Screw Work, Let's Play

October is a big month for me. I am doing the Screw Work Let's Play 30 day challenge (hopefully continuing to forgive along the way!).

I will be uploading my progress from the challenge to this space, because I love this space, and because I know that my commitment is really going to be elsewhere.

All I can say, one day in, is that this challenge is frikkin' powerful. Deeply, deeply powerful.

May the miracles unfold...

My project is:

Starting a fortnightly women's circle in Steyning, West Sussex. The circle will be a place for women to come and share stories, express themselves in a brilliant variety of ways, sing, drum, play, dance, laugh, cry, weave dreams, and step into their magnificence.

On the 30 October at 5pm I will be sharing the following with the community as the output of my project:

I will have run my first women's circle (on October 18th - the room is booked!) and will be preparing for the second circle on November 1st. I'll write about the evening, including photos where appropriate, and will publish this on my blog and on this site. If the circle has covered my costs and generated my first playcheque, I will joyfully photograph it for you!

What excites me the most about this project is...

Stepping into my magnificence as I create a space for women to step into theirs. When women gather together, miracles happen. That I could be the conduit of that process is so, so exciting for me.

I am also excited at the picture I have in my mind of the kind of space the circle will be and of the atmosphere I envision for it. I intend to hold an amazing space for these everyday Goddesses.

What scares me the most about this project is...

Stepping into my magnificence. Excitement and fear are so closely intertwined for me. Specifically, inviting people to come along to the circle (inviting, not selling!) and the projected image in my mind of whether I'll be 'up to the job' of holding the space on the night and whether I'll 'perform' and 'be good enough' (thank you, Top Dog. Now get lost!)

I hereby commit to the 30 Day Challenge pledge because... 

I am ready to answer the call in my heart to step into leadership and take the action necessary to bring my dreams to life. It is time to shine!

Love,

Elloa xx

Messy Creative desk

Me, very excited, with almost finished flyers

Homemade flyers

The 'B' word

*This is a rather long post. I needed to write it that way. It might take a few minutes longer than normal to read. Just letting you know.*

Some days, life seems to want to dish up a seemingly bigger or more potent lesson than other days. It's day 25 of The Forgiveness Project, and with the end of the project, and the month, in clear sight, I'm hardly surprised to have found myself, and my beautiful beloved, in need of a good ol' clearing.

The subject? The 'B' word, that most terrifying of areas for me to broach with Nige -- babies. Or rather, baby, and the fact that since I became a Godmother three months ago (already?! How does time do that?), I have begun to question my firmly held, thirteen year old notion that 'I don't want children.'

It's not that I suddenly do want kids; it's more that I'm starting to question it, and to find that I don't know the answer as solidly as I have since I was 15 years old, when I realized that my blossoming breasts and widening hips were developing for a biological purpose, and that I couldn't ever imagine myself having children of my own (despite really, really adoring children), and that in fact I didn't think I actually wanted them at all.

In thirteen years, that opinion has barely changed. But recently... recently, I've begun to wonder. And the doubt that has crept silently, and I must say uninvitedly, into my heart, has threatened so much in my world, rocking the mobile of our expectations, understanding and perhaps even the external foundations that we seem to have agreed upon for our life together.

Nige has given his consent for me to write about this: we decided a while ago that we don't want to have children.

People around me, usually older than me, have told me that I am bound to change my mind (and the full extent of their opinions as well, in some cases), and one by one they tried to plant a seed of doubt in my mind.

But it was really only when I was on the maternity ward with my beautiful friend who has blossomed into a beautiful mother, that I really grasped the magnificence, the miraculous nature and the sheer enormity and wonder of motherhood - of birth, of the responsibility and divinity of being a parent, of the incomparable nature of this role. And I cried, as a whole new part of myself began to be revealed to me, like a land that you'd only read about in newspapers or seen on tv with a really bad reception - distant, crackly, left to your imagination to fill in the blanks. Of course, I have known mothers. I have witnessed mothers. I've been friends with them, and I've been around them. But I have never been around babies much, apart from when I worked in cafes, and the first time I held my friend's baby, my heart burst open and I felt something akin to unconditional love for this child -- this child that wasn't even my child.

So here I am on day 25 of a month long commitment to dive deep into whatever forgiveness opportunities presented themselves, and last night I was called to share my doubt with Nige, having tentatively mentioned things since my Goddaughter was born, testing the water, putting the feelers out there to see how he responded.

Let's just say that we both had to do a clearing around it.

I must be clear with you here: becoming parents has not been something that has been in my of Nige's vision of our life together (although of course I've pondered and wondered and imagined, always left with a sense of impossibility around it and feeling that I really didn't think this was what I wanted).

Why not? Isn't it the most natural thing in the world to do? And wouldn't I make a great mother? Even my English language students this summer, in a lesson in which they made predictions about one another, agreed in force and with much laughter that I will one day make an amazing wife and mother. I protested that it's not what I want, and was met with dubious looking faces. By people who don't even know the word 'dubious' in the English language.

So, why not?

Because it's f-ing scary to think about the implication it would have on our lives, on my life and on his. - not to mention this sacred little being who we would be responsible for bringing into the world. This isn't a selfish issue at all - there is an innocent third party whose very existence depends on it! And because all around us, in friends' and family members' lives, we see people whose lives are swallowed up by having kids, and that is quite a terrifying proposition. I mean, I'll be blunt with you - a lot of people who have children seem to come to resent the little b@!*tards; they tell us as much. Because I wouldn't want to bring a being into such a broken, messed up world. And because it upheaves everything I've imagined about my life, and where it's going. Because it would mean sacrificing so much, giving up so much. And am I capable of giving everything that a child needs? Because I'm 28 now, and I'm only just starting to really step into my power - I mean, my 'career' is completely up in the air and I'm an under-earner and even if I did want a child, and if Nige did too, and we both agreed to embark on the irreversible and incredible journey of parenthood, how on earth and in heaven would we finance it?! I can barely meet my bills at the moment. Also, because this world is scary. And because it would be the end of things as we know them. Things between us would change, and that frightens me too. And perhaps most of all because I dread repeating the mistakes of my parents, and I'm faced with the inevitability that that might happen because that's what humans do. I'm frightened of becoming an abuser and ruining my child's life.

There. I've said it.

But at the same time... what if?

Airing this tiny shift in my mind was a big deal. Some people might lock these things, these quiet yearnings, right into their heart. They might tell their friends. They might devote their aching to a journal, or their prayers. But for me, the most honest thing I could do was come right out and talk to my fiance about it. Because it concerns him, and us, as well as me, in a major, major way. Not sharing this with Nige would have been to hide a vital part of myself. Suddenly, there's a wall in the relationship where, in order for intimacy to occur, there needs to be a window.

In telling Nige, I let him know me a little bit more, and perhaps I gave him a gift that he wouldn't have had if I hadn't told him. Maybe it allowed him to explore or experience an aspect of himself that never would have emerged had that conversation not happened. But for sure I know tonight that my partner knows me. He knows where I'm at. He knows my heart. He knows a new and fresh aspect of me, one that I'm just awakening to myself. I love the Love that is always on the other side of me walking through my fear. I took a risk, and after being snarled at by the bulldog, I came to see the beautiful person that was also calling to be witnessed and seen. I was witnessed and seen too, and now I don't need to shroud my heart in darkness. I can let everything breathe. Breath is life-giving, and things like these need to be allowed to live, otherwise I risk carrying a ghost of a thought around with me for the rest of my life, and I risk it becoming stagnant and toxic inside of me.

I don't need people telling me what I will or will not want, although I am grateful for the various influences who have prompted this most unexpected unfolding of ever deeper parts of my heart. This is obviously a huge and deep subject, and I'm sure that if you've read this far, there are thoughts, heart murmurings, musings, experiences, reflections, wishes, hopes and insights that you have, too, which I would love to hear.

But for today, this is enough - that I've aired my doubt, the doubt about how solid I am in my conviction of definitely not wanting children ever. And the forgiveness journey continues on for another day.

Moments

Moments

by Luis Jorge Borges

If I were able to live my life again,

next time I would try to make more mistakes.

I would not try to be so perfect. I would be more relaxed.

I would be much more foolish than I have been. In fact,

I would take very few things seriously.

I would be much less sanitary.

I would run more risks. I would take more trips,

I would contemplate more sunsets,

I would climb more mountains,

I would swim more rivers.

I would go to more places I have never visited.

I would eat more ice cream and fewer beans.

I would have more real problems, fewer imaginary ones.

I was one of these people who lived prudently

and prolifically every moment of his life.

Certainly I had moments of great happiness:

Don’t let the present slip away.

I was one of those who never went anywhere

without a thermometer, a hot water bottle,

an umbrella, and a parachute.

If I could live over again,

I would go barefoot, beginning

in early spring

and would continue so until the end of autumn.

I would take more turns on the merry-go-round.

I would watch more dawns

And play with more children,

if I once again had a life ahead of me.

But, you see, I am eighty-five

and I know that I am dying.

Me having a moment. Photography by Nige.

The Sun Song

For a year now, I've been wanting to share a very special song with the world. It is a song I learned on my Shamanism month at Esalen in February last year, and it's called The Sun Song.

The Sun Song is one of a few songs we shamans learned, but of all of them, it's the one that's stayed with me and that I love the most, although I can actually recall any of the other songs we learned in a split second. These include the Thunderbeings song (which is entirely unrelated to the Thunderbirds), I Have Spirits, and I Circle Around, the last two of which we sang on a daily basis when we gathered in the evenings for our journeys into the upper and lower worlds (if this makes absolutely no sense to you, don't worry!)

Songs - and in particular singing - hold potent meaning for me. I remember being a tiny tot and loving to sing, especially at playgroup where we sang "See the sleeping bunnies". I loved this song so much in fact that over twenty years later, a friend of mine told me that her little girl sings it at nursery, and I almost had a fit as I realised that this was the exact same song that I used to sing!

When I was ten years old, I played the Angel Gabriel in our school nativity, and I sang a solo. My dad couldn't come to the concert that evening; he came the next evening, when my friend Sophie was singing the solo and I was simply singing along during the chorus. I remember feeling very upset about it and interpreting it to mean that somehow, I wasn't worth loving, and that there was something wrong with me.

Six months later, for our school leavers' concert, before my classmates and I left the comfort of Brandlehow Primary and went off to our respective secondary schools, I was offered a solo as Nancy from Oliver, but my classmates complained that I'd already had a solo that year, as Gabriel at Christmas time. It was another moment of shame for me connected with singing, and the fledgling belief that I am wrong to sing out loud began to cement in my heart.

  

After that, singing became a lot more awkward for me, and I lost confidence in my voice. During the first term at "big" school, I auditioned for a part in "My Fair Lady", and I got through to the second auditions! When I was asked to come and sing however, I made up an excuse about needing to go home and babysit, and despite my teacher Ms Bell practically begging me to stay and just do the audition quickly, I gave in to my fear and ran away.

In my final year of secondary school, I was in a play and had a duet song. No prizes for guessing that I talked my way - tantrumed my way in actual fact - out of singing.

And then, last year, a good ten years after these episodes, I found myself in California, singing on a daily basis and struggling at times to accept myself, and yet somehow, miraculously, really enjoying letting my soul just... well... sing. We drummed and sang and moved and rattled, and as the days and weeks sped past, our group became more and more trusting and more and more open, and the barriers came down, and I sang my heart out.

We learned the Sun Song on a beautiful California morning at ten o'clock, and stood together, faces upturned to the ball of fire gently warming our cheeks and kissing our eyelids, and we sang. I've sung this song many times since then, in many places - all over America; at the edge of the River Thames in London; here in the woods in Sussex. It's a song that I was intending to share with hundreds of people last year at the Burning Man festival in the US, but because I followed my intuition, I didn't go, and I am so grateful for that decision.

Many times over the last year, I've wanted to share this song, and at times I have even gotten over my self-consciousness and have sung it to a person or people. I've sung it to Nige, who regularly invites me to sing it with him in the woods at sunset. I've sung it to the young adults I worked with who have Aspergers Syndrome. And I've held back too; just last weekend, I wanted to share it with a beautiful group of women at a dance workshop, and fear won.

So, here it is. It's raw. It's not perfect. I don't take singing lessons. But it's from my heart and that makes it beautiful, however technically imperfect it might be. My intention for this is that it may bless your days and be something that you can carry in your heart, sing at your leisure and share with your loved ones.

Namaste x x x

The Sun Song - click to download

Morning sun, morning sun,

Come my way, come my way (x4)

Come my way, come my way, 

Take my pain, take my pain (x4)

Take my pain, take my pain,

Down below, down below (x4)

Down below, down below,

Cool water, down below (x4)

And at the end, a heartfelt, "Thank you sun!"