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It’s time to write.

What, now?

Yes, now.

*****

I’ve waited twenty years. Well, probably closer to thirty. To genuinely take my own energy for writing seriously. This love of the written word that has captivated me since I was old enough to read the dictionary (and that bible of imagination, the thesaurus) . I still remember the random word games, junior scrabble, boggle and other unnameable language puzzles that kept me forever occupied in the wild jungle of words that grew in my head. Beginning in my reading infancy. Just give me a letter. Any hypnotic letter will do. Lying on the beige lounge room carpet and staring like a wide-eyed cat while re-arranging letters into words, words into sentences, sentences into worlds. Worlds far more beautiful than any Barbie doll.

Source: weheartit.com

Source: weheartit.com

I want to say something. Surely I have something to say. Something positive, inspiring. Guru words that will resonate with others, buzz through their blood, make them nod with knowing and understanding. Perhaps the bubbles of sadness they keep locked away will start to rise. Even a wry smile would satisfy me.

Let it be said that I don’t claim any special knowledge. Not ‘consciousness’ or ‘mindfulness’. Certainly nothing as grandiose as ‘enlightened’. I struggle even to claim ‘evolving’. Evolving seems so linear and I’ve taken too many steps forward and then too many steps back. There’s more circular movement in my life than linear. But perhaps the circles of growth slowly get larger.

Not that I don’t try to be mindful or conscious. I’d like my writing to reflect that. I mean, I tried to like yoga. But I don’t want to be the perfect yogi. Nor do I need you to be one. I’d rather you show me your faded track pants with no elastic in the waist than show me a perfect Warrior pose. I’m also not a vegan and don’t aspire to be one. And I’d rather you reveal the crumpled chocolate wrapper hiding at the bottom of your rubbish bin, buried underneath the almond milk container and organic black quinoa box.

I’m tired of hearing about beautiful Bali meditation retreats and week-long courses in the jungles of South America teaching conscious toe-nail cutting. Or the latest ‘off the beaten track’ place to relax and condemn the hedonistic western lifestyle while reading lists of how to be a ‘real’ shaman/tantrika/yogi/insert spiritual elitist label here. Truth be told I have explored various shamanic practices over many years, some of which have been essential tools for navigating my wandering spiral path. Some of which I still use regularly. But my favorite ritual (which I believe every guru or shaman should have a good understanding of) is The Sacred Ritual of Imbibing One’s Own Urine… or how to take the piss out of yourself.

I’m simply here to write about experiences that feel real to me. Transformative moments. Whether blissful or painful. Or completely mundane.

I am here to claim myself.

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