Tis a peculiar place, that where memories reside. Peculiar still that they call it a ‘bank’ when it’s really nothing of the sort.
In a bank assets are stored. Neatly. Sequentially. With order and reason.
One may consciously choose to select a memory at any given time, to access that data, analyse it, delete it even. Deposit new memories. It would make sense.
But the place where memories reside is not a database. And it cares little for reason or sense.
The place where memories reside is more like a pool. Fluid. Abstract. Prone to distortion.
Memories float. Some lurk in the depths, some drift to the surface. Some are such permanent fixtures. Staking a significant spot, standing the test of time, yet slowly becoming hidden by moss.
In this pool, of tantalising temptation, memories drift, sometimes they sink. Sometimes they plunge straight to the bottom, causing waves and dragging ones soul into darkness and despair. They can twist themselves into a vortex. They can lie.
Memories. The past instantaneously becoming the present. A flashback! Days gone by. History. His story. Your story. Mine.
If memories really lived in a bank I’d like to think they’d be 100% unequivocally reliable.
Accurate views of events. Captured in HD. All 365 degrees. That way they’d be irrefutable replicas of who, what, where, when and how.
We couldn’t question them.
If memories lived in a bank our records would match precisely. And we could replay our mutual scenes, with confidence and conviction, knowing we witnessed the exact same thing.
But the place where memories reside isn’t a bank. And it doesn’t care for clarity.
It was never crystal clear to begin with. How could it be? The data was constructed by another force entirely. Perception.
You see the place where memories reside is governed by perception.
Your goggles, my goggles.
Perception. Now that is something peculiar…
Much of this world exists to me as white noise;
Interference from the masses.
An all too apt name for this game.
Just the relentless and infinite popping and crackling of darkness and light.
Relentless and infinite and loud. Because it is loud, in all its varying shades of human grey.
Yet we see in technicolour, most of us, most of the time. Transmitters of energy ourselves, we instinctively know there’s more than just snow. More to be seen. Infinitely more.
Do you see me? Or just my appearance? Are you tuned into my channel? Or lost in interference? Flick, pop, crackle.
Maybe you tried banging on the set? Maybe you’ve even thought to turn the damn thing off.
Maybe you’ve forgotten you hold the remote?
Yep! You had it all along! You can switch from the default whenever you want.
Because that’s all the white noise is really. The default setting. Pre-set to someone elses frequency.
But rest assured, the screen is yours. You the antenna. The programming of your own design. Because you, my friend, have sole control of the remote.
You choose your frequency, how you program yourself, what you channel and more what you transmit.
You can switch off the white noise whenever you’re ready. And tune in to yourself some more.
In this life time, we hold mirrors up for each other.
Each and every one of us.
In each and every encounter.
An exchange of energy, yes, but also a valuable chance to really see 👀 ourselves. Through the eyes of another.
How you feel about me. . . The thoughts that arise, the judgements made, the light you witness. . . All merely reflections of you.
Sometimes you make me uncomfortable.
Arousing feelings of fear.
Sometimes I hate you.
Curse your name.
Wish to smash you to smithereens.
As you, your intentions aside, show me the darkness within my own soul. Darkness I am not always ready, nor willing to yet relinquish.
But sometimes you see me, Love at my core. We see each other.
The windows to our souls directly facing and finally we witness that which we yearn to see reflected back to us.
‘Namaste’ we say. The light in me recognises the light in you.
Other times I can hear your thoughts and I try a little too hard to compensate for your misinterpretation of me.
As though I could force you to speak my language in my native tongue.
But then I remember, one can only meet you at the place in which they’ve met themselves. Your opinion of me really is none of my concern.
It is simply a reflection of you. For you.
The mirror you hold to highlight my insecurities? That’s the image I claim as my own. And it shows me where to pour my love.
‘She must fill up her own cup first!’ They speak of me whilst I sleep.
‘She needs to fill her own cup.’
But I didn’t know how, until now. Now I see the mirrors and I’m no longer hiding from what they have to show me.
Now I’ll take the reflections and I’ll look at myself. And minus the man – made concept of shame and my ego’s desire to judge, I’ll see my own shadows. The sore bits. Tender to touch.
I’ll see where they came from. Shine my truth torch on that subject. Embrace it. It’s part of my life’s tapestry afterall.
And then I’ll release it. Let it go. Nurse the wounds with the love I know I encompass.
Love for you.
Love for myself.
Love for the journey.
Because when our cups are full our mirrors will gleam.
And we can hold them up higher, knowing that truth love and light will bounce and beam and finally be seen.
The bearer of all of life.
World’s encompassed by womb.
Cycle aligned with the moon.
Her cloak heavy, of worries and woes. Yours as well as her own. She wears it for a life time. An accessory to the double x chromosome.
Strong as an ox. Infused with the spirit of those that came before her. She knows this war. And she doesn’t shy from the frequent shedding of blood.
She. Confined to a box.
Spirit contained to the rules of the game,
Using torture to tame and fear to remain the same.
But it’ll all be in vain.
Because there’s rights to reclaim.
She. Who hustles hard. Who knows the cards she’s been dealt. The face she’s to wear. She. Who knows exactly how to deal with the jokers of the deck.
She. Who blossoms and blooms like a sunflower, forever finding the light.
She. Whom withers and wilts, at times in silence, in the darkness of the night.
Life unfolds within her, spirit keeps her afloat. Love is her language. But go easy on her. She is human too.
International Women’s Day…? Mothers Day? What do these mean?
I think we’re hiding behind the façade that we’re celebrating and showing appreciation for half the human population.
Once a year! Hey its a start, right? 👀
The truth is equilibrium needs to be practised in every moment of everyday if we’re going to achieve the goal of peace and love for all… (that is, afterall, our collective birth right.)
So let’s celebrate, acknowledge and appreciate all the women, mums or not, everyday. 👊
Happy Mothers Day Mum Sandra (I love you everyday. 😘)