Simply twisted "She"

She dragged herself under the doona trying to block out the light; block out the voices; block out the images of a serrated edge piercing into her neck and dragging its way down her throat.

"Make it stop, make the fuckers stop!" was all she seemed to think these days.  Not a scrap of energy left in her spent body, she would catch herself in the mirror when she went to the bathroom and find herself thinking "Who the fuck is that!?!" Too tired to even shower, she shuffled her way down the hallway resisting the urge to break everything she saw as she went.

Hatred consumed her. "Have a cigarette" she thought, but there was no longer even any pleasure in that; just a sick feeling that gnawed at the pit of her stomach and the taste of bitterness trailing over her tongue.

The sky was blue and she didn't want to look at it.  Averting her eyes, she wondered how there could be beauty when she felt so overwhelmed by ugliness as if it was eating at her very core, making her bones brittle and like her mind, ready to snap at any given moment.

"Fucking garbage day, it's fucking garbage day" she remembered as she reached for the rotting fruit she had intended to eat.  Like so many intentions in a fleeting moment of strength the fruit lay stinking, rotting, blackening, like her heart.  Grabbing the black banana, she hurled it across the room at the same time kicking the lid off the bin and in the other direction. "Fuckers! Dirty stinking fuckers!" resonated like clashing cymbals in her disturbed mind and another sea of bile rose from deep within her to rest upon her drying lips.

Eyes open she envisioned the razor sharp edge of the knife, laying so easily within reach on the breadboard, slicing through her skin.  "Perhaps wrists would be a better choice" she thought.  She had heard you must slice longways rather than crossways and she became curious as to how messy it would be.

Every morning was the same.  The night before full of ideas, plans, changes to make; but every morning it was the same.  Get her a cup of tea, get her tablets, make her a toasted sandwich, check the heater, make her bed, empty the commode and listen to the fucking Morning Show so loud that it shattered any chance of a peaceful start to another long and arduous day.  Then, of course, would come the proverbial icing on the cake, the inane fucking chatter about the prodigal son and the successful daughter, absent bar a five minute fucking phone call but ah, what legends - fucking legends. "What the fuck!?!" seemed to be a constant catch cry in her mind.Today she couldn't even look at her.  Shoulders slumped, she felt as if she was the one that should be turning 90 and the anger consumed her once again.

"Get out, get the fuck out of the house" banged around in her head like a cricket ball being bounced against the walls of her skull.  The urge to break plates, glasses, throw pots, smash windows, fucking kick something - hard! - was overpowering.  It was like pieces of her body were all working against her, a war of control raging through her and she no longer trusted who was going to win.

Even the dog couldn't console her today; her trusted loyal and loving companion that was at her side when no-one else was, even he could not comfort her.  The tides were rising.  A tsunami fucking motherlode of pent up frustration was about to explode into the open and she was desperately trying to contain it.  So many questions about herself ran through her mind and she wondered if she was broken beyond repair.  Again the debating teams took to the podium in her head and she squeezed her eyes so fucking tight trying to get them to shut the fuck up!

Isolation and the overwhelming feelings of imprisonment, combined with complete and utter exhaustion, fed her contempt for the absent siblings her mother seemed to care more about than her.  Confusion battered her about as surely as if she had been physically abused. "Family, what the fuck does that word mean?" she seemed to continually be asking herself.  She had no answers, she didn't know.  Just like she didn't know herself anymore.  She felt like a trapped animal desperately trying to claw its way back to the reality and freedom it once knew.  She was self destructing, she knew it but she didn't know how to stop. Eventually all things take their toll.

She edged her way deeper under the doona trying to block out the daylight that reminded her so cruelly of the life she was missing.  Clasping a pillow to her ears she made a vain attempt to shut out the voices and she closed her eyes ever so tightly in the hope of putting a stop to the images of that taunting serrated knife, praying to make it through another day.

She had never known she was capable of such violent disdain for another human being, let alone so called family. "It's the hypocrisy of it all really" a calm voice echoed "Fucking irony of it all"

"Maybe I better stop watching Dexter" was her final thought as sleep saved her from her torment.

(c) Dianne Traynor  11 July 2013

"She"
Who is she that no longer knows herself? What will become of her? I will tell you ...
She uses the pen as her sword, ravaging pages until she is spent ... and saved.

Don't get tangled up in the twisted perception of another ...

"I studied psychology and I am a philosopher" he was heard to say as he continued to insult and judge. Ah, but this particular philosopher will argue that you take it personally when it is merely relating to his own self. Perhaps it is and yet instinct continues to niggle that it is merely an excuse to criticise others, to be cynical and bitter, whilst claiming an optimistic yet realistic viewpoint.

It would seem so much can be hidden behind a piece of paper, a certificate that is ego wrapping in the big scheme of things. When one studies psychology to resolve their own issues or to feed the ego, in my humble opinion, it can be a slippery path. One can quickly differentiate between a psychologist who studied with the purpose of truly helping others and the psychologist that wanted letters after his/her name. On the philosophy side of things, I have never before felt an affront when having a philosophical debate so a little voice was heard in the background "Danger Danger Will Robinson" ha ha ha

Personally I will take the soul who owns their struggle and concedes imperfection openly and honestly hoping that like souls will understand, and in that resonation find connection, friendship, truth and love.  If you feel the need to judge another soul you really do not know, it would be wiser to do so in silence but if you feel the desire to be supportive of them, I am sure they would welcome you with open arms

To all who have been criticised unjustly ~ let go of those that would judge you in ignorance and embrace those that love you for who you truly are. 

Namaste ~ Diantra 

Waiting for change

Written for those who find themselves feeling overwhelmed as they care for someone - be it an elderly parent, a terminally ill loved one or a disabled child ... you are not alone ...

There comes a moment when you realise you have been sitting, far too long, waiting for change; change that you cannot make happen.  Sometimes those we love and care for are motivated by self interest, perhaps self preservation that we cannot understand, and so they are the mitigating circumstances that cause you to behave differently and you find yourself sitting on a bench wondering what happened to you, where the person you once knew went?

Time has gotten away from you and you find yourself lost in numbness; feelings of helplessness; feelings of guilt at wanting your old life back and your mind bursts with overwhelming questions of why you feel such a failure and when you changed? when you became this person sitting on an icy bench feeling invisible in a crowded place?  Ah, to love unconditionally and support, is this the price?

Eventually though, the bench becomes cold enough to cause you more discomfort than the situation you find yourself in; the lack of family support; the increasing burden of debt with medical expenses or the myriad of other things impinging upon you ...  and you increasingly just don't want to sit there anymore.  You have watched life go by for so long and yet you do not wish to abandon those you care for.  What to do? How to care and not simply walk away whilst not losing yourself? And so your mind begins to question ... again!

In your questioning, you realise the futility in hoping the person you care for will see the damage they are causing because they simply cannot, they are facing their own demons; you realise the pointlessness in being angry with siblings that seem not to care and you accept that will be their cross to bear when the time comes and you decide to stop wasting your precious limited energy being angry at them; you realise you have become isolated through ridiculous feelings of humiliation and self doubt and you feel humbled that there are those who still believe in you; you forgive yourself for the debt that was not of your own doing; you accept you have made mistakes and you own them; you stop apologising and you stop feeling sorry for yourself.

Instead, you look around and see the beautiful flower at the edge of the cold seat; you close your eyes and feel the warmth of a beautiful sun upon your skin; you think of things you can still do despite your circumstances and you reach deep inside yourself and drag out that last fragile remnant of motivation ... and you move ... for whilst there is movement, whilst there is breath, there is hope; hope for a different tomorrow. 

You decide to simply surrender to what is and to believe that the Universe will look after you.  And so you let go, just let go. 

Embrace this moment, it is a step in the right direction.

(c) Dianne Traynor 29 May 2013

Finding peace in the twisty maze

If I was to sit only in this moment, this precise moment ...

where Banshee looks so cute scavenging through the grass for a morsel of vegetables I scattered only moments before

where the gates play a tune harmonising with the wind chimes, accompaniment to the birds in the distance and the whirring of a helicopter not even in view

where the shadows of leaves dance in and out of time to the orchestra of nature all around

where I taste every bean grounded as I take a long pleasurable sip of my coffee

where I can practically hear the lemons chanting to each other "You jump, no you jump, no you first"

where the toot of a train travels on the breeze as a tiny leaf somersaults over my head, pirouettes against a beautiful blue backdrop of sky and playfully tumbles to the waiting blanket of grass

where the low rhythmic beat of a bass drum entices the wind to get stronger

where there is so much quietly happening as a dragonfly lands to visit on one of the perfectly laid bricks upon which my table and chair are sitting ...

If I was to sit only in this moment, this precise moment ...

there is no worrying but rather an appreciation for the flock of birds passing over the yard

there is no missing a love that is not mine yet but rather observation of new growth on my lettuces

there is no resentment but rather a gratefulness for the intermittent breeze that cools a hot skin

there is no sadness but rather a smile at Banshee's wagging tail and snort for attention.

If I were to stay in this moment, this precise moment ...

then the stress of "whatever" would only be relevant in a moment yet to be, rather than an impediment to every other moment and would not distract me from the joy of this moment ...

... this moment where I am aware of ...

the tingling in my toes

the movement of my arms as my pen writes

the moisture as my tongue licks my lips

the energy in my body from the fruit recently enjoyed

the soft rubbing of my hair as the wind blows it across my shoulders

the panting of a puppy so happy to have me sitting exactly where I am ...

in this precise moment.

If I could practice being in the moment, every moment, then life would be less complicated, less worrisome, less stressful and move to a life of appreciation, wonder and gratitude for "what is" and if I, for a moment, let myself "think" about that, then I think I like the idea of such a life.

And the miner bird with the iridescent orange beak that just landed on my fence, joined by the throaty chorus of the pigeon that just perched on my roof, agree.

Peace.

(c) Dianne Traynor   20 October 2012

I turned ... and there I was ...

Writing - and quite possibly dialogue, or posts, on social websites now I come to think of it -  can be:

Translucent and yet clouded

Touching and yet divorced

Enlightening and yet dark

Imaginery and yet real

Resonating and yet totally separated

I keep thinking of how something will inspire me to write a particular piece and it can be so very different as to how it may be interpreted.  I remember poetry I have read of another and how it was so easy for me to internalise it, feel myself there, imagine that I knew what this person went through and feel all manner of joy .. or sadness .. or compassion .. and yet, honestly, I do not have a clue as to what actually inspired them to write that particular piece.  That is their secret, their moment, their inner voice that only they can truly understand.

What may be read as a dark passage may be nothing of the sort in reality, what is read as a broken heart by a unrequited love may actually be a piece drawn on emotions through a painful family experience; what one person may read as a poem about desperation - another may read as a poem about love - another hope - another hopelessness ... it is all so very personal, and therein lays the magic.

For me, given my passionate association with expression through the written word, it is all about triggers. Words are the triggers to our emotions, the light switch to a memory, the candle flickering in the subconscious, the rope to hang onto, the ladder to climb and see a new view, the passage from one room to another, the doorway into a new world, the escape hatch from reality, the touch that can make us feel less alone, the laughter that can lighten the load and the resonation that brings hope that someone "gets" us.

In my private world, writing is truth drawn from the purest well .. no hidden agenda, no need to hold back, no desire to mislead, no expectation and no coat of armour .. it is where I can dive deep, swim with sharks and remain totally vulnerable, open to all possibility and live without fear.  It is heaven in a cup of piping hot coffee, sipped on a porch, talking to the moon and wishing upon the stars.  It is home.

If anything I write touches another then I am humbled, for it makes me feel a sense of contribution. If a reader can draw strength, laughter, a sense of association or love - or merely be taken to a "moment", I consider this a gift and I feel blessed.  But the "truth" in the writing is the truth of the writer alone, and although it may resonate with another's truth, that is because it has merely been a trigger into their own world not the private world of the writer .. and therein lays the mystery.

When it comes to dialogue, or posts, on social websites there are definite similarities and I am often perplexed how people who have never met another can assume to know why that person posted something.  Sure, sometimes it may appear clear cut .. other times not so much.  It is at these times, I find it quite amazing how, though no lengthy dialogue has taken place, some presume to know another and to offer uninvited advice that may actually be quite the opposite to what is required. Personally I think this is a breach of boundaries but then that is the internet, where it appears boundaries have become blurred.  As for how I react in this scenario; well, sometimes I find it annoying, sometimes amusing, sometimes I take no notice and other times I want to snap back "Don't assume!"  More often than not, I will distance myself for a while and write.

So back to writing and the art of passionate expression.  I would describe it as an amazingly honest, free floating world with no boundaries, no limits and where anything is possible.  All the elements of the real world are there .. sunshine, rain, love, betrayal, demons, angels, war, victory, disappointment, heartbreak, oceans, deserts, life, death and so much more .. and yet it is an entirely different world altogether.  It is a world of truth; truth in that moment .. when the mind sends signals through the body to the pen that draws from the heart .. and in that moment, there is no earthly reality ... only magic.

And, today, as I turned .. there I was .. and I gave thanks for the magic.

(c) Dianne Traynor  16 October 2012

Twists and turns of excitement!

My first poetry is collection - a combination of poetry and wonderful photography courtesy of talented friends - is now available for purchase .. how exciting is that!?!

If you are interested, and I sincerely hope you are, please visit my author website

http://sbpra.com/DianneTraynor

At this stage, it available through the publishers direct as per the website and also through Amazon.com and Barnes & Noble.com (links on the site)

I hope you will visit and I thank you for visiting my blog

Namaste, Dianne

Turn around ... and see ...

I found myself this morning thinking back to an event of nearly twelve months ago.

It was an exciting time, I was immersed in a writing course with The Writer's Studio and thoroughly enjoying myself, more than I could ever have imagined.  I was planning to submit some of my poetry to a publisher in the States and was so proud of myself for facing the fear of doing so.  I was sharing some of my writing on Facebook and was living in such gratitude for the feedback I was receiving that was encouraging me to move forward and follow my dream.

Then it happened .. someone stole one of my pieces, placed it on their wall with my name changed to theirs pretending the words came from them.  I was heartbroken, devastated and so disappointed in human nature.  I wrote a short piece for the writing course called "Life Sucks" and posted it on my wall, I deleted all my poetry for fear of that being stolen too .. in other words I reacted from a place of fear and I hid.  I even deleted my blog called Old Souls where I was enjoying posting my work.  This person had not only stolen my words, they had stolen my joy of sharing, they had stolen my enthusiasm and they had opened the door to a dark hall of fear.

At the time, Facebook friends wrote comments like:

"I think you should be excited that someone is stealing your writing"

"Name and Shame??"

"Expose them for stealing your work and comment " thank you for sharing my work""

"And her friends, some she had never met, felt her pain. The sickening feeling of intrusion, of helplessness ..."

but I could not be consoled, until I received a piece of feedback from one of the other course participants, that said ..

"I had an ex who was a writer and he would share his stories rather freely. I asked him wasn't he scared they would steal his ideas and he told me flatly no ... his story was always his story and anyone that stole it would never be able to carry the load because within him lay the foundation and the key"

These words kept playing in my head, over and over, they resonated on such a deep level and woke up the writing warrior within who was happy to face fear head on and do battle.  And so I returned to post more pieces and trust in the well of words that live in the garden of my mind.

When faced with disappointment, we must turn around and see the bigger picture.  This is not always easy to do but thankfully, whether it be friends or perhaps even a stranger, there is always someone to rock your frozen feet and spin you in the right direction if you keep an open heart.

 

And so the lesson for me to learn was that a waterfall cannot be stolen, an entire garden cannot be stolen.  Someone might steal a flower or drink from the fountain uninvited but their pleasure will be temporary, whereas you live in that garden, you nurture it and watch it flourish, you shower in the waterfall and embrace its gentle caress, you breath it ...

YOU ARE THE GARDEN ... YOU ARE THE WATERFALL ...

and the only way that can be stolen from you is if you allow someone to place you in fear. 

The truth of the turnaround is simple ... the more you share, the more flowers that bloom, the energy of the waterfall increases and you are surrounded by your own private place of beauty that no-one can ever steal from you.

So this morning, I give my most heartfelt thanks to those much wiser than myself who cared enough to turn me around to see.

(c) Dianne Traynor 12 October 2012