Mission to LOVE


I’m on a mission to Love. Myself. Completely.

The kind of love that never depletes, love that overspills and never empties, filling density and space.

I’m on a mission to Love because there ain’t no medicine like it and as a woman who’s smashed her toes on the very bottom, Love was the only nectar that tenderly held my bones together for long enough to repair.

I cannot despair at the vicious behaviour of others if I am unable to witness my own destructive actions, the daily whips and slaps and disgraces that riddle my thoughts. What is the difference between my violence and theirs? Attacking internal landscapes only fuels disruption, when I hurt myself I want others to suffer, no soul is exempt from that.

Without Love I’ve dragged my flesh over broken shell and bitten the healing skin only to watch it bleed again. Without loving myself I’ve wanted the love of another to heal what I keep pulling apart, piercing their frailty in the expectation they’ll understand mine.

I don’t want to pick at open wounds anymore, expecting the needle of another to sew me back together. I am no longer a victim begging for another’s arms to save me. I have enough love to know I am already saved. Some days I believe this more than others.

I’m on mission to Love the crap as much as the good, merging the two into a golden thread used to strengthen the bond between pains and perfection.

To embody what’s already within me without fear or trepidation. To Love who I am utterly and completely with every cell of my being, every second of everyday – That is my mission.




I’ve No Earth in my Astro Chart…


I rarely feel grounded and have spent 85% of my time staring, thinking, pondering, observing, mystified by everyday magic (with little grounding, everything possesses an ethereal quality). I have lived life with my ‘head in the clouds’, a phrase I’ve become familiar with growing up. I’d rarely hear the questions I was supposed to answer during the majority of my education and the worlds I’ve created in my head (and boy, there’s been plenty of those) have felt 100% real.

I’m generally floating and that remaining 15% of me not staring into space has been spent trying to cement myself to ‘reality’ but often not my reality, the reality of another wanting me to fit with their perceptions of life. I’ve mainly dated men with tons of Earth in their astro charts so you can imagine how each relationship ended, pretty much the same way… ‘You’re a dreamer’, ‘come back to reality’.

Reality? Who’s reality? I have no freaking clue and I’m floating on a cloud of I-can’t-give-two-craps right now. Often when I’m fretting to figure shit out I just park everything, whatever I’m doing I stop, I’m still. I used to wait but waiting is anticipating, waiting for something and believing we know what may (or may not) be coming is, most of the time, wrong, as we can never really know. Although saying that, I do believe that deep down we know what’s best for our wellbeing, we just don’t often listen. So maybe ignore this paragraph, or don’t… it gets complicated this trying to fathom our existence when you’re using language that’s been constructed and all constructions have their boundaries.

I’ve been hiding away, spending the past year in hibernation. Everything got way too much and I broke. I didn’t really fit, or feel comfortable anywhere so I guess breaking myself up and scattering small pieces down different avenues felt like the only thing to do. Of course that only lasted so long until there was nothing left to give and my feet were well and truly off this earth and venturing someplace alien. Basically, if I didn’t retrieve those pieces back my body and soul (not that they’re separate but for explanations sake, we’ll count the one as two) was gonna pack up. Spiritually I was zapped and physically I was sick. I had no choice but to retreat from the world and focus entirely on healing.

The more I listened to my own language – less words, more feelings – the more I realised I don’t need to be anything other than who I am. I can’t anyway, it’s impossible. I am who I am. I’m not always bad, I’m not always good, I’m me. This is no easy lesson, somedays I want so much to be anyone other than me yet I realise that on those days I need to love ALL of me the most.

I am a dreamer and I love stories and as my imagination continues to roll, these stories ain’t going anywhere. I may as well write them out, even if no-one reads them, the imagination is always gonna play and everything is better out than in.

I also know I have to consciously anchor myself, I have to bring more weight into my core by feeling everything that’s going on inside, (plenty is going on, 24-7 as I’m sure it is for all!) to recognise and acknowledge, not dismiss or fight as I’d previously done before. Finding a spiritual practice has vital for me, yoga has helped me understand my uniqueness and totality, that no part of me is separate from another. Buddhist teachings are resonating so strongly too, although my understandings are still basic, as I’m only a beginner on this epic journey.

So that’s where I’m at now, still foraging a path that suits me, although what I believe suits me often changes in ways beyond my control. Maybe that’s the next lesson, don’t try and build the path, just follow the sound of the birds.

Who knows… who really knows anything?








I don’t want to do anything today

Maybe just stare at a tree

And savour the nothing of everything

Or savour the wholeness of me


But what if I don’t feel whole

As I stare at the tree and just be

How do I feel whole all by myself?

When I need more than me, I need ‘we’


But is that true as I don’t feel alone

And when was ‘we’ all I knew?

Because I honestly know me better

Than I knew the workings of you


So now I’m knowing me more

And ‘we’ is no longer my all

I can feel whole all by myself

And puff my own cushion to comfort my fall.


So I am glad I did little today

That I stared at the tree, just to be

These thoughts they ease my chaos

And strengthen my faith in the wholeness of me




Can I be better?

The the best I can be

Can I improve on this version of me


Can I be kinder?

I’m sure that I can

Can I be softer than the stiff that I am


Can I try harder?

And do so much more

Trying much harder than I’ve ever tried before


Can I do this tomorrow?

As I’m not sure how

To be someone other than the woman I am now.



Brewing from frustrations, bulking out minutes, hours, days with thoughts of ‘fuck this!’ You know the kind, we all know.

Ah but what moments of brilliance it brings, to shatter guarded routine and sever truth from damnation.

How much I love the heat of annoyance plaguing morning disappointments, disappointed about nothing in particular but that’s where brilliance dwells.

Vapours coat such disappointments, handed over are medicinal pills to swallow whole.

Breathe in memorable scents of enough is enough.

Trepidation crumbles, ingenious movements possess us, leading us to countless discoveries.

See, where would we be without ‘Fuck this’?

From stillness, those nights when anxieties sweat onto fresh cottons, those days we imprint disaster before the clouds break and dawn freshens the foulness. How invaluable such moments, as what inventions would have pulsed into existence without common frustrations of the everyday?

Stand to attention!

Called to listen when no longer the mundane tickles our tones, the soundtrack to our life is flippin’, side A to B.

If we behave the way we’re told, goodness, what prisoners we’d be. Prisoners to others caged sentences, paragraphs to mould the wounded, slicing flesh with manipulative intentions.

They may have their intentions but my edges ain’t cut to fit their puzzle, I’ll carve my own.

And how brilliant I feel to cross the line, to show impatience and rip the pretty ribbon.

Frustrations burn too hot to stand ridged.

NOW, it’s time and I’ll dance my way. Shoes tapping noisily, marking pavements with excited skips and lightness of swing.

Yes, the time is now so thank you frustrations for your poker fingers, shuffle the cards and deal me what ya got.

Fuck this, I’m ready for new.




Sometimes I think I talk too much or maybe I don’t say enough at all. I’ve all these ideas’ scuttling around my plate and all I do is play with them rather than digest and express.

I question how correctly I articulate myself and wonder if anyone really gives a shit about what I have to say. I dwell on this, for too long probably and so I babble to over compensate my concerns on the matter. ‘What will people think, I sound like a daft bat’ the usual, unedited internal monologue that catches the wind and escalates.

Am I boring? Oh, that’s a big one. ‘I’m boring you all, I can see your faces before you make them but fuck it, I’m going to keep talking anyway.’


What if…

IF all that I said, the words sometimes precisely constructed in my head or the racing motion of mouth that spurts any rambling thought, was the perfect amount of everything to get me to here, to now, to new understandings?

Perfect because I’ve learnt from what I do say but more importantly I’m learning from what I don’t.

This new found minimalist approach of talking less and if I’m honest there are now days when I could easily say nothing at all, is teaching me to listen. Without even trying to listen, I listen. I guess you could say it’s become an involuntary miracle.

I’m beginning to learn new languages – there are millions of vibrations rocking around in silence, let me tell you, it’s a vibrant, buzzing place to be. Plants, animals, a fleeting whisper from wise spirits, they fill the silence without any force and communicate in ways that exceed our limited dictionary. I like to talk but listening is where the real treasure is buried.

I’ll say no more other than silence really is golden and I’ve a feeling it’s going to make me very, very rich.



Seeking breaks in double lines

When sense don’t seem to make some

Outward light from shining states

And rowdy hums from rumbling tum


What feels right and what feels wrong

Can’t tell apart what is, is what

Ain’t nothing what I thought I was

And tacky lips turn cold to hot


Double days they treat me as

As best it can, as can as is

Sensing made of crawling change

And flat-lines bubble up to fizz



How do I know what it’s like for anyone else?

I have no clue how others feel when thunder shakes their walls.

What advice can I hear but mine

Yes, others talk but what are they really saying?

We pour our heart into open palms

But non of us know how to keep another alive

Trials test my own abilities, its too heavy a load to carry another

How can I know how rain feels upon others skin?

Damp days are welcomed after summer but cursed during the frost.

Is this the case for you?

I’ll never know



Day’s flow

Weaving their way into perceptions

Some days I can’t help but force

To ignite a need for outcome, to satisfy

To push against the wall ahead, breaking fingers and scarring knuckles

Day’s ebb

Confined spaces only contract as I grow

Some days, what’s the point?

Our hopes dwindle as the air thickens but we never stop

Atoms swell, caressing our view

And stone fears must be carved into tools

Then we are useful, our use becomes much more than 9-5

And we may follow gravel paths walked before

Recognising our footprints

Knowing all too well

And days link from one to the next

But each brings a new taste, a new scent from buds blossoming

And we learn

We learn that the same may never need be the same again.




My roots grew confused

One half of me foraged to the left, seeking distance, finding refuge in the dark.

The other half stayed small, hoping the sunlight would find them but I was quick to learn, sunlight doesn’t need to seek.

I grew detached, split in two and my weight never distributed evenly.

‘So be it’, thought I. ‘I’ll just continue to grow this way’.

And over the years I grew but my foundations were flaky, always conflicting and because of this I grew a little wonky.

It wasn’t so bad and I didn’t stand out too much, as those around me were a little wonky too.

When the storms blew I lost many pieces, rigid stems broke quickly as they refused to lean into the current.

As I was wonky, I lost more on one side and as I aged I found it harder to renew and as all my gusto seeped away, I stopped trying. Slowly I began to wilt.

I was tired and despondent yet restless and curious.

And then one day curiosity got the better of me as if I didn’t do something soon, I would surely rot.

I felt an intense need to shake.

To rip apart known structures and see what happens.

So I did exactly that.

I shook so vigorously that others looked at me with disfavour.

I wriggled and jiggled and rippled with such force that dormant life living in soils below woke up.

The earth began to move. Each organism scuttled, searching for new comforts.

And in those moments of complete disarray, I retrieved damp roots to dry them off and released all I was sheltering into the sunlight.

The whole of me swayed and for a second I thought I might fall, but I didn’t. My roots intertwined, warmly embracing the lost.

And my foundations spread out, they deepened. One root never far from another, I was supported by my very own community.

Water reached the tips of me.

Life crawled up my strengthening frame.

The further I reached, the more life I could welcome.

I felt integral, I still do. I feel necessary.

And now I am thriving

Now I am alive.