in sanctuary

I have just come back from visiting Sarah to help her with The Entertainment of Jaylen on such a rainy day (mmmmm, rain), and when she left to deliver him to Joshua she gave me a Silvia Hartmann recording to listen to on her i-pod. Silvia Hartmann is the goddess of Project Sanctuary which is, to my mind, nothing short of genius. You can find more information about it here: http://silviahartmann.com/Silvia-Project-Sanctuary.php

For all I have learnt or gained from Project Sanctuary I only actually did it for a few days or weeks when I first learnt about it several years ago, and haven’t been back since. But this recording talks you through going to sanctuary and creating the environment and checking it out. I went through the process to see if my sanctuary would be a different place to the one I had all those years ago.

No, same place. Some minor variations in design. You have to keep in mind that I am an architect so it’s natural for me to design my environment in my mind, and I had worked out my answers to a lot of the questions long before the exercise began. You’d think that would mean I’m suffering from too much mind interference for success, but it doesn’t seem to matter.

So it’s like you are, in your imagination, in a place. So far it has no features. First, what is the season of the year? Then, what time of day? How warm or cold is it? Then bring some landscape features into it. Is there a slope? Is there grass, are there trees, rocks, cliffs, sea, flowers? It’s your garden, make it yours, paint it with your brush. And then find your dwelling - a small and simple one for now, it might develop more rooms or features later. For now it is about materials, textures and colours, or the cosiness or expansiveness of the spaces.

For me it was instantly autumn (which it is in real life, wooohooo!), one of those gusty evenings you get in autumn when you really know the season has changed, the colour of the light has changed, everything is deeper and richer. And it was instantly my real-life property in the mountains, which is where it was before, and I was standing on the deck with the still-warm, gusty wind bending the huge mountain grey gums all around me. And the house the deck was attached to was one room up, one down, and upstairs had a balcony coming out from one corner hanging over the town. The deck had french doors (as we call them in Melbourne, french windows everywhere else) onto the farmhouse kitchen. It was a building I had previously designed but with many adjustments that I ‘discovered’ rather than created.

Then she suggests a place to meet our ‘emissary’ which is some kind and helpful ‘person’ or being of any kind who might be a sounding board, guide, companion or whatever we may want to spur the action along. I didn’t want my emissary to be the same as it was last time because guess who it was. Jesus. I’m not actually a christian, but culturally I am and we were a church-going family and I embraced the idea with more enthusiasm as a teenager so I guess he’s an appropriate symbol to me. He seemed appropriate last time, especially as he had the face of Viggo Mortensen, but by now I think of him as wanting to be left alone. Stop hangin’ off my robes guys, for goodness’ sake! It’s been 2000 years already. I want to move on to new and different things!

Anyway, apparently he still wants to be my emissary. I’ll discuss it with him when I have time and possibly interview a few more candidates, but I had to go with the flow while Silvia was continuing to talk. Then she said to find a wishing well in sanctuary with a bowl of wishing coins on the coping. I just couldn’t find the right place for my wishing well, worried about young children falling in and other such architectural concerns, but by now she had me holding a coin, making a wish and tossing it to the wish fairies and elves who lived in the well. ‘I wish for . . .’ I delved for my deepest desire, ‘Passion.’ And I threw.

Passion, huh. Who knew?

almost sunrise

I am a recovering broken-footer. Almost two years ago now but I still can’t run. Maybe that’s because I broke it by rolling my ankle, as you do, with all the muscle and tendon damage that involves, so sitting on a couch with your foot at flop for three months probably means that these soft tissues are going to heal a bit shortened. Bone, fine, muscles and tendons, not so sure.

Hope I haven’t got you squirming as I would be if I were reading this rather than having actually gone through it. I could never be anything medical. Haven’t got the stomach for it.

Anyway, point being, I’m trying to get some fitness back into this tired old body so I’ve been walking, as I used to do, at sunset every evening, as sunset is wont to be. Well, trying to. At about the half hour mark I start to limp. The arch of the damaged foot gets tired and aches. This has been going on for ages and I don’t notice a lot of improvement so I’ve decided to try and strengthen the foot more gently with lots of short walks instead of few long ones. So rather than going for my morning coffee around the corner I can walk about 12 minutes to another cluster of shops, and then 12 minutes back. Among other strategies.

Two or three of the cafes there open at 7 in the morning, whereas the ones around the corner don’t open till 8. This would have had no relevance to me 15 years ago and prior, when getting up was the hardest part of my day and best avoided if possible. But of recent I have become an early-morning person and so have had the opportunity to notice that this is my favourite time of the day. Being out of the house by 7 is better than being out by 8, especially at this time of year when you are almost seeing the sun rise.

And the big city in the early morn (just to be a bit poetic because it is poetic) is a special thing. You have big city facilities available to you without having to fight for space. You have peace and quiet, the morning birds a-twitter and a-warble, open streets you can just walk across. Anywhere. In spite of peak hour being on the rumble.

I have to sit outside for my cappuccino or I get very sad and it is threatening to get to that time of year when the bones freeze and the fingers don’t bend if I do, but today I found a cafe in my newly-frequented area that has one of those outdoor gas heaters. Wooohooo! Might get me through the winter without ever having to cross a cafe threshold*.

Moving to the Adelaide Hills soon. Adelaide just doesn’t do cafes the way Melbourne does. Especially not the Hills, not at 7 in the morning. Am I making a big mistake? How important is a cafe in the scheme of things?

I’ll be letting you know anon.

*Did you know that a threshold is so named because it used to hold back the thresh? Back in, like, Elizabethan times when the streets were effectively sewer channels and they put straw on the floors to mop it all up, the threshold was a piece of wood across the doorway to keep all the thresh in. Somewhere in the intervening years we have dropped one of the aitches. Just a little something for your edification.

I don’t do mothers’ day

. . . or fathers’ day or easter, and wouldn’t do christmas if I thought I could get away with it. The thing about christmas is, if you try and ignore it it’s in your face. You can’t wander down to your favourite cafe and expect to get your usual morning cappuccino, you can’t ring up a random friend and organise to do something, you can’t watch TV and find anything normal, you can’t even go to the supermarket without a cacophany of happy christmases and cheesy grins. Cheesy snarls. That latter is me. I do my best but I DON’T LIKE IT.

My family gets together for christmas but it’s usually on christmas eve due to my father’s excessive pandering to the other side of people’s families. In spite of loud cries of dissent from those of us who do not have another side, and even the not-quite-as-loud observations from those who do that there is more than one meal on christmas day.

You could go bush, go hiking in the wilderness, a place where you should never know that the rest of the world is on hold in a glitter of green and red tinsel, coloured balls, and SNOW. But it’s in the air somehow, it descends like a pall over your mood and won’t set you free for 24 hours.

I have admitted defeat of recent and do my best to have a happy christmas day. I have had reasonable success. I love the christmas pudding you get from the supermarket and brandy custard, so I get together with my girls, their dad if he’s in the country and Joshua if he’s available (which he usually isn’t, having an excess of family) and they can supply whatever food they want and I will supply the pudding. They’re not good at that. It’s usually just the pudding, perhaps a few leftovers from the night before, but it’s OK. We love spending time together, although there is that consciousness on this day that it is enforced. Something about the inner-city hush never quite allows you to forget.

All these events are much more exciting when there are young children involved. I used to love mothers’ day when my children would come home from school with a card they had made themselves full of promises to make me breakfast in bed every day for a week, and wash the dishes on Monday, and clean their rooms, and give me a back rub (with skinny little fingers) and a hand massage. Or plait my hair into a thousand little plaits (because I love having my hair played with).

But now that they’re grown up I like normal life best. I must be a routine kinda girl. I used to hate that last week of school when the reports had already been written and we were given ‘fun’ activities to kill time until we could legally be released. It felt like grief to me. It felt as though everything was lost.

I love birthdays. Who’d a thought? Don’t know what the difference is, but I always make sure everyone makes me feel special on mine and do the same for them (minus the prompting). Maybe they’re OK for me because the rest of the world continues unaffected. Don’t know. It’s weird.

who knew cats could do this?

We have two cats and we leave the back door slightly open during the day so they can come in and out, and close them in at night. Although they spend most of the day in the house lying around, as soon as they suspect it might be door-closing time, they head outside. It’s become a bit easier since daylight saving ended because it’s dark by the time we give them dinner so we can close the door while they are eating.

They love the food we have for them at the moment and nag me for it all day. So I was a bit surprised when I did feed them that Junior wasn’t there. And then even more surprised when Charley wandered outside after only eating half of hers. And then Junior was there, chomping away.

They swapped places all evening. They made sure at least one of them was outside at all times. Once I noticed this I realised that they’ve been doing that a lot lately.

I’m so proud of them for making our life just that little bit more difficult.

on gagging the ex

My ex?-partner, C, is a libra. My daughters tell me that libras love company and the three libras I know well cannot get enough of being with people. That’s very flattering when you are in the early stages of a relationship and can’t get enough of being with the object of your affection.

C used to sit on the side of my bed with his early morning cup of coffee for a last snippet of conversation before he left for work. We used to sit on opposite sides of the little table in my room and talk and talk while he doodled cartoons and, you know, boy stuff. Guns and shit. He used to ring me every day, or several times a day, just to talk some more.

If it hadn’t been for the fact that there are two versions of C that became affectionately known as C3 and C4 (due to the explosive nature of C4), those days would have been a romantic dream. And the dream still exists. C still loves my company as much as he ever did.

Which is pretty astonishing since I have succeeded in establishing a few rules these days around our encounters:

1. C4 is not allowed within 500 metres of me. It’s no C4 or altogether no C in my life. He can choose.
2. No conversation on, about, or remotely concerning camouflage, boots or 4wd vehicles.
3. No conversation about guns and shit.
4. No conspiracy theories or predictions of global doom or gloom.
5. No conversation about anything that doesn’t interest me.
6. No more than one (1) phone call a day. Texts, unlimited.
7. No talking while the TV is on.
8. No talking while I am reading a book.
9. No talking while I am on the internet.
10. No talking while I am working.
11. No talking when I am asleep.

I might as well tape his mouth when he walks in the door. Why does he still want to come here? Why do I still want him to come here, more to the point?

Obviously I’m quite happy for him to leave and would be ecstatic if he found a new lover before I move to Adelaide because I don’t like feeling that he will be lonely and not have anyone to TALK to. But you know what’s weird? I still love having him around. I still have a lot of affection for him, love the aura he brings into a room. It would be so much better if I could seriously use the aforementioned mouth tape, but it’s lovely anyway.

Point being, Hilary’s Heaven will have no one in it all day until approximately 7pm. I love my own company, love silence and thoughts and shit, love the uninterrupted pursuit of my own projects. And then I feel a bit of a nudge from my company-meter as the sun goes down.

I am not a libra. Or did you already guess that?

and now I reveal my favourite blog

You won’t believe what seems to have remained my favourite blog since I first discovered it. I say this without fear of offending you, my friends, since none of you are trying to achieve what this blog achieves. You know how there are blogs you love to visit when you are in a certain mood, and some days you want to visit all the blogs on your list plus explore a few new ones, and sometimes you don’t feel like reading much but there are those two or three that you know will have just the right tone for today? For every day? This is one of those two or three.

I know, it’s probably not like that for all of you who can use an RSS feed. Usual story, this old computer won’t go there. So you are all getting the benefit of an actual visit from me even if I don’t comment, even if you haven’t written anything since the last time I visited.

OK, drumroll. My favourite blog is: The Chronicles of Feral Beast. An 11-year-old boy! I look forward to going and seeing what he has written every day. My initial motivation was to read how an autistic boy views his world since our Jaylen doesn’t speak. It’s so much easier for us speakers if we can occasionally get it in words rather than Jaylen’s language which is, perhaps, energy transfer or telepathy. Or sign language.

But also there’s something wonderful about the autistics I know, which are the two mentioned above. There is something crystal clear about their aura, something utterly untainted. They might be bruised by an event or find things in their environment that disturb them, and they might react with bemusement, confusion, possibly even tantrums or withdrawal. But the one thing they never do is start playing the game. If the problem is rectified, they return to their crystal clear, untainted, open and trusting selves.

Feral Beast is a very clever boy who is interested in all things scientific and historic, and who writes fabulous stories of fantasy and suspense. He had a fairly unpleasant few years in a normal school until eventually his mother Jayne started teaching him at home. It’s the ultimate heartwarming, happy-ending story, quite a tear-jerker, but he just says:

I think you wont be crying on my blog anymore.
I don’t want the blog to be a soppy one.

And it isn’t. A soppy one. His life is full of fact-finding missions and excursions, fabulous books and TV shows full of challenging ideas, and games and stories. Life sparkles there. I never seem to tire of it.

to laugh or not to laugh?

Here’s an unmodified snippet of an interview I did with my daughters for another blog:

Me: Has being a stripper changed your attitude to sex?

Sarah: (thinking)

Jasmine: AHEM. WooOOOoooah. Ba-a-a-a-ah.

General snortage and mirth.

Me: Splirt*. What was that? Splirt*.

Jasmine: From a movie . . .

Me: Splirt*. Which one?

Jasmine: A sheep zombie movie. It’s called ‘Black Sheep’. Splirt*. It’s a New Zealand movie and the sheep turn into zombie sheep. And if you get bitten you start to turn into a sheep. Splirt*.

General snortage and mirth.

Me: And then do you go, ‘WooOOOoooah’?

Jasmine: No. Then you go, ‘Ba-a-a-a-ah’.

Everyone: ‘Ba-a-a-a-ah’. (But kind of random and unsynchronised.)

Jasmine: So you change ‘WooOOOoooah’ to ‘Ba-a-a-a-ah’.

Sarah: I don’t think so. (She’s still answering the QUESTION!)

Jasmine has her own particular brand of humour and this isn’t even a good example of how it works but I thought I’d put it in for your edification. Point is, in the comments to my last post A-mum described herself thus:

*hanging head in shame*

to which I wanted to reply, ‘YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED!’ a la Jasmine humour. Now we all know there is little or no risk of A-mum ever actually feeling any shame about anything, but I do feel a compulsion to explain first just in case. This might be a useful post for future linking purposes when I want to make rude comments to people and will thereby be able to blame Jasmine for the offence. Cool. I knew there was a good reason I had daughters.

Well it goes like this: When you are joking you might say, ‘You should be ashamed!’ when you really don’t think the person should be, and when you are not joking you might say, ‘You should be ashamed!’ when they have actually done something quite shameworthy. It’s important that the intonation be exactly the same in both examples. So Jasmine humour is quite an acquired taste because until you acquire it you really don’t know if she’s saying something offensive or funny.

Joshua totally gets Jasmine humour and has laughter as his default setting in all conversations with her. Joshua humour is almost the same, but that’s a story for another day. Me, I’m her mother and for many years I had No Idea. I would forever be saying, ‘Is that funny?’ Either that or continue with the conversation based on the information she had just given me until eventually she would stop me and say, ‘Mum. It was a Joke.’ These days I can usually get it by assessing whether she’s likely to mean what she just said and if not, laughing uproariously. Also snorting mirthfully and splirting. It actually is quite funny once you get the hang of it.

So, A-mum, you should be ashamed.

Get it?

* ‘Snort’ doesn’t quite cover it because this is supposed to represent that particular brand of laughter involving snot, spittle, tears and, if you haven’t been to the toilet recently, our old favourite little spirt of wee. A snort comes mainly out of the nose, but a splirt is a many-orificed thing.

my life on the sunlounge

It breaks my heart to see people worrying and running themselves into the ground in order to make their life better. I used to be there but my understanding of the way the world works makes it unnecessary for me to do it any more.

This is down to my understanding of the Law of Attraction as explained in the teachings of Abraham, or in the movie (or book) ‘The Secret’, or as constitutes the central theme of Suzie Cheel’s blog ‘The Abundance Highway’. The idea is that we create our own reality in every detail by drawing it to ourselves through our vibrations. And our vibrations are determined by our emotions which are, in turn, affected by our thoughts.This has always been the case, according to Abraham, but we have never opened our eyes and noticed it before.

So you affect change in your life by changing your habitual thoughts to ones that feel better. We already do this automatically most of the time. For example, if someone says something that mortally offends me I will try a few thoughts, with some sense of urgency, until I find a feeling of relief. It might be, ‘Well she’s a bitch anyway and I hate her more than she hates me,’ or perhaps, ‘Everybody knows she’s jealous of me and only wants to bring me down a peg,’ or, ‘Huh. I can just loosen up and that comment doesn’t actually make me feel bad anymore.’ It doesn’t have to be a ‘good’ thought full of sweetness and light to be a better thought. It just has to feel better than the previous one. You can’t go straight from utter depression to lightness and joy. Try it sometime. You’ll find a pretty sour smile plastered across your face, if not a snarl. But you can work your way up through increments and get as high as you want, as high as you can be bothered to.

So if you always have a problem with money - there is never quite enough, or it is always a struggle to pay the bills - you probably have a pretty negative attitude to the whole subject and have a habitual low vibration about money. Me, I tend to have ‘just enough’ which is better than a few years ago when I usually had ‘almost enough’. Quite a significant difference in the scheme of things. So I’m patting myself on the back. I must have improved my thinking. Wooohooo!

That’s a very brief lesson in Law of Attraction, so go and find out more if it interests you, but my point is that if I don’t like the life I have, the way I would find my way out of it is not through working three jobs that I hate and pandering to people I don’t really like. It is mostly about, you know, being cool, chilling. And following the feel-like-it principle. But that’s another story which I will explain another day.

Hardest thing for me has always been to stop beating myself up for finding stuff hard. Which quite simply achieves nothing. I still do it sometimes - it’s a well-entrenched habit - but there’s no anxiety about letting it go because I know the world will still turn if I don’t do it.

Then it’s a matter of Stopping Doing Stuff. Stop stressing myself out with schemes to fix it. Just thinking about them drains my energy. I often find that my life isn’t nearly as hard or taxing when I stop adding in projects intended to make the future easier. Make now easier. Don’t do them.

And then I might get a chance to notice, in my new-found leisure time, that the current situation has some redeeming features. I usually find everyday activities that I love, that I can do, you know, every day. I’m starting to breathe. Always a good sign.

And finally I might daydream about a better situation than the one I have now, daydream on the sunlounge in the afternoon that I used to spend on one of those three jobs. If the daydream is a happy one - and that’s the whole idea - then my vibration is a match to that very future, or something along the same lines. It’s the daydreaming on the sunlounge, rather than the three draining jobs, that has the greater power to bring that kind of future into my life.

That’s how I see it which is a pretty good view of things because, even if I’m wrong, I’m having a relaxed life getting nowhere. It’s a pretty fabulous wrong track to be on.

eight. eight tips

8. I love that feeling you get when you are (presumably) losing weight. It’s a slightly empty feeling. Not gnawing hunger - I don’t like that feeling at all - but just a lightness and lack of congestion in the stomach.

I try not to eat after about 7pm. Or 8, depending on how my day is going. And I try and have the right amount to avoid feeling hungry before I go to sleep, but to feel light-of-stomach. That won’t happen if I’ve been stuffing my face all day, even if I stopped mid-afternoon, but as much as I can, I like to feel like that.

I don’t find this difficult. It would have been when I was a teenager, when it didn’t matter how full my tummy was, the idea of eating still held enormous appeal, if not compulsion. But, fortunately, I had the metabolism to match.

7 diet tips from my body

I spent most of my adolescence and a large portion of my adult life on diets. Sometime in my early forties I found I had just had it up to here with self-denial and started eating whatever I felt like all the time.

Guess what. I gained weight. But I didn’t care so much and had a determined belief that it shouldn’t be necessary to deny ourselves for a whole lifetime to maintain a comfortable body size. It must be possible to listen more carefully to our bodies and find eating habits that promote health.

Over the past four months or so I have started losing weight again. About time is all I can say. I was getting to that eyes-popping-when-shoelace-tying stage. Among other things. For example, for those of you who have never ventured into the waters of obesity, or at least the shallows, if you wear skirts with bare legs, well, you only do it once. After that you learn to adopt the bike-pants-under-skirt approach to fashion. It’s that or terminal chafing.

So, having spent seven or eight years listening to the still, small voice of my body, here are seven pertinent things it has taught me:

1. I don’t always feel like eating chocolate. Who’d a thought?

2. I usually get hungry at three or four in the afternoon so I eat something. If I am living with someone who insists that we share a meal at dinnertime (not mentioning any names) I stuff in as much as I can fit of a big meal then and go to bed on a full stomach.

3. I don’t like going to bed on a full stomach.

4. I don’t like going to bed completely starving on account of I always read myself to sleep and tend to salivate at any reference to food.

5. I crave vegetables more than I get to eat them on account of I don’t like cooking. Unless it’s Not Compulsory which is rare for women, especially mothers. I now live with one of my grown-up daughters and we each look after our own meals and only ask the other if she wants some too when we are preparing or ordering some, if she happens to be there. So it’s Not Compulsory for me now, and I cook more often.

6. I don’t crave salads very often, but I like a bit of crunch with lasagne or other lunchtime food, so I usually have a cucumber and red capsicum in the fridge for the purpose.

7. Relating to 5, I like thinking of what I would like to eat more of, rather than what I think I should eat less of.