Have written "Fat Bitch Rules on the rear view window of my car.
Kali made me.
Kali is back. Been a while since I felt her presence. Last time was at Findhorn, the last time I'll be there for a while, am going cold turkey. She came flying out the top of my head like the hissing green goddess she is.
I had just got the blood tests, no cancer, but we need to do a scan. Wobbling like a jelly I went to where I know I can get hugs. For the weekend. I went on Friday night for Friday dinner and the bedlam of it freaked me out. On my knees with loneliness most of the week and I freak out at the noise people can make. So I sit at a table outside. With the friend I'm staying with and a male friend I'm awkward with coz his feelings changed towards me and I don't want that. But the friend wants him, although she's never said it coz she's sussing can she trust me coz women are the enemy for her. I'm exhausted.
Who the hell said spiritual retreats could be relaxing?
To top it all, Gardener comes and sits down beside me. In my head my only thought was piss off.
I've had enough. I don't want to do the dance. It's over.
But he says how are you and I say fine, coz I know he's being brave and fighting demons to get out of the dance too and be normal. Nirvana.
Arms brushing, thighs touching. A few months ago I'd have been in heaven. But that Friday, I just shut down and let everyone else do the talking. I'm too tired.
Then a miracle happened. I heard how whiney his voice is. How childish he is. How he holds his head and even his words back like a shying horse. And as I looked up at him, really looking at him I heard the angels chorus hallelujah as I thought 'What the hell did I see in you?'
It's a phase. I'm sure. Reality phase. I did see the adorable child in him. I did see the warrior in him. And I saw and recognise how scared he is. And his beautiful hurt brown eyes. I saw all of it.
But for now. I feel out of the dance. I truly do and my spirits rise.
Then Japanese girlfriend comes and sits opposite us. Calming herself, but her eyes are narrowed, like some animal wondering if it's safe to approach. And I know in the dance he probably sat here to make her jealous coz she's just back from Zegg, but she's still in the dance and can't see that yet.
Probably, neither can he.
Probably I'm paranoid and trying to demonise him so I can stop hurting.
Watching them. I see the power has changed. She's in the driving seat now.
It's all part of it, the anti-love dance.
You come to me, I get overwhelmed and run, you come even closer, I freak. You get fed up/hurt/despondent and go away I come running after you, don't abandon me. You come back coz you think this means I love you, and dosey doh your partner.
Repeat until the music, self esteem and tears run out.
So she sits high up and forward, on her vagina, like she's in heat. One leg stretched out along the bench, the other open towards him, but then she gives herself away when she asks me,
"Are you here to work in the garden?"
"No. I'm not"
Then she asks me, in the most annoyingly snooty fake bright and breezy way,
"So, Hazel, what is it you're up to these days?
Then fills her mouth with food.
The force of Kali coming out of me, the pulse of it coming out of me scared her shitless. She rocked backwards off her 'power' pose and dropped her fork.
You can lord it over him, but not me. I am not bowing before you.
I felt it, I heard the put downs, I knew how I could strike at her. But I didn't.
I chose to use what I'd learned.
I chose to open my heart not my mouth.
I chose vulnerability - and Kali got reeled back in.
"I'm crashing and burning actually.
She was speechless. Nowhere to go.
The only way to be invulnerable, is to be vulnerable.
But gardener started speaking. Not afraid of me, safe to look me in the eye as his sweet voice, no longer whiney, says, "When I first got the call¦
I didn't hear the rest really, I forget the conversation we had. Our first real one not talking about vegetables or gardening and avoiding. "When I first got the call¦
Is that what this is?
He was a messenger for me the first night I met him, and he's a messenger for me now.
The call. What does that mean? Heavenly fanfare of life, breaking my car, blocking my body, blaring in my ear, hitting me over the head but I've just not been getting it.
So today, weeks later, I decide to sit down in silence in front of my giant amethyst kist and ask the Universe to teach me the steps, to dance with me, not all over me. Staring into this beauty she made out of chaos, I offer up my ego and tell her,
"I'm ready. Bring me what it is I need. You know best.
Peace in every step. That's all we really need.
On a regular basis.
When you invoke the Universe, be prepared. Take a warrior stance. Coz she doesn't hang about. There will be signs on buses and billboards, dreams, overheard comments, tee shirts, lightbulb moments, you name it. Thick and fast. Stay awake.
I log on to my boring, but thankfully indulgent job, and have a reminder email; 5 Rhythms starts next Tuesday for 8 weeks.
8 my number for this year.
8 the number of weeks to go until the op.
Dance my way right up to the edge of it.
Why not? I need it.
It's the 5 rhythms I forgot about coz I couldn't because of aromatherapy classes. Which I now can't go to because of being sensible.
Better still, there's a Qigong class for the hour before it.
I hear giggling and belly dancing jingling sounds in the background as I email back,
'Count me in.'
Phone goes. My lovely chum who said I could stay with her post-op before I even got a chance to ask her,
Do you want to come to the ballet tonight?'
'Count me in', I say.
'It's formal dress'
'In Aberdeen, are you joking?'
'The theatre is re-opening tonight. Just wear what you usually wear, you'll be fine.'
Must cut out buying long velvet skirts obviously.
But the signs are all there.
I can choose to sit it out. Or I can choose to dance.
Dance to the Universal beat.
Sometimes up, sometimes down.
All the rhythms of life.
Count me in.
There are so many beautiful things in the world. One of them is a black ballet dancer in the Scottish ballet.
In grey shorts.
Leg muscles uncovered for the mesmerised room to view.
More people would go to the ballet if the men didn't wear tights.
The ballets were all modern-ish. One from 1928, one from the sixties. Beautiful black man one, called The Pump Room, had hypnotic techno music, a repetitive sexy beat and two couples falling and writhing with such control they looked to be in zero atmosphere.
But all eyes were on the black guy. Well all of mine were. He didn't make a sound when he landed. So fit, every muscle perfectly formed, puffing in and out like a human pump room - I've studied anatomy, I know.
He was perfect.
God was dancing.
Not so beautiful was the opening speech by Prince Edward. If this was ye olden days, he'd be Edward the Inarticulate. But he's very enthusiastic, like a twelve-year-old who was forced to wear knee-high socks and hasn't been allowed to play with the other boys. God love him. There's no way he's gay.
He's nowhere near cool enough.
So we had a laugh at people's reactions to a red carpet - some wouldn't even walk on it, some walking and looking about in a 'check me' sort of fashion. Some pretending they didn't even notice, but that chuffed 'if they could see me now' glint in their black rimmed specs.
And we enjoyed the champagne and enjoyed the thighs even more. And I'm open and full of love and connections so don't slap the guy who's rubbing his cock against my arse at the bar, I just step away. As he joins the woman he's with, looking at me as she's hanging off his neck staring up at him desperately. In their anti-love dance.
I only feel sorry for her, but only for a minute.
Because I know, it's her choice.
In each and every moment there is a choice.
Relish or dread - the past the future.
I choose relish.
Lashings of it.
Count me in.
Pirouettes in silent leaps;
My soul starts dancing