Life is yin and yang

  

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Life flows as natural as waves roll into shore, swirling with sand over and over as the yin and yang of the ocean, free-forming and blending in a forever time.

Tides never fail to move in synch with the moon. As day and night, solstices and equinoxes, they move in and out in constant balance of one another.

People too, can roll together as free as those waves. Sometimes, struggling to stay afloat in peaks of soaring oceans, in a volatility that carries beyond extremes to be stuck in a futility of flooding submerge.

Other times, we can bathe and soothe as tranquil bays or lagoons of azure, brimming in nurture.

It’s an ease of comfortable togetherness where time stands still and nothing else exists. It’s intoxicating, morish. Delicious.

It can come without the physical touch of a hand or gentle press of lips coming together in exhilarating delight. It comes in the purest of words, in the purposeful listening and sharing, with a heightened awareness of curiosity and concern. It’s supremely safe, surrounded by the securest of safety nets.

Sometimes, those words of nurture and unassuming support linger as only a millisecond of the free-forming yin and yang of the ocean. They dissipate as quickly as a moon glistening over a night ocean is smothered by thick clouds storming in.

In a fleeting flash, that time is gone and we’re left with an almost pang of desire for more of that serene yin and yang of the ocean.

Until the next clearing of storms ... we wait.

 

 

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That black hole of love

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A gut in endless summersault, a head in spin ... an attack is now. It’s personal. It’s senseless. Humans can be senseless, actions and words can be careless and pointless, even if they come from a place of passion. Whether that’s misguided or not, whether I understand or not, is irrelevant.

Then from nowhere in this tumult that rages as a wild sea, mother instinct kicks in and big sister armour spikes out. The loyal friend shell hardens, ready for any skirmish that may come. Passion heats as a cauldron of boiling oil and the fierceness of the King of the Jungle emerges.

Yet underneath the layers of shields and barbs of thousands, a stomach still wrenches in subterranean caverns, over craggy mountains jagged that scrape any soul bare, through bogs of black and bracken that render all motion, motionless ... those children, leave those children alone!

And suddenly, physical reactions to instincts that aren’t seen give way to a heart that needs no armour, a heart that is the core of existence. A heart knows the depths of love of family and friends where limits are non-existent. A heart knows that in the slightest breath of a whistle call, those hearts will come together to become a black hole of love with its own life force. It’s the black hole of love of the universal family where distance is no barrier and passion is its own entity that runs deep through a complex stratal network that can’t be unravelled.

It’s obvious as we stand to farewell one of our own, that we are who we are, in numbers that double and triple, as beings that reverberate beyond this space. 

And in that moment, the first spike of armour retracts, the shell begins to soften. Fear starts to dissipate into that black hole of love of the universal family, a love that in times of farewell shines from crevices normally submerged. There’s no place for fear when a family unites in invisible armour. Our children are fine. Our armour together is invincible. 

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Sugar and spice and all things nice

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What are little boys made of?

Snips and snails, and puppy dogs tails

That's what little boys are made of!

What are little girls made of?

Sugar and spice and all things nice

That's what little girls are made of!

~ Early 19th century poem

Such garbage! I’d take a guess and say that a female wrote that, a female without understanding of people as human beings.

Speculative interpretation suggests that ‘snips and snails’ was probably written as 'snips of snails', meaning 'little bits of snails'. This past week has shown me that boys are certainly not made of bits of snails and puppy dog tails, although puppy dog tails are cute. Boys are sugar and spice and many things nice, just as girls are. And both are sprinkled with bits of snails and puppy dog tails.

Boys versus girls, it’s all rubbish. It’s the individuality of the person that matters - what we each like, what our individual strengths are and what makes our heart sing even when we can’t hear a whisper of a tune. We all have them. A quality that one person exudes in truck loads, another can lack, and vice versa. It’s the way our own hearts and minds work that matter. It’s something witnessed so obviously by not only me this week but by so many others as a crowd of about two thousand sat at an awards and speech night. Such celebration for a young man with a level of learning challenge awarded for his IT knowledge and capability that almost roused a standing ovation. It was hard to believe that only a few years ago, he was alienated because of his learning ability.

If we allow boys and girls to be who they inherently are without expectation and without forcing our own desires upon them, desires that often stem from our own long, unfulfilled needs, they will bloom into who they’re meant to be.

I say this as a parent of three boys; happy, healthy and hard working boys that achieve in what matters to them. I always say to my boys, ‘work hard at what you love, and you’ll get there. You’ll achieve. Nothing is given on a platter.’

Although sometimes as I put those words into practice and feel as though I’m getting nowhere in reaching my own goals, I wonder what wisdom I spruik! But ultimately, it’s true. You work hard and believe in what you’re doing, and you’ll get there, step by step, micro-millimetre by micro-millimetre!

I may not like what one son likes, but it doesn’t mean I don’t support him in what he does. I don’t like football and yet two of my boys play the sport. I tell them I don’t like it and they say I don’t need to go to the game and watch them. But I tell them that I want to be there as it is important to them. They quietly appreciate that. And so I go and watch attentively, so much so that I find I'm holding my breath when they fall to the ground and don’t move for what may feel like minutes but which may only be a few seconds.

I support their explorations of likes and dislikes, as long as it’s not harmful to them or others, and I’m always there to help them up when they fall. Allowing them to fall is part of the growing.

We all fall down and the burden is less so when someone is there by our side.

That’s why this week, I sat in the audience at my boys' school awards and speech night as one son gave his School Captain’s address in the lead up to my second son being announced as school captain for next year.

A bit of sugar and spice and all things nice is the nourishment that everyone’s soul needs.

 

Recent Comments
Rosy Cole
I can't think any nursery teacher dare introduce that rhyme (which was a feature of my childhood!) without having the local PTA do... Read More
Friday, 24 October 2014 12:54
Monika Schott PhD
Thanks Rosy. There are many other nursery rhymes that scream prejudice! At least we can see that! M
Sunday, 26 October 2014 18:24
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Jewels from the kitchen window

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As I stand by the kitchen sink looking out into the dawn of a Sunday morning, an orange and green twinkle of a diamond enchants me. It’s a brilliant twinkle amongst a smattering of gems that dance throughout the backyard; day in, day out.

Opals of spring blossoms that emerge at the birth of a child, splashes of glistening aquamarine in a blow up pool and moonstone prints made by excited children that sit on the concrete path after hopping out of that pool.

Sometimes, a sea of birthstones congregate and dazzle at night as people gather to celebrate a birthday or a bon voyage.

From my kitchen window, I watch the ever-changing lapis of zooming scooters and bikes jumping over ramps, the shimmying ruby of a hammock that cocoons a body, and radiant emeralds of grass tips that reach for the sky on a crisp morning.

Occasionally, tears of tigers eyes’ appear when a call comes in the early dark of a morning to tell of someone dear that has left this living Earth.

As I stand by my kitchen window, staring at the next drip of dew falling from the roof outside, I wonder what gems I’ll find next, what new orange and green twinkle of a diamond will sparkle and grow.

Perhaps it will be the agate of a new duco parked in the driveway as a new driver joins the household, or the onyx of another loved one lost.

Growing gems takes time. I’ll savour the fruits of this harvest while the next gestate. 

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