This morning, I cast my vote in the European and UK Council elections.
This evening, we experienced a huge thunderstorm, resulting in power cuts.
I’ve been thinking about how so much of what we do in our lives is pretty much the same as our ancestors did. The format or technology might be slightly different, but motivations, actions and meaning haven’t changed as much as we might think.
My democratic mark was made with pencil on paper. I watched in awe as the weather moved past. I prepared candles, books and creativity to keep my evening busy. The simplicity of it was inspiring.
We eat, sleep, interact and go about our days as humans have always done. Every day, we honour our ancestors by these actions. Rather than becoming dejected at the lack of change, I think our constant exploration and discovery, as individuals and communities (be they lone and shared experiences), is rather wonderful.
Still moving, indeed.
It’s Mother’s Day, here in the UK.
I’m not a mother, by choice first and foremost. Interestingly, I’ve been told that I’m somehow less than a woman because of this – especially at my age – and that I’m being unfair to others by this choice. Any number of strange statements, which reflect more on the speaker’s opinion than my own (rather important!) life decisions.
A while ago, however, some lovely Lancashire ladies disputed this point of view. They remarked that I certainly was a good mother already. Because I mothered my books, my projects, seeing them from concept into creation. I mentor my students, and those who come to me for help. I’m clearly living my womanly skills in this way, they told me: working and crafting, creating and helping, loving and caring (I know many gentlemen who do similar, but in this context, understanding was achieved).
So rather than tell others what they’re not (or what they should be), I’d rather consider what they are, what they give to the world, how they are loved. Mother or father, son or daughter, we honour our ancestors in our lives as lived.
I do my best.
A small piece of creativity that came to me so easily, I felt it should be shared. For all of you who joined me on this first day!
I see creative all about
Which makes me want to jump and shout,
But instead I think I’ll sit
Here with myself and think a bit.
From where does the Awen flow?
In light or dark, through rain or snow.
It comes from those called ‘friend’, it seems
As they show me their hopes and dreams.
A blanket thick, some gorgeous art
And some who don’t know where to start!
But we all have it, this deep flow
The trick is finding how to show
Where that spark comes from, hid within
We overcome our fear of ‘sin’,
Of showing off, or standing out.
Instead, you too can jump and shout.
And so this bit of doggerel came
Without much effort – and no shame!
To share with you. Who inspire me.
I’m honoured. So now, shall we see
Where we end up? Along this path
We walk together, cry and laugh.
We live, we love, fire burning bright
For from the darkness comes this light.
We share our inspiration, no matter how mad it might seem… keep reaching for that spark, my friends.
And the image that inspired this verbal scribble: Odin, by Phil Woodward.