Loving/Attachment/Loving Attachment

Letting go can be tricky to do
My entire desire
Is to consume you

To breathe you in
Digest, Assimilate
Into my very being

Then breathe you out
Shine you brightly
Shower existence with you

So let you go,
As the perfect love you are.

I So Lation

If there were no-one else here

Create create create

Until there was nothing left

Then my activity and I

Would turn into song

Singing Love and Gratitude and Wonder.

the person who is speaking or writing — used as the subject of a verb

in the way or manner shown, expressed, indicated, understood, etc.; as stated or described; in such a manner

Noun. lation (plural lations)Motion of a celestial object from one place to another;(astrology, obsolete)

I Travel East

I journey to the east
To the bright dawn
Misty or clear
There is a moment each day
The light reaches me

There are beings living
East of me
I imagine them always in full, hot sun.


So tonight the tears have come for my beautiful Nan. I am full of fleeting images, memories of colour and sensations of sitting at her feet while she tickled my back with her thick strong and always painted nails. From toddler to teen I remember that.

I remember her helping Emma and I put up our hair, Emma’s all whispy when she was so young and the pair of us mostly jealously trying to work out who’s ponytail ended up highest.

I remember sitting at her coffee table counting copper coins, or using them to make pictures, or that we would sit there and use a necklace chain to make pictures while she worked nearby in the kitchen of the Cumberland Hotel that she owned and ran, for a while, with my grandfather.
As much as I remember the bed-making and the discussing how the german guests soaked their cereal in the orange juice and drank the milk, and the cold chewy leftover toast I got to eat sometimes, I remember my Nan covered in paint and dust from decorating and repairing walls, and how just as easily she turned the plaster into pieces of artwork set with shells and paint to put up in the rooms..

Button boxes for playing and copper, brass and silver to polish.

And the impossible length of her cigarette ash

My Grandpa calling her Fag Ash Lil, and him telling me she was beautiful like a gazelle, in the days it was okay to show children tricks with smoke rings and cigarette packets.
The fact and way he called her Anna.

My Nan in the sunshine in gardens over full of flowers, sweet peas and runner beans. Tomatoes and tomato red fabric. Coral coloured nails.

So lucky. So lucky, to grow up in dessing up clothes that were not ready made costumes from shops with a role to play, but the loveliest of my Nan’s scarves, shoes and petticoats, to twist and tie and be as glamourous as the black and white actresses we watched…and the jewellery! Mesmerising in its hundred tiny rainbows and lights and the feeling of beauty to wear her things, the trouble we got in when we were not careful…the too many layers of nail varnish, and as I got older the trouble I got in for going out in her red lip-pencil and dark eyeliner.

The felt-tips. In tidy rows, great big packs, we had to keep the lids on and when we damaged the nibs I remember how cross she got.

How strong and clear her anger was, how she would swear and sometimes smash things and curse customers under her breath (and not under her breath)…and how regardless of that she wouldn’t sell the tea-bar to the man with long little finger nails because she could just imagine him using them to clean his ears and then serve her regulars.

And you can fuck off too.
I remember how I laughed the first time I heard her swear.

I remember her being so angry with us one day that she banished us to sitting under the table and when my uncle came home with a smile for us, she told him off too, and told him what cows we’d been. I think that was possibly the same day she was angry with me because I said I hated my grandfather and in no gentle way she made it clear I was not allowed to say I loved her and hated him.
I grew up through ages where they were angry and bitter to each other, times when drink, or work, or money made for rows, and I grew up through decades of their love and knowing there had been two decades before me…and there were two after Grandpa died.

The love of her life, caught clearly in her gaze in a photograph secretly taken in London in the late forties, that you could hear clearly when she spoke about him in 2017.

My Nan moving furniture, sitting on tea chests, digging in the garden, black soil in the cracks of her hands, making leaves out of pastry when she baked pies.

Apple and sugar sandwiches.

From high heels and pencil skirts, copper suntans and admirers to fierce independence hard fought for against time.

Finally surrendering her waterfall hair for something manageable.

Hearing she had fallen again, and broken more bones.

She hated Dr Spock, and still hurt for the distance of her mother and her childhood lonelinesses even as we talked about another great-grandchild. Even as, to me, she began to look herself  like a beautiful child, with white hair and the most sparkling eyes.

I wish I had more of her.
I wish I had been with my younger cousins as they were minded by her as they grew, as she had done for Emma and I, so I could have seen more of those moments.
I wish I had more of her elegance and her navvy stamina
I wish I knew more of her stories. ❤






Today hearing truth

There is no grand wish in me

To be it, or claim it, or show and shine it

Just a quiet, exhausted, desire

to lean against it;

To curl like a cat

Against its ribs

In the heat of its sun

October 19

Love becomes more full, more certain,

more solid, developed and deep

More delicate, more yeilding

The finest golden thread

It sutures


And finally reveals


I know i am not a ‘technically’ great artist, and this piece is one of those that renders my abilities childlike. I have boxes full of ‘spiritual art’ and they seem to largely come out like that. Mostly I am just sketching to bridge build or understand something personally so it matters not 🙂 ❤


The writing within the picture says

‘There is a seed
A growing fire
That is the connection

Perhaps they are us in prayer or enlightened dream
All of us collectively or all of our one self
in our myriad moment and ‘verses.
Sons and daughters of Eternity and Infinity
forming in the Golden Light of Divine Creation’.

Some people know of my tinhat quandry.
Although I am an essentially skeptical person I have experienced being ‘visited’ by, worked with, and dreamt about guides in many forms from Jesus to a frog.
Three times in my life, in dreams and journey work I have met ‘Light Being’ collectives or groups. The first time I was pretty much terrifed, could only feel my own fear and couldn’t move. I was unsettled for a long time following it The second time I was not terrified and able to feel the waves of love eminating from them and learnt/was shown the interaction between them and ‘ordinary’ reality, and the third time I traveled through a light tunnel and on my arrival realised the tunnel was my connection to either my own light body or one that was being lent to me and I was a part of the collective during that visit.
My quandry ever since has been one of ‘knowing’ that they help raise levels of benevolence, kind action, love and graceful understanding in ‘ordinary reality’ which fights somewhat with having what I consider a pretty super strong ego that clamours on about Free Will.

I heard a lady called Christina Donnell talking on BatGap a few days ago and she is a lucid and prophetic dreamer and in amongst her unusual experiences mentioned something that spoke to me about who (or what) Light Beings and Angels perhaps are.

It’s prettier in person than my camera or I are able to capture.

Brené Brown Authenticity/Spirituality

If you trade your authenticity for safety, you may experience the following: anxiety, depression, eating disorders, addiction, rage, blame, resentment, and inexplicable grief.
Brené Brown

Spirituality is recognizing and celebrating that we are all inextricably connected to each other by a power greater than all of us, and that our connection to that power and to one another is grounded in love and compassion. Practicing spirituality brings a sense of perspective, meaning and purpose to our lives.
Brené Brown

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