Loving Me

I'm learning that loving myself means not doing anything to evolve, but just doing things because they look like fun - and there may be evolution involved along the way, yes! But choosing to take actions (or workshops) or 'work' on a certain personal issue feels unloving to myself where I am right NOW. As if doing so is making a statement that 'Jamie is not OK like this, we need to make changes'. How violent that feels to me now. There are certain qualities or characteristics I have that I might have in the past said - "oh, I wish I was less like this" or "I wish I was more like that", and I would even imagine ways that I was going to be rejected or abandoned if I didn't get closer to perfection and improve those limiting aspects of myself. Now I realise that Perfection is observing my own unique characteristics, weaknesses and strengths, attractions and repulsions, and allowing myself to be just like this, with no agenda for any of it to change, but just to choose the most inspiring and non violent paths open to me to experience this unique collection of my 'ways', easy and challenging, in a creative, fun and loving life. The whole notion of 'working on myself' suddenly feels unloving to Me right now. Curious. It feels like a statement of lack, of judgement that something about me should be other than it is. So, yes, I could go to a workshop or a therapist and get better at 'dealing with my issues', learn the triggers, analyse where they were born and how they took root. I could see the negative beliefs that got stuck there and devise techniques to get better at catching myself, saving myself from falling into those traps again

or

I could gently observe myself playing out all those issues and accept that I am a unique, freaky, sensitive, being - someone who finds certain scenarios stressful or even unbearable, and take responsibility for protecting myself, giving myself what I need when triggered, and not making myself wrong, or un-evolved for being this crazy or for avoiding certain things.

Ironically, I have a hunch that the second option will allow those blocks enough space to morph, even dissolve, quicker than the first option, that may be a by-product - but not the aim. It feels exciting now to really let myself be possessive or materialistic, or angry or totally selfish, with full awareness and love, and not get caught in the trap of working to change or protect those around me from their judgements and reactions.

Can I love myself even if I never evolve another inch?

Paradoxically, this 'not doing anything to evolve', but only observing and accepting what's there, feels like it has the potential to allow deeper invisible yet powerful energies in me to shift - more potential for liberation than all the self help books and self-awareness workshops rolled into one.

www.jamiecatto.com

Poets, Orphans, and a possible cure for HIV

I first heard about this EMFS (electro magnetic field system) machine from my Mum who is passionate about all non-drug therapies. She told me it was a machine that sent out a non-invasive, harmless frequency that scientists had discovered disrupted the four major common proteins in the HIV virus and that this stopped the virus in its tracks and left it unable to replicate thereby releasing the infected person's body to heal itself properly again and protect itself with white blood cells. I was skeptical but the results they claimed were conclusive and the treatment had been accepted for Efficacy and Harmlessness by Denmark (the EU Standard) and South Africa respectively. Then, soon after, I was asked to just film some kids, mainly AIDS orphans in Durban, South Africa, getting this HIV treatment, and to document the results visually, not scientifically, just to show how transformative an effect this machine appeared to be having on infected people's lives. So I made a few calls to my filming contacts in South Africa and hooked up with a cool young Producer/Director there, Karen Logan from Amehlo Productions in Durban. When I was chatting to her about setting up this shoot for the treatment, she introduced me on Skype to her husband, a slam poet and Community inspirer called Ewok. I immediately loved both their energies and had the idea that Ewok (Iain Robinson) could be like a wandering minstrel in the film, hanging out with the kids, maybe being our guide and presenter. He loved the idea. And then a moment later I remembered that in that region they have a tradition in Zulu called Praise Poetry, where, when you retire, or your daughter gets married or at some big event in your life, someone is appointed to present a praise poem for you, both roasting you and celebrating you, a bit like what we have as a Best Man speech in our culture. I suddenly got really excited about the idea of writing premature praise poetry for these kids, these young heroes:

(fastforward - this is a bit of one of the poets performing his poem in the film)

"Praise these children of magic & meaning, these laughing children, illness-as-teacher children.

Praise these wise children, eyes-that-tell-the-history-of-the-world children.

Praise these children and mothers of South Africa, and all over the world. Take my spirit, my will, build me into the spine that allows each and every one of them to stand tall, to never falter or fall."

Rich Ferguson

...AND I thought, why limit this to just Ewok? There's got to be some local poets who would love to get stuck in, no? Wait a minute! Poets from all over the world would be blown away if they could come and be a part of this! Well, you can see where it ended up going - poets from America, Europe, other places in Africa came to praise the kids and see what was going on.

So that pretty much explains how the film happened - to tell you what happened could take a bit longer. It was a diversely profound experience for all concerned, poets, crew and kids. At first the poets were as suspicious as I was, and we were all clear to state our truth that we weren't there to make a promo film or to endorse this machine, just to engage with the kids. Yet as the days went by, most of the poets were visibly and vocally amazed to report how their new young friends were so energised and transformed compared to the first day of treatment when they'd met.

We hung out with the kids in this Theatre where the treatment was going on for two weeks. Basically the treatment entailed the children just staying in the room for a couple of hours a day in the presence of this machine, which looked like a few white perspex shoe boxes on a table, and the relationships grew and deepened as our merry band of minstrels played and wrote and clowned and connected with these innocent young heroes every day from 9am 'til lunchtime sandwiches.

The fortnight was also crowned by a wonderful finale. I had wanted to get the cast to sing a version of Labi Siffre's Apartheid anthem 'Something Inside So Strong' for the film. I have loved that song for years and even though the lyrics were written for the times of Apartheid, when you include the Human Rights violation of these 2.8 million beautiful kids, mainly orphans, finding themselves largely abandoned with HIV in squalor and poverty, it takes on a whole new and powerful message.

"the higher you build your barriers the taller I become the farther you take my rights away the faster i will run you can deny me you can decide to turn your face away no matter 'cos there's something inside so strong i know that i can make it though you're doing me wrong so wrong you thought that my pride was gone, oh no something inside so strong"

[youtube http://youtube.com/w/?v=PcKoYGNj0BU]

I asked Karen in Durban if we could sing it with the kids if I brought my Music Producing partner Alex Forster out to South Africa to record it on our mobile studio, and she replied that amazingly, the Durban Gospel Choir had just recorded the same song there and that they were well up for joining in.

At the end of the fortnight of HIV treatment and writing and playing and visiting homes in villages far away, these emotionally stretched and drenched poets performed all their praise poems with passion and humility to the kids at The Stables Theatre, Durban, to a packed house, standing room only, and at the end, the majestic Durban Gospel Choir took to the stage and sang the triumphant 'Something Inside So Strong' song with the kids and Zolani Mahola, the lead singer from South Africa's biggest group, Freshly Ground. It was epic!

I was sobbing. I wasn't alone.

We're cutting and mixing for a bit now. Though we've Produced it so far for just travel and accommodation costs, I think now I'm going to go for a proper editing budget. It really turned into a stunning and important piece.

And I think I'm going to call the film 'UBUNTU CHILD' - the poets had such powerful experiences. I realised that when you are faced with this statistic of 2.8 million kids with HIV in South Africa there's just no way to digest that figure and what it really means, BUT when you connect deeply with just 1 KID, suddenly you connect to them all in some way and can partly take in the enormity of this Human Rights Violation for a moment. I noticed as we were shooting that an agenda arose for me - this: that the kids of that region are the World's children, the World's responsibility. They're not just South Africa's kids, and the local government couldn't begin to tackle a situation as huge as this, though they have to lead it. But it's a World issue, not something 'going on over there'. It's so deeply uncivilised, even backward, to view it any other way.

2011

I used to remark jokingly "it's all a mirror" after so many occurrences in my daily life that it became a kind of catch phrase, but the literal truth of that phrase becomes more astonishingly apparent with every day. My prayer for myself in 2011 is to truly experience all the challenges and excitements and even stabs of pain as the literal mirrors of me and 'where I'm at' that they are. So much less struggle and the possibility of more excitement, to explore the map of myself, all my edges and cliffs, played out for me in technicolor, posing as 'my life'. I aim to trust more what I'm shown in 2011. Listen more to the spaces in between 'what's happening' and read the 3D writing on the wall which, when I focus on it with openness to be educated and inspired, I get a chance to liberate myself. I am also not afraid to admit that I also ask for the education to be un-traumatic. I don't want to be violent to myself any more. Jamie

www.jamiecatto.com

Fear Mirages

fear in the past months and years I've made millions of decisions based on fear, based on preventing something I don't want from happening. The prospect of encountering these things I fear fills me with so much resistance and dread that I can spend hours turning them over and over in my mind, rehearsing scenarios and imagined conversations, trying to impose some control on the approaching chaos.

I'm now noticing that although these things that I fear are convincingly scary on approach, they are usually much emptier upon arrival. i'm driving towards mirages that look so scary as they're getting nearer, growing bigger and bigger, but then, when i actually reach hem, i pass straight through. The experience of the thing I've been so scared of is totally different from my imagined version. I can handle much more than my mind thinks I can. So when it finally arrives it's often like, oh...is that it?

hmmm... what can I tell you? I see a girl in London who lives with her other longer-term-than-me boyfriend. They've had a 'no rules' relationship for 2 years but now I've come along to really test their philosophy (and my own). She thinks monogamy, or 'rules' in relationships are backward, or at least having rules about what your excitement will be on any given day, and if it's ok to follow that excitement or not. There's a group of new friends I've met in UK who hold a weekly 'sharing group'. They are into this guy Paul Lowe. Basically, among other things, they're questioning how our culture has made a group agreement to sweep our sexual jealousy issues under the carpet and enter into untrue relationships where we hide our other attractions to protect our partner's (and our own) feelings. (Check them out at  www.lucid-living.org ) But maybe that protection isn't really protection. Maybe we need to sit with what comes up when our lover inevitably fancies someone else, or even wants to go and spend intimate time with them. How does that sit with you? My (gorgeous) London girlfriend says that when our partner wants someone else, something uncomfortable arises in us. If we say 'I don't want this feeling', deny it, it's really a way of not loving ourselves. A feeling is arising. All our feelings are part of 'us'. We are feeling more of ourselves when those waves come. Like part of us is coming home to be felt, waking up. It's not the 'trigger' of our partner being attracted to another that is the problem, but the feeling in our own self. And that feeling was lodged there long before we even met our present partner. It's been there, a wound of loneliness and rejection and abandonment, since we were tiny. So are we going to live our lives being untrue about our attractions and excitements to protect our lovers from feeling their core fears? Are we going to ask them to do that for us? Is that love? Or are we going to be 100% authentic and risk what comes up? Sit with each other, hold each other, but let the other feel their hard feelings without trying to fix it or save them from them.

My mind is accustomed to attempting to protect me (and others) from impending, traumatic feelings. Yet my truth says, the only way out is to go deeper in. The experience of allowing these waves of pain to hit me and keep moving through me rather than hit me and get stuck in my mind's analysis machinery, is a great release, but it takes courage. To override the busy busy mind and say "Yes! I'm going to feel this fully, breathe, let it come, let it be felt!", is, I believe, the most healing thing we can do for ourselves. Suddenly I realise what 'embracing your fears, embracing your pain' means. Part of me is waking up. Daring to feel discomfort is the same as self-love. It's accepting all of me, even the scary chaotic parts. I am loving myself when I let myself feel what's going on instead of escape.

Despite all this, I mostly still feel like I'm a 1-on-1 relationship person and would love to, through Freedom and fulfillment, not rules and fear-suppression, go deep over decades with a brave and beautiful partner-in-crime. Most of the folks in that sharing group live largely monogamously, even with the agreement that they should be Free to follow their excitement. But I don't want to use my lover as a band-aid to cover my raw insecurities or depend on anyone to fill that hole in my soul.

Now I'm half way through separating from my wife. We've been together 12 years and have 2 small kids. The scenario I'm now living in is brimming with challenges I would never have dreamed I could face a year ago. I'm missing my kids. I'm jealous of how her new boyfriend has been spending more time with them this year than me. I am traumatised by the image of him walking them to school or reading them stories. I miss my home, my house. My chair where I read. I am renting a room on a monthly basis and constantly on the move giving talks and playing solo gigs. But without my kite string, my home-anchor, traveling is very different. There's a thin line between Nomad and Vagrant. And I haven't even started to grieve the 12 year relationship itself yet!

This aloneness has always been with me, this homelessness, this lack of belonging. My previous, gorgeous home life might have anesthetised it for a while, but it has always been lurking there. Now, for the first time I'm feeling it, not running from it. No relationship or success in the world will ever remove it. A little boy who felt too alone to bear once hid in my ribcage, took refuge in an invisible place. Can I love him? Can I love all of me? I can talk to him gently like I talk to my kids when they're upset. I trust that voice. I know I'm a good Dad. I can hold myself.

This feels like a true path to me. The journey to wholeness. Not dependent on anyone else. I want to bring this wholeness to all my relationships.

Please let me know what you feel. And do we let our kids witness us crying fully? Really?

Jamie

www.jamiecatto.com

Just Don't Say 'Genocide'

A couple of weeks ago, I Directed a clip for the Sudan365 Peace campaign featuring drummers from Senegal, Ghana, Rwanda, South Africa, Sudan, Japan, Mexico, Brasil, Russia, Australia, Dubai, France, Spain, UK as well as the drummers from Radiohead, Elbow, Pink Floyd, The Police, Snow Patrol etc all keeping a beat which travels round the world for Peace in Sudan. Unbelievably it got over 100,000 watches on youtube in the first week: [youtube http://youtube.com/w/?v=NJMzB48r8rI]

The situation in Sudan is dire. Recently, the Civil War there claimed over 2 million lives and the major humanitarian agencies all now say that the violence which looks about to kick off there again will be worse than Darfur. It is vital to demand that the World Leaders (such that they are) action a Peace plan beginning right now.

Somehow, in the process of making this clip I was asked to be the spokesperson for Crisis Action and the Sudan 365 Campaign on the Radio and TV News. I was hesitant to agree and felt a bit funny as I am no expert on the complex issues there and had only come to this a few weeks earlier. Still, I rocked up at the demo outside 10 Downing St. and drummed away with all the drummers, and when they beckoned me over, did interviews with BBC, Reuters, and the other News agencies. The weird thing was that just before each interview, whoever was chaperoning me made sure to say to me: "Whatever you do, just don't say 'Genocide'." Almost with a conspiratorial wink. It really wrong- footed me and I ended up having heated discussions with them about why? I mean, surely if millions of people are being murdered by another group, whether is be a country's army or rebels, then it's Genocide isn't it?

Apparently not.

Genocide, they informed me, is only Genocide if the millions of people being murdered are being murdered with the express intention of wiping them out 'as a race'. But if millions of people are being murdered because they are in the middle of a Civil War or for any other reason, then it doesn't count as Genocide and you're not allowed to use that word.

The problem is that unless you use the 'G' word, it simply doesn't pack the same punch. It doesn't get across to whoever might be listening the scale of the mass murder. Surely communicating the full scale of the horror is more important that adhering to the grammatical nuances of Genocide definition?

'No', they said.

So folks, we need a new word. Something that communicates the immense horror of millions of innocent people being murdered but doesn't confuse the intention of the uber-mass-murderers with race-driven uber- mass-murderers. Otherwise I fear, we will be reduced to phrases like 'a return to the horrific violence' which, to me, tends to understate the magnitude of the Genocide-sized nightmare the Sudan are about to face.

Suggestions pleas to http://www.sudan365.org/

Wishes

1.Once upon a time there was an unbounded forest of Live Oak and Beech, and standing in the middle, where all paths had lost their way was an enormous and ancient tree. Here, the other trees that circled it round had retreated respectfully in an oval of overhanging limbs and leaves and there they formed a space of mossy glades, inviting shade and light. For centuries, countless poets, princesses, warriors and kings had journeyed to this tree with their hearts full of hope, for legend had told that if they lay very still beneath its branches, gazing through them at the sky, the enchanted tree might awaken and grant them a single wish. Through those past years countless souls had set out, intent upon attaining their heart’s desire, but as the seasons passed, and their children and grandchildren had grown too old to remember the tales of wonder and warning, for there are always warnings where wishes are concerned, the people of that land began to concern themselves less and less with things of wonder. With every generation, the creatures that inhabited those woods saw fewer and fewer seekers bound to discover the tree, and so, with elegant grace, it invisibly retreated, softly vanishing into the forest.

2. On the Eastern side of this forest there was a bustling and thriving Queendom. The Queen herself was so exquisitely beautiful that any man who came to court her was immediately struck dumb in her presence. He would stumble over his ill-chosen words in vain attempts to impress her. He would gloat and boast and exaggerate his accomplishments and often find himself clumsily lying to astonish her. This Queen was also deeply wise, and these bumbling fools left her melancholy and tired. All she yearned for was a true connection, some open hearted laughter - a profound conversation, and yet each strutting courtier was a greater disappointment than the last, and none of them once discovered the fragile grace that resided in her heart.

So, as the years passed, the Queen began to look upon her beauty as a curse. In each of her eyes there nestled a single tear which never fell, never betrayed the constant welling up of her passion, but cast invisible rays of melancholy which secretly defined the sweetness of her face. Her heart ached for a man who would see beyond the radiance of her flawless skin and meet her gaze with equal simplicity, but she was continually disenchanted and so began to treat each man that arrived with shorter and shorter shrift.

One morning she awoke earlier than her maids and lay still, savouring the lazy silence of the morning. She had slept deeply, dreaming of a distant, half-remembered childhood tale - the tale of the magical tree in the forest. And though there were very few now who still believed that the wishing tree was anything more than a story for children, in that moment she felt a profound knowing, that it was more than a tale. It was near. She could see it in her mind’s eye. So, drawing her softest cloak around her and making haste to slip away before any of her servants had stirred, she crept silently out of the castle.

The light blue of the misty dawn was pale upon her skin, and there, without a single glance around, the Queen disappeared into the woods.

3. On the other side of the forest was a magnificent Kingdom ruled over by an immensely popular King. To his subjects, he defined the very model of Kingliness. He could tell a fine wine with a single sniff, he could hypnotize his guests with richly illustrated tales of his travels and his numerous victories in battle and he was both a graceful and impeccable swordsman. However, though his lands were abundant and his subjects, for the most part, contented, he carried in his heart a subtle and formless weight, a dull ache. It was what he would call his ‘regal craving’ and it was an ever present dissatisfaction for him even at the heights of adventure. Furthermore, he could never allow anyone to notice his condition as his perfected seeming was the anchor of all his subjects’ confidence. This predicament was his to bear alone and thus it’s whispering anxieties pursued him as shadows ever follow heels.

The King, too, awoke that morning in the soft visions and half-remembered childhood tales of wishes and trees, and so before the sun was risen, his servants still slumbering, he too stole secretly out into the mist of his dawning Kingdom. He headed towards the centre of the forest, and with only the fading moon as his witness, left the castle behind.

4. The Queen was the first to reach the tree, stepping gently into the golden clearing at the centre of the forest. It’s great limbs seemed to loom quite suddenly out of the ever-changing light and she knew at once that this was the place she had been seeking. With natural grace, she arranged herself beneath its branches lying back on the spongy moss at its trunk and gazed up through the twisting and turning to the brightening sky beyond. As she breathed she felt a curious stirring as if the branches were faintly awake and she sank irresistibly into a luxurious trance. She was transported to nameless places in her heart - her mind invented new colours and her own tongue whispered to her, and before long, when the silvery wish hung before her, inviting her to speak her desire, she wished. She wished for a man who would love her for who she truly was, for the deep love and wisdom in her heart, not the transient beauty of her face. She wished with her eyes and her nose and her mouth and her arms and her legs. And when it was done she found herself back in the woods again, under a tree, with small twigs in her hair. She considered her breathing, her chest rising and falling in the gentleness, and gradually, as she came around she thought she could hear footsteps approaching and a cracking branch not twenty feet away. She sprang up, catapulted back into herself by the sudden intrusion, and as nimbly and her recent slumber would allow, hid herself behind another, duller tree-trunk, breathlessly brushing herself down. There she awaited the sight of the intruder.

5. It was the King. And he too noticed the tree with inward certainty as soon as he came upon it. At once, eagerly relieving himself of his cloak and sword, the King arranged himself beneath its branches to receive its bounty. A breath away, quite hidden, the Queen’s eyes were growing wide with the savouring of this commanding stranger. He was indeed handsome and all the more so from the glow of the long morning’s walk. She dared to wonder fleetingly if this could be the tree’s instant answer to her wish and then immediately banished the notion from her mind with an invisible shake of the head. The King too gazed up at the sky through the twisting and the turning and as the Queen had done before him, sank into a luxurious trance. However, there was a difference. For though the Queen had been sure in her heart what it was that she desired, the King, being a man, had not. All he knew was that something was missing though what precisely that could be remained a mystery to him, something indistinct just beyond the corners of his eyes. So when it was time for him to make his wish he simply wished for the closest thing he could imagine as an antidote to his regal craving. “I wish,” he said aloud “for an infinite Kingdom. I wish for my Kingdom to stretch as far as my eyes can see!” And with that he awoke on the spongy ground feeling refreshed and confident, unaware of his regal witness and the recklessness of his wish.

The Queen was by this time beside herself with excitement. She had convinced herself that of course he must be the one she had summoned and was surprised to feel such sudden and unexpected waves of emotion that the everlasting tears which nestled there in her eyes almost brimmed over and fell. She caught her breath as it rose. ‘He must be!’ she heard herself whisper and silently withdrew, skipping gaily back to her Queendom with her heart thudding in anticipation.

6. Having sauntered back to his own kingdom, the King’s reborn contentment reigned for a while. His regal craving seemed to have all but vanished and he was regularly to be seen striding purposefully throughout his lands with a renewed sense of personal power. And as he strode, so did his subjects, confidently. He threw great, raucous parties and made merry until dawn. He told outrageous tales and danced daring steps with the ladies, and for a brief time enjoyed the perfection of his great fortune in life. But as with all perfection, before long a subtle flaw had to make itself known. For though the King was descended from exquisite stock, his line was not entirely perfect. There was a family trait which had appeared in the eyes of every generation before him: short-sightedness. His ancestors had each been afflicted with gradually deteriorating eyesight which slowly but surely would envelope its subject in lonely darkness. His father, the former King, had spent his last years being carried through his gardens on a platform of cushions. He had invented a maze of herbs and flowers where anyone who wished to enter would first have to be blindfolded. Only then would they be allowed to attempt negotiation of the avenues and cul de sacs therein. It was smell alone which led the seeker. Our King had played there as a child and could navigate its pathways backwards if asked. In his more mischievous moments he would lead unsuspecting playmates among the flowerbeds only to abandon them and silently giggle at their distress. Now his own turn had come, and all the worse for his wish. The other Kings before him had merely had to contend with the short-sightedness, but our sad hero had indeed wished recklessly, and so every week that passed left him shorter of sight and smaller of Kingdom for as his sight gradually failed his domain shrank steadily around him.

The King’s mysterious predicament rendered him fearful and bewildered and before long his loyal subjects began to unconsciously reflect his tainted humour. Fear seeped into their homes and hearts and gradually there evolved an all-pervading lack of trust among them. No one believed in their neighbour’s honesty and suddenly mundane negotiations became lengthy and cynical. No one walked straight ahead without, every few paces, casting a suspicious glance over their shoulder which made the simplest journeys take forever. It was a bad time and worsening with every lunar month. His Kingdom was descending into wariness and doubt. His mood was dark. And his subjects were lost in constant tiffs and quarrels.

7. Meanwhile, on the other side of the forest, the Queendom was bedecked in flowers. Since her return from the wishing tree, immersed in love’s promises, her subjects had been infected with romance and starry-eyed tenderness. One couldn’t round a street corner without picking up the strains of a wooing melody or a poem of eternal devotion. Garlands of roses hung at doorways and windows and the young ladies glanced coquettishly sideways whenever gentlemen were near.

The Queen, however, was beginning to tire of waiting for her knight in shining armour to appear. She had been home for months and had fully expected him to come jubilantly parading into her life within a week. Now several moons had passed and there was still no sign of the handsome King. What could he be waiting for? With each passing day that he failed to appear, her mind turned the quandary over and over until she had convinced herself it was time to take matters into her own hands, and as lovers swooned beneath balconies all around her, she set about hatching a foolproof plan to ensure her own imminent love’s initiation. Summoning the first servant who passed by, a gentle page, she instructed him to make his way to the Castle on the other side of the forest and deliver an invitation to the King. She told the young page to invite the King’s whole court to a lavish banquet in the middle of the forest which would be held at the next full moon. She bode him return with their answer and not to forget to wrap some cheese and bread for his journey.

8. It was quite a revelation for the untravelled, young squire to see a new Kingdom on his first ever expedition from home. As he came over the brow of a hill, there before him rose up towers and flags and chimneys and roofs spread across the horizon like a warning. He could feel his heart beating in his chest as he approached. From the familiarity of the trees and shrubs which had hitherto surrounded him, suddenly this was an unknown realm full of foreboding shapes and sounds. Occasional passers-by on the road eyed him suspiciously as he proceeded towards the castle gates. Most curtains were drawn along the way and he perceived hidden eyes inspecting him from within but he walked on undaunted and soon found himself rapping soundly on the oaken doors of the palace.

While he waited for a response he turned and gazed back along the way he had come. Beyond the smoky lanes he could see the forest and hills and felt a yearning to be back there. He thought of his mother and how she’d now be laying the fire as his sisters prepared the evening meal. He could almost smell the broth upon the stove and taste the sweet and heavy bread his mother baked. But before long he was jarred from his reverie by the grinding clank of the door behind him and an unfriendly, gravely voice demanding who he was and what was his business and, before he had a chance to answer, to be quick about it. He took a deep breath and with a rehearsed and courteous sweep of his feathered cap lyrically recited the Queen’s invitation. Anyone on the other side of the forest would have burst into applause at the end of his brief and hitchless performance as it was so wonderfully executed but this sullen guard was clearly none too impressed. “Wait here.” He ordered and slamming the huge doors behind him, the guard disappeared into the castle leaving only his retreating footsteps for the young lad to mark his progress.

Now, had it been any other kingdom, the invitation would most likely have been received as an exciting and welcome event and been accepted with at least a generous compliment or two but through their King’s misery this had become no ordinary Kingdom, and so fearful were they here that by the time the invitation had passed from the mouth of the guard to the ears of his chief and from the mouth of the chief to the ears of the Grand Vizier, and from his cynical lips to the mistrustful ears of the King, the message had been so twisted that it sounded like a battle challenge. “They say they want to meet us in the forest.” Hissed the kings advisor and at this the King sat upright on his throne, newly invigorated, and in a manner that to any intuitive eye (though there were none present) would have betrayed his deep insecurity, accepted the challenge.

His acceptance was delivered to the young servant waiting at the castle’s entrance with a kick in the backside for good measure and the young page set off on his way back home again gratefully, though confused at the peculiarly discourteous customs of this strange Kingdom.

9. Throughout the days and nights that followed, both Kingdoms diligently prepared for the elected day. Within the King’s furnaces burned steel for hammered swords and impatient horses were shoed beside them. Soldiers were put through their paces and provisions were packed in leather sacks for the coming battle. On the other side of the forest the ovens were stoked and piled with magnificent pies and fruit was gathered and chopped and squeezed for delicate cakes and sweet drinks to be consumed at the coming feast. Garlands of flowers were artfully woven into the young ladies’ hair and perfumes were concocted from ancient recipes. Finally, when all was ready, the two parties set out from their opposite sides of the forest and made their separate ways towards the magical wishing tree.

10. By some strange or invisibly fated chance, both the King’s and Queen’s processions entered the clearing where the wishing tree stood at the exact same moment, and there they stood, rooted to the spot in confusion and embarrassment. They remained there frozen for some minutes before the Queen’s resolute and unwavering voice was heard among the confusion. “Welcome One and All to our merry Banquet! Please, do enjoy these offerings and take your fill of everything you see.” The King raised his head and gazed at the blurry and colourful crowd before him. Take your fill? Enjoy these offerings? What was this? The Grand Vizier leant over to the King’s ear to describe the scene before them in his contemptuous and distrustful tone. “We will not eat.” Commanded the King presently. “This smells of trickery to me. We’ll not be bamboozled and betrayed by flowery dresses and delicious tastes. Make camp men while we consider this new state of affairs.” The Queen’s party, hungry and bemused, looked at her expectantly hoping to be allowed to tuck in to the feast, but she had a command of her own. “Our guests shall eat first. It would be impolite to proceed without them. Erect the marquees and let the minstrels play.”

It was then that both parties began to notice a chill creeping into the air. Everyone went about their duties, disappointed and glum. No one knew when or if they would eat. They sang songs but without the heart to which they were accustomed and sat around in groups with their bellies rumbling. Brief squabbles broke out even among the Queen’s subjects. The clouds were swirling silently overhead seeming to approach with spirits of foreboding. Distant thunder was growling and as the nameless and indistinct fear rose equally around them all, the King felt the last shards of light disappearing from his eyes and gripped the Viziers arm in panic. Suddenly, fright like lightning shot through those waiting outside his tents and spread to everyone around as the sky cracked with a roar and a shriek echoed through the camp. “The King is blind! The King is blind!”

Pandemonium erupted.

It seemed to everyone groping in the darkness and rain that a battle had begun and the King’s men dashed to arm themselves, glancing feverishly left and right to protect themselves from attack. The Queen’s party were overcome with despair, unused as they were to such atmospheres. From every direction there was shouting and running and yet in her stillness the Queen observed the scene. Her mind transported her back to that day so long ago when she had stood on this very spot. She remembered the breeze and the birds. She remembered the tree and the sky, but above all she remembered the King’s wish and there, suspended in the memory, there arose an idea.

11. As the soldiers raced in all directions, groping wildly in the deepening darkness, she approached the King’s tent newly dressed as a servant girl. There, meeting the eyes of the young guard at the entrance with her level gaze, she slipped silently past as he stared in a hypnotised stupor at her unfathomable beauty. Once inside, she knelt at the King’s feet and tentatively at first, began to softly wash them in warm water and wrap them in silken cloths, skilfully easing his undisguised trembling with her deft fingers. He offered no resistance, silently welcoming the comfort of her touch and gradually detected a small part of himself relaxing as the chaos whirled around and about his tent. The Queen, as she felt his relaxation deepen, began to speak. “My Lord,” she began, “I know I am not usually permitted to speak to you directly as I’m just a poor servant girl and you are a great King, but being so poor, I have never travelled. I am afraid and don’t know whether we will live this night or die here in the forest. Won’t you please tell me what it looked like from atop the Great Mountain when you scaled it in years past?” The King also knew that she wasn’t really permitted to talk to him so directly but something in her tone had softened his heart and so he began to describe that panoramic view over the lands and rivers of his Kingdom, and as he illustrated the scene, he felt something inside him expand imperceptibly and with it a sense of relief the like of which he had never known. The Queen sensed this and pressing him further asked: “And what of the Blue Lakes to the East, You have travelled there, have you not, my Lord?” “Yes” he replied, and continued aloud in his picturing. With every word he uttered his heart became easier as if a tight grip he had endured forever was loosening. And as he spoke of the meadows and rivers and the creatures that inhabited them something else transformed itself within him. He suddenly saw it all so vividly within his imagination and at once realized the true infinity of his Kingdom. His heart surged and tears poured from his newly darkened eyes as his wish for an infinite Kingdom was finally so fully granted and with that, he fell deeply and eternally in love with this strange servant girl kneeling before him. Of course, in so doing he granted the Queen’s own dearest wish too; to be loved for the depths of her heart, and the wisdom of her spirit, not the transient beauty of her face, and in that moment, her own passionate welling arose once more from the very centre of her longing and as they both swam in the ecstasy of receiving their hearts’ desires and swore themselves to each other forever, falling gently into a blessed and grateful kiss, those two everlasting tears dropped silently from her eyes into his, restoring his sight with renewed and eternal clarity to behold true beauty for the first time.

Love or Need?

We fall in love because the aloneness is an illusion , an agonizing one we live with every day due to our brave incarnation in separate vessels of flesh, and the Togetherness of all of us is the Truth. The relief of residing in that Truth feels so good, so right, it is Love. When we enjoy a concert as a group, the aloneness evaporates, and it is Love. When we dance together in a group or in twos and threes, the illusion of separation evaporates and there is Love, the Truth, the Naturalness. When our eyes meet and connect with the Beloved, and Kiss and Touch and meet Minds and Hearts and Souls, the painful lie of separation disappears and there is Love. It is not avoiding the Self but experiencing the True nature of Self which is not just my separated ego but my joined Oneness with You and You and You and all of Humankind and Mother Nature. One is not afraid of Aloneness, one is afraid of the Lie of separation from the One that is all of us, yet the incarnation in flesh tricks us into thinking we are Alone. We are right to reject this falsehood, not brave to endure it. Soulmates are like the cycles of Nature. The Man or Woman who will switch you on today, at this stage on Life's glorious path, may be a memory tomorrow and another may come along to light you up. It's also possible that you may choose just one, or two such souls and wander the generous and abundant pathways of God together, learning, loving, dancing in the Pleasure and the Wisdom of Surrender together for as long as it feels wonderful and Nourishing. Remember though, to overly attach to this person and use them as the Source of Safeness instead of God, The Light, is perilous. No one can do that for another. We can only receive constant Light and Love from The One. It is a mistake to burden another Human with the responsibility of providing that feeling of Security and Constant attention. Yet, the Love which can be shared with another human, a Lover, a Family member, in Community, on the Dance floor, Making Love, playing Music, sharing Stories, is REAL and to be cherished. It is the experience of the Lie of separation dissolving. It is the Wonder, the relief that all the falseness of Isolation and it's Lonely fears and demons is just our limited human perception as we walk the human path alone, finding our way back to God. We are born alone just so we can remember that it's a Lie and find our way back to Wholeness, to each other to our Community, true Family.

We are One, suffering the Illusion of separation on Planet Earth. When we experience connection we are closest to Truth - and that feels good. It is Love.

Shut Up and Listen

It's a can be a perilous misconception to suppose that when we create we are actually 'doing' something. When I'm about to write a song, or create in any way, I often get this immediate stab of defeatism and resistance because my mind thinks it can't do the job. The truth is that my mind is quite right! The 'mind' can't write a song or give the stage performance of a lifetime because it's a totally different part of our self that does those things. And I believe that 'creative' part of me is RECEPTIVE not ACTIVE. If the thinking mind had to play Hamlet, or write a ballad it would undoubtedly mess it up, yet when my thinking mind steps back for a moment and listens, surrenders, empties, lets the music or creativity 'do' me, then I'm in business.

When I write a song, I don't try and 'think it up' any more than one tries to 'think up' an idea. It just arrives mysteriously from the emptiness and I write it down. I might strum a guitar gently, listening listening, and then imagine I hear a melody. I unhurriedly try and hum it without losing it, also without pinning it down too fast. It's very hard, in my experience, to write something good on purpose. It's the same process with making a '1 Giant Leap' film. We can have all the great concepts we like, but it's not until our own minds are silent and we let the footage speak to us and tell us what it wants to say, that we have a great film. And then I get to thinking that life's like that too, isn't it? The times when I listen to the events that are unfolding around me and let them speak to me, without constantly imposing my desires or limited intentions upon them, usually it all turns out harmoniously. When I listen to others, really listen, I am able to communicate and COMMUNE without my unconscious nonsense interfering.

The mind thinks it can help with everything. It's like a over-keen, yapping, dog, full of good intentions, but also full of the misguided belief that it needs to control everything in order to succeed. In my experience, this goes for emotional as well as creative pursuits. We get heartbroken and our mind says 'don't worry! leave it to me! I'll sort it all out! I'll categorise how you're feeling and make the pain go away!" But none of that ever works because this is not the domain of the mind. For all its good intentions, it is more often a liability than a help, too fear-ridden to be of any use. Ram Dass once told me "Fear says 'I want to keep you safe', Love says 'you are safe'. So my conclusion is (subject to change) that I need to shut-up and listen in all areas. Let the song write itself. Let Hamlet play himself. I need to step back and let the great, invisible, creative spirit do all the work. All I have to do is take the money and the credit, of course!

The Old Forest Path

Once upon a time there was a deep and wide forest inhabited by an abundance of magical dancing fairies. The trees there were tall and wide-limbed and cast long shadows over the woods and glades around, sometimes obscuring the sky and sometimes creating inviting pools of light on the mossy earth. Through the centre of the forest ran an ancient path which described a clear and unmissable passage through the woods. It meandered and twisted in its timeworn course from one end of the forest to the other, never losing its way and never letting the many creatures who followed it lose theirs. Certain bends in its progress were covered by fallen leaves and in some places the occasional branch lay across it’s way, but its steady line was never hidden from sight and never, if one kept to it’s twisting and turning passage, would one find oneself lost in the shadows of the trees. All the fairies and sprites that inhabited those woods had been taught to stick to that path whenever they were out wandering and dancing among the glades. How they loved to leap and twirl. The music in the leaves, the rhythms of the breeze, drew them far from their homes in the hollows, yet as long as they stayed on the path, as their elders had taught them, they would be sure to return home safely every evening.

Among the fairies who so loved to dance in those woods was a young and pretty one with faint stripes on her wings which fluttered and purred as she flitted and flew about the shrubs and the flowers. Sometimes she would become so enraptured by the music of the forest that, in some of her movements and shapes, her toe would unknowingly step just off the path and the other Fairies would invariably gasp when they witnessed it. Hardly noticing, she would then draw it back in, and spin off again in her dance among the butterflies and buzzing bees.

The other Fairies and Sprites would always stay safely on the path, sensibly heeding their elders’ warnings, and when they were tired of leaping and cavorting around the woods, they would sit themselves down on stumps and mounds of leaves to watch their sister still dancing her endless dance, oblivious to their gazes, and untiring in her leaping and her twirling.

It happened one afternoon, when the sun was casting hypnotic patterns through the branches above, that from somewhere out of sight, a new and unheard music reached the delicate ears of those magical creatures. It began as a flute but then turned into a pipe. It moved like a drum but then pulsed like a stamp. The music reached high and yet still rumbled down low and it moved them all as it filtered to them so invitingly from its origin unknown.

The fairies and sprites glanced around for the source of this enchanted music. Their little feet were tapping and their shoulders swayed without them knowing. Some of them forgot their tiredness and drew themselves up again to dance one last time before heading back to their hollows and one or two lay still with their heads and ears to the ground, drinking in the rhythms and absorbing the vibrations through the roots and earth beneath them.

But there was one fairy there who had never stopped dancing that day. She had been weaving and gliding around the twists and the turns of the path all the while as her friends had lain resting in the leaves. And still she danced. The enchanted music had reached her moments before and imbued her steps and bounces with silvery trails and mystical shapes. And as the notes and rhythms found their way to her limbs and her toes she began to spin and whirl with ever increasing splendor, her breath meeting the pulses and the waves of the ecstatic melodies and her eyes closed yet still seeing colours and lights spinning in infinity around her.

Her friends couldn’t help but notice the new forms and shapes she described as the music became louder and fuller all around them. And yes, the occasional gasp from her magical companions was heard once more as she stepped off the path and on again more often than they’d known. The beats were intoxicating and the tunes were irresistible and the sprites and the fairies watched in awe as she flew around them all, oblivious to their witness.

Then, as the pipes blew more sweetly still, and the melodies invited them all to forget themselves utterly, the silhouette of the Piper became visible between two trees far from the ancient path. The music was now all around them and the mysterious figure was approaching, his instruments dancing around him as he came, and though she could feel his presence powerfully, she kept her eyes closed and listened only with her heart to the presence that was dancing within her.

As he came into the clearing in sight of them all, with his own eyes closed in deep and melodious surrender to his art, she stepped from the path with both feet dancing and gracefully pirouetted and shimmered around him, unaware of his presence yet spellbound and enthralled by his harmonies. The others held their breath, wide-eyed and alert. She had never been both feet from the path before. One or two scampered away to find an elder to tell, so concerned were they that she might be lost forever. But she heeded them not, unaware of the eyes upon her, and he too, without a notion of his audience, played only for her as they circled the glade together.

As the bewitching cadences built further and on and the sun itself now shed golden pools around them, her toes did so softly leave the earth that without a whisper of her knowing she began to rise up from the ground towards the spaces in the branches above. He too, with his tunes of love and eternity singing out from the deep longing in his heart, rose gently upwards with her, and together they turned around and around each other, the dancer and the music, the shapes and the sounds, all perfecting each other as they ascended steadily through the limbs of the trees.

There they rose in their union towards the very tops of the immense trees. They were unknowingly drawing closer and closer to each other. Their eyes were still closed, yet by some chance or charmed design, by the time they had reached the very canopy of the forest, they were barely a breath apart. The Piper’s tune ached with his stories of devotion and intimacy and as it reached it’s crescendo, in a paradise of harmony and supplication, their lips touched and they kissed, surrendered and dedicated to all the mysteries that had united them. The kiss was long and deep and unending and the music danced itself on as they merged, and down below where the others were gathered, the very path itself began to shift and change beneath their feet.

The magical creatures, spellbound and mystified, began to notice turns in the old path’s course becoming blurred and uneven. Edges that had been clear were now melting away. The fairies looked puzzled and a little uncertain as the once definite lines of the forest path were now becoming mistakable and vague. Their gazes searched one way along it’s course and then the other but suddenly no one could be sure where it’s boundaries were set. And before very long as the new lovers far above them still swooned in their embrace, the forest path disappeared entirely and gave way to the natural curves of the roots and the inviting shadows of the boundless woods all around.

Tentatively and step by tiny step the fairies and the sprites ventured out from their accustomed borders and explored the areas around them seeking out places that had only been looked upon before. Some of them explored further than others, luxuriating in the unaccustomed thrill of disappearing from sight for a moment. Hearts thudding and eyes wide they began to scamper and frolic from the edges of the woods to the middle, darting in and out of the trees, laughing and squealing and filling the forest with their excitement and newfound, precious liberty. The elders, upon hearing the commotion drew near, and were surprised to feel nothing but approval for their young ones’ dauntless progress. They themselves began to step gingerly out from the memory of the forest path and drift in soft nostalgic reverie through the unboundaried expanses that their ancient forest home now offered. There, old and young met in the untrodden wilderness and not a soul was lost in the shadows but guided invisibly home by moonlight, never to fear the unknown realms of their magical forest again.

And now very little is remembered of that old forest path, and those enchanted lovers never did descend from their summit. It was believed that they had dissolved utterly in their kiss just as the forest path below had vanished without trace beneath them. Yet, the branches and the trees still sway to that Piper’s music and the magical creatures that inhabit those glades still dance to the dance of that enchanted fairy, spinning through the woods, leaping over the shrubs and flowers and traversing every corner of that exquisite forest without a worry or a care to be lost within its inviting shadows.

Manifesto

'We want to put our own selves into the work. We want to create a movement of introspection and self inquiry where the viewer becomes the subject of the piece. It’s about you. If we dare to show ourselves in all our raw glory, really express what’s going on in the chaos and the shadows then we have a chance to connect to something real in our audience. Because when I talk about me, you’ll hear about you. We need to collectively admit that we’re not fine, we’re not confident and balanced and good. We turn up to work every day pretending we’re not neurotic and obsessed and insatiable and full of doubt, and we waste so much energy keeping up this mutual pretense for each other because we think if people saw the truth, if people really knew what was going on in our heads, all the crazy truth of our dark appetites and self loathing, then we’d get rejected. But in fact, the opposite is true. It’s when we dare to reveal the truth that we unwittingly give everyone else permission to do the same. To stop holding their breathe for a moment and actually come into the room. Be here, present, vulnerable and authentic.

We’re on a mission to make self-reflection hip for just a moment, just long enough to save us. If we can all collectively acknowledge our insanity, shrug and roll our eyes at each other at how nuts it is being a human, let alone having to pretend every day that we’re ‘normal’, the amount of energy we’ll inherit that has been wasted on the mask will be enough to creatively solve any global crisis.'

Food

I once saw this great film called ‘Big Night’ which was about these two brothers who were starting a restaurant.  It was beautifully crafted and their roller-coaster relationship built through stages of drama and intimacy all the way to the Grand Opening scene at the end.  But the part of the film that has always stayed with me is the finale, a sublime moment of understatement.  One brother, the morning after their exhausting and climactic ‘Big Night’, enters the kitchen, and all in real time with no cuts, takes out some eggs, cracks them into a bowl, whisks them up, heats the skillet and makes himself a plain omelette. That’s it.  We watch him do the whole thing. Just before he’s finished, his brother comes in, and they sit in silence eating the omelette together.  A moment before the end, one of them puts his arm around the other. I can’t tell you what watching him make that omelette did to me.  Somehow it looked like the most delicious thing that had ever been cooked and so when the film ended I headed straight for the nearest cornershop and bought myself some eggs and butter.  I raced home, salivating copiously, and repeated the process I’d just witnessed in my Mum’s kitchen.  And true to its promise, it was the most delicious thing I’d eaten in living memory.  I still often make plain omelettes now – very occasionally I add cheese, but usually just leave them plain.  Whenever I’m travelling for work I always order omelette and chips from room service and eat it with a little mustard, not ketchup (which I feel totally ruins it – don’t get me wrong, I love ketchup with most things and spread it liberally on hamburgers etc.)

I’ve started eating the omelette with mustard at home now too.  Sometimes with some thickly buttered bread on the side, but never complicating it with mushrooms, tomatoes or onions, no way.

Before my formative omelette experience, the most delicious thing I remember seeing in the movies was the meal Barbara Streisand and Walter Matthau shared towards the end of ‘Hello Dolly’.  I can’t remember precisely what it was they were eating, she was talking and chewing and wondering at the deliciousness as she cut and served the food from a huge platter.  The whole restaurant looked sumptuous and every mouthful she described made me crave a seat at the table.  I could smell the rich gravy and succulent, tender meats.  I’d still like to taste that dinner now, in fact.

My earliest memory of having my saliva glands and stomach juices activated by fiction was in 1978 when I read ‘The Fantastic Mr Fox’ by Roald Dahl on holiday in France (I’m pretty sure that was it) where the descriptions of chicken in particular had my belly rumbling all afternoon while I impatiently awaited a grown up to come home and make me something that would put me out of my misery.  It was intense.

Many years later I read a book that, though I had a totally full stomach at the time, transcended even that experience – ‘The Hunger’ by Knut Hamsun.  If you’ve never read it I urge you to go out and buy it at once – it’s an amazing book.  Recently, when I was enjoying my Paul Auster obsession, the one book by him I could never seem to lay my hands on was called ‘The Art Of Hunger’.  I was amazed when I finally found it that it was all about how much he loved Knut Hamsun’s book. I felt validated and an even stronger bond with the man who’d written such amazing books as ‘Mr Vertigo’ and ‘Moon Palace’. Two adventures I’ll never forget, the latter, I believe, based on ‘The Hunger’.

However, that said, I never got into the scene in the movie ‘9 and a Half Weeks’ where they do the food sex scene, in fact I’ve personally never got the food and sex connection, sensuous as food can be, mixing the two has never turned me on.  Further, food can actually get in the way of sex.  I’ve had countless evenings of rampant promise curtailed by eating too much at the restaurant earlier in the evening.  Driving back feeling bloated and over-full of chocolate mousse (can never resist it – if it’s on the menu, I’ll order it, no matter what) and whatever extra sweets they served with the coffee has put pay to many a night of potential carnal pleasure in my bed.  Also, the dreams I sometimes have after indulging in too many meat courses can be so traumatic as to make me seriously consider vegetarianism, (though usually only until lunchtime.)

The one thing I won’t eat though is torture food.  I just can’t bring myself to order fois gras, which has apparently been force-fed, or veal, which I heard is a baby creature, prematurely taken from it’s mother and kept in a dark box so the meat stays white.  There’s such a variety of choice available, shame on you if you need to go to those lengths to satisfy your palate.

I’ll leave you with a spiritual angle if I may. When I was first taught meditation it was by a man who simultaneously instructed us in the preparation steamed veggies.  It was of paramount importance to cut them in the right way, always along the seed lines, never across, or else the vital chi energy would leak out.  Now I don’t know whether it was the heightened states of Jamie-consciousness I was reaching in those days, or just the newness of it all, but I was continuously bowled over by the perfection of the colour, texture and taste combinations God had put together among his fruit an vegetable designs.  The way a courgette has that light green interior and dark mottled skin, and it’s perfect line of tiny seeds, the snappy crisp of a red pepper with it’s weird pod in the centre and it’s bright shiny skin, the fractally repeating branches of fresh broccoli and cauliflower, the simplicity of a potato, pods full of peas, corn on the cob, the colours and tastes and shapes and smells, well, I was blown away and still am in fact.  Whenever I enter a huge food store and see the variety in front of me I’m immediately reminded of the glory of Natural design and humbled in it’s presence.  And simultaneously I’m aware that if a person from certain regions of Africa were standing where I am he or she would most likely have a heart attack at the mounds of abundance, just not be able to take it in – they’d probably, like me, think they were dreaming.

Boring

OK, so once we’ve been over and over all the heavy things that happened to us, all the neglect and abandonment and isolation - all the wounds that shut us down when we were too small to know it wasn’t our fault, that it wasn’t really us that was the problem but the fucked-upness of the person looking after us.  And after we’ve acknowledged that these present day experiences that keep sending us spiralling into agony or depression over and over again are mostly echoes of our unexpressed agonies of the past and not really direct reactions to today’s events at all.  Then what?  We can’t keep just listing and listing all the shit things that happened to us.  Where’s the redemption? The next step is to switch off the mind when it hurts.  Switch off the thinking, the going over and over what just happened, what he said, what she did, what unfair events have just befallen you, and just feel the intense sensation of it in your body.  It’s usually up the middle, somewhere between your belly and your eyes, or in my case, the whole central channel, often throbbing with waves of pulsing hurt.  Aching, burning, bursting.  My mind still wants to think and picture scenarios of why it hurts.  Stories of what might have been or what I might do next. Or what I should have done.  But no, come back to just the feeling of it, not the story about it.  The sensation alone is what will free me, because all that’s really happening is that there are unfelt sensations that have built up in me from long ago, been triggered, and just need to be fully experienced here and now.  That’s it. Simple.  Feel what it feels like physically.

Lie back, breathe into where it’s pulsing.  Imagine your nostrils are there in the middle of the pain.  Dare not to think.  Just feel. Imagine it’s only a physical sensation, that’s all.  Then, wave by wave, like grateful, melancholy ghosts, each one will slip out of your rib cage and, having been felt, hurt no more.

And you don’t have to be in direct reaction to pain to be in avoidance.  By never sitting still, by always feeling the need to be experiencing ‘something’, we are really, unconsciously, running from the risk of feeling uncomfortable.  One way I have always done this is by filling every silent, spacious moment with an activity. This is the root of addiction. Filling up the space.  It might be email, phone-calls, shopping, food, or ingesting a substance like cigarettes, coffee or drugs.  Anything to get away from the Nothing.  So why?  What’s wrong with space?  What’s wrong with nothing?  I asked myself this today when I was in resistance to just sitting still.  And the answer came back – ‘It’s boring’.  And so I asked myself, ‘what does that really mean?’  And it came to me that the word ‘boring’ is a very misleading one.  To me at least, ‘Boring’ implies nothingness, stillness, a lack of stuff, dull, uninteresting.  But really, ‘Boring’ is a mass of uncomfortable feelings and emotions and sensations. ‘Boring’ is far from empty and nothingy, far from uninteresting.  It’s full.  Full of loads of arising pains and negative feelings I want to avoid.  “Boring’ doesn’t really exist.  ‘Uncomfortable’ does.  ‘Insecure’ does.  ‘Twitchy’ certainly does.  But ‘Boring’ doesn’t really mean anything.  I think ‘Boring’ is a trick word I use to justify never being still, and sideline the fact that I don’t need something to do because otherwise I’ll feel dull.  I need something to do because otherwise I’ll feel full of discomfort in a million ways.

Hmmmm….