A Vision Of My Old Age

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She wandered, this woman, age indistinguishable from the lines on her face. Up, down and along, the breadth and width of the country. Her face was strangely calm, bleached and blanched of the pain of past emotion, past trouble, past life, that had scored their marks indelibly on her skin with a sharp instrument as bitter as words.

Instead, now, she raised her countenance to the kindly sun, let the rain fall upon her eyes, the snow colour her hair and the wind slap her cheeks. At night she slept – never in towns, never on streets where malice and pain lingered, collected in corners like dirty washing up left too long, grey and grimy.

Instead, now, pressed against the earth, curled against a tree, buried by leaves or grass she found her rest.

She wandered, crossing the country, past looking but always searching for a memory. She filled her eyes and mind with sights and sounds to comfort her empty heart. Home; a memory, warmth, light, family, children – curdled like milk left out too long, sour and tainted with expectation. She sometimes took that memory out and carried it, looked at it like an untrustworthy torch, flickering and weak, two small faces raised to hers – “Mummy!”

Then she put it away, put it away in a box at the back of her mind and continued to wander.

She walked north, feet drawn by ancient blood memory and right-feeling, walking away her own family history but unknowingly walking where her ancestors had first come ashore, first lived in sight of the rest of the world.

One early morning, as she lay in the shelter of an old hedgerow she became aware of a fox looking at her, and perhaps stirred by the echo of a family pet, dog or cat, she stretched out a hand to it. It regarded her steadily for a moment, nose working busily to process all the rich human scents and then it turned and slipped away into the undergrowth again.

She sighed, a little saddened, but rose to her feet and raised a calm face to the horizon.

I stoop again to tighten the knot in the rag that’s holding my boot together and walk on, heart beating in time with the rich pulse of the earth.

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Dragons and Dreamboats

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I was helping out at the shop a few weeks ago, not at all obsessively rearranging the incense in alphabetical order and dusting the crystals when a man approached the counter. Not an unusual occurrence in itself, admittedly, nor particularly was the conversation that followed.

Hello.”

Hello,” I replied, assuming what I hoped was a pleasant smile of welcome, rather than the grimace of abstracted concentration that I was wearing only moments earlier.

You’re Not Liz,” the man stated.

No, I’m not,” I agreed equably. (That’s my name when I’m at the shop… NotLiz…)

Oh. Where is she?” the man asked, with a faintly pained air.

I generally have two answers to this oft-asked question, a) “Not here” and b) “I don’t know,” both of which are true, and pretty accurate. I decided on b) on this occasion and offered it as kindly as I could to the man, as he seemed both disconcerted and a little upset to see me.

I regarded him – a smallish man, long grey hair in dreadlocks, assorted crystals and pendants hung around his neck.

He looked back at me, still pretty much unimpressed by what he saw looking back at him, a middle-aged woman, duster in hand, face probably smeared liberally with incense dust… He bent to rummage in his back pack and produced a handful of … sticks.

I wanted to show Liz these,” he said.

Ah.” I said. “What nice, um, sticks.”

He looked directly at me then and replied, a little indignantly:

They’re not sticks, they’re wands! From the Glastonbury Thorn!”

That’s nice,” I said appeasingly, “what are you going to do with them?”

The man looked at me as if I had taken leave of my senses and said:

I’m going to make things on them!”

Of course you are,” I said, reassuringly, not wanting to offend him, or sound doubting of his artistic capabilities.

No, look!” he said, and reaching into his hair, pulled out a – dragon and passed it to me to hold. Not a real one, obviously, but one made of clay, beautifully detailed and very true to life – as I would imagine dragons to be.

That’s beautiful!” I exclaimed, impressed, and handed it back to him.

He tucked it away safely in his hair and bestowed a faint smile upon me.

Goodbye.”

Goodbye,” I said, and the man walked away.

Now. I have mentioned Mr.Handsome before, the very nice man I first encountered on the bus with my mother. Well, the other evening, I was walking back up the hill from my mother’s with Alex, and I was trying to describe an acquaintance to Alex, waving my arms excitedly (I actually hit someone the other day) and talking about “Pete’s Dragon”, the film, of course, when who should I behold, striding manfully towards us, accompanied by two little dogs, but Mr.Handsome… just as gorgeous as I remembered, white t-shirt, blue jeans, tall, dark haired – well, you get the idea.

I looked up fleetingly – he gave me a brief, polite smile- and I looked down again, cursing my shyness. Alex beamed happily at him and I thought, “My word, he is handsome!” and decided my best course of action was to style it out, talking meaningfully about dragons and waving my arms. Like a nutter.

And then he passed us. Alex looked at me and asked: “Was that him?”

I said: “Yes…”

Then Alex replied: “Hmm…white t-shirt, blue jeans, well groomed… he was looking at me!”

Well that’s not Cricket!

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Yep. I know it’s not a cricket but I spent ages looking for one, couldn’t find one, got bored, sat down and then this obliging little chap hopped on my knee!

Alex and I went to visit my sister – this was a few months ago now – but while we were in the kitchen talking, I gradually became aware of a noise … faint, but distinct and very persistent. I thought perhaps her fan oven was making a weird noise, or she’d set an alarm and left it on somewhere upstairs, forgetting to turn it off.

Eventually, I could ignore it no longer – “What is that noise? I asked, irritated by her seeming acceptance of it.

Lisa – my sister – looked somewhat resigned and replied: “It’s a cricket.” In answer to our puzzled faces she went on to explain: “I bought a box of live crickets to feed David’s bearded dragon and one escaped. And now it’s living behind the cooker.”

I couldn’t help myself … I burst out laughing. The cricket joined in, merrily chirping away from its new abode.

Alex asked: “But what does it eat?”

Still snorting with laughter I said: “It’s probably eating all the dogfood and growing to massive proportions, snugly tucked behind your oven!”

Lisa paled somewhat, clearly not relishing the thought of Cricket-zilla squatting in her kitchen … coming out with the dogs… sitting for its dinner…

Right! That’s it! I’m evicting it tonight!”

We took our leave, I cheerfully reminded her to message me to let me know what transpired at Cricket-gate… Later that night I received an irate text saying: “Can’t get the bloody thing. Now it won’t let me concentrate, just keeps chirping all the time!”

I replied saying she should think of it as her very own brand of ambient music, some people pay good money for recordings of things like whale music…cricket song… I heard nothing else for the rest of the evening, and indeed the rest of the week. Most unlike my sister.

Meanwhile, the cricket chose to accompany Lisa with some choice pieces of background music in whatever she was doing until one day she decided shereallycouldn’tstanditanymore

Now. My sister is only small, and had at the time broken her toe, having fallen up a step; yet with irritation levels threatening to overflow she managed to haul her fridge/freezer halfway across the kitchen floor to make enough space to pull the cooker over a bit so she could crawl behind it to catch the cricket. Suitably armed with a plant pot the battle began … they raged back and forth in the limited amount of space behind the cooker until in a last ditch heroic effort my sister launched herself across the floor and rugby tackled the cricket, trapping it firmly beneath the plant pot.

She lay, for a little while, catching her breath while the cricket chirped away in the pot, perhaps pleading for mercy… But no. Lisa got to her feet, clutching the captive cricket and took it outside to the very top of the garden where she left it sitting miserably inside the plant pot.

Back indoors, she made herself a well-earned cup of tea and sat down to do a little relaxing sewing. What was missing… ? The silence was, well, deafening. I remarked upon it myself, the next time I saw her.

Well, I don’t miss the bloody thing!” she stated defiantly.

Then one night, later on that week, she went to the kitchen door to let the dogs back in:

Ee-ee ee-ee ee-ee!!”

She looked down.

And there, at her feet, on the step, sat the cricket!

Larvikite And Light.

 

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I didn’t think I would ever be writing about crystals again, but this little stone made a personal impression on me. Like most of the darker stones ,it is highly protective and so works with the lower chakras.

I picked this particular little stone up out of a mixed lot one day, momentarily drawn to it by its flashes of blue – it’s a type of feldspar, similar to labradorite and moonstone, hence its alternative names of black or velvet labradorite or sometimes even black moonstone.

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It was first found in the Larvik area of Norway and is specific to that region. I put my little stone away and thought nothing more about it, until waking up one morning, I remembered I had dreamed about it. I can’t recall the exact details, but I was suddenly possessed by the overwhelming need to get this stone out and look at it again.

Could I hell as like find it…

Until eventually it turned up in the first place I had originally searched for it, like it was reminding me I need to be more careful about how I look at things.

Finally, I was able to hold this little stone – about the size of a sugar lump – and look at it properly. It’s a pleasing mixture of different shades of grey, my favourite colour, with occasional glimpses of a startling electric blue.

It seemed happy to be found and stuffed into my pocket with the rest of my usual rammel and I felt – calmer.

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I went away to read about it and was absurdly pleased to find that Larvikite’s abilities seem to cover a lot of what I needed. It can protect you in your everyday life and even while you sleep. It’s cleansing both physically and spiritually, helping to remove negativity and encourage a positive flow of energy instead.

It’s the first crystal in a while that has had such an impact on me – it helps to untangle thoughts and enhance concentration, and is a comforting stone to use in meditation as it encourages you to look for the Light…

It’s been a challenging few months for me, but Larvikite has a strong connection to Mother Earth and Nature – basically it reminded me that I enjoy gardening and to get out there and re-connect…

The luminescence encourages you to look at the past, clearly, and see how it is influencing your life right now. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not all ‘Love and Light’ but its clarity helps you to make conscious, positive decisions.

Does this sound too far out?

You should hear the dreams I’ve had since sleeping with it under my pillow. Totally… far out. And no, I haven’t changed my medication

The other evening I was watching television, my larvikite sat beside me on the arm of the chair, when my partner walked past. He can be a bit grabby with my crystals which I find annoying, but anyway, my larvikite was having none of his unwanted attention.

He reached out to seize it and – this is absolutely true – a spark of blue static electricity shot out and stung his finger.

Ow!” He yelled indignantly.

It bit me! What the f*&k is it??” shaking his hand and looking somewhat affronted.

Oh,” I replied nonchalantly, “that’s my larvikite. Very protective.”

No s*&t!” he muttered and stomped off to the kitchen.

I held this little stone in my hand and was comforted, I suppose. So there you are.

Look for the Light – no matter what form it takes!

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Smelly…

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My sense of smell has vastly improved since giving up smoking, although obviously humans don’t have the ability to smell as acutely as dogs or cats.

It always amuses me when my mother’s dogs greet me, I can see their noses actively working to “read” me and decipher where I’ve been; but it has also recently been put forward that in fact cats have a better sense of smell than dogs.

Here’s the science bit… all mammals have three different types of scent receptors, dogs have nine variants of this, humans have two and cats? Thirty… It is thought, therefore, that scent and smell play a far more active part in a cat’s well being and health than previously assumed. I must say though, that any self-respecting cat owner is bound to be aware of their feline friend’s almost supernatural sense of smell…

Oh my God… what is that perfume you’re wearing?? Vile!!

And they will grace you with that gape-mouthed, whisker wrinkled expression of complete distaste that leaves you feeling vaguely inadequate and revoltingly smelly… This is actually more correctly known as the “Flehmen response” – cats have a special scent receptor in the roof of their mouths which helps them analyse what hey are smelling, hence the disgusted look they pull as they open their mouths to allow the scent molecule laden air in to flood their receptors… try not to take it personally. Or maybe just change your perfume…

Anyway, I had to buy some peacock feathers the other day (a costume for Alex) and I had laid them out on the bed while I looked for something to pack them in safely. When I came back, Charlie was sitting on the bed, studying the feathers intently. I wished then, that I could see into her mind – what was she seeing?

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Her little nose was working, wrinkling back and forth, and I would have loved to have known what pictures were conjured up in her little mind as she smelled the iridescent feathers… did she see majestic blue birds strolling serenely across well-kept lawns, their feathers gleaming under the heat of an Indian sun…Was the lush verdant jungle, so unlike our own garden, brought into being in her mind’s eye, emerald green vines wreathing the long-forgotten remains of mysterious crumbling redstone temples…did these foreign scents call to her own inner tiger… or did she merely think:

Good grief! That’s the biggest bloody sparrow I’ve ever smelt!”

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