrepair, her neatly painted shutters began to flake and warp, while her garden became overgrown and unkempt.

After another day of helping everybody – she had re-varnished some ladybirds so they were bright and shiny again and helped several sparrows with their dust baths – Roundtuit came in, looked at her formally pristine and sparkling home, now shabby and dirty with piles of washing up left in the sink growing mould, she burst into tears.

And so it was, half an hour later, her friends found her sobbing on a heap of broken promises, spoiled dreams and dirty disappointments. Her friends’ names were Help, Hope and Reachout.

In no time at all, Roundtuit’s little home was sparkling and cosy once again, and all her jobs for the fairies and creatures of the community had been completed.

So, the moral of the story is: don’t always say you’re getting Roundtuit – Reachout in Hope and Help will be found.



What Am I?
The emotions, the blood, the feelings.
Leave them.

Who Am I?
The memories, the experiences, the people.
Forget them.

Why Am I?
The purpose, the intentions, the desires.
Release them.

Reach out.
The being and not-being
Strip away the state of being
Construct and artifice.

The dark. The un-becoming.
Strip away the self
Still the conscious.

The being and un-being
The peace that passes
All understanding


The not-being, the
Wholeness and
The dark.

The peace. The quiet.
The silence. The love.


Ironing… With Cats


As you may have gathered from this little series, having four cats means we spend a lot of time together… doing things… and while their help and advice is not always appreciated, their company and love certainly is!

1. Remove Siamese from cupboard where the ironing board lives and take it out to set up in preparation for ironing the freshly washed and dried heap of laundry in the basket.

2. Remove large black cat from clean washing and sort out the items that need re-laundering due to muddy paw prints.


3. Fill lovely new iron with water, place in position and switch on in preparation.

4. Remove small black cat and Siamese from ironing board as they are having a punch up.

5. Scream and catch iron as a flailing paw knocks it.

6. Scream again – this time in fright – as tabby cat chooses this particular moment to launch herself from the back of the sofa to sit on your shoulder and offer advice about the best way to iron a shirt.


7. Remove large black cat from wash basket and sort out items that need re-laundering…

8. As son is at home, offer to teach him how to iron.

9. Remove Siamese from ironing board, tabby paw from eye and beg son to iron.

10. Decide that actually, Life is too short to iron… and put everything away, having first removed Siamese from cupboard where ironing board lives…