Zebra

1I7A0139 copy.jpg1I7A0139 copy2Zebra image captured by LiolaPhotographic 06/07/2019 at Colchester Zoo, Essex

 

It’s not always black or white. Today you are being reminded that the middle ground and compromise is important too. ~ Zebra

Zebra reminds us that there is more than one way of looking at things.  Open your eyes and see new ideas and new ways of resolving problems. Zebra reminds us that we are each unique.

© LiolaPhotographic 2019

 

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The Fairytale Trap

Never make assumptions because more often than not, they’re wrong! 

The girl with a stare, queueing at the counter with token toddler in tow, tugging relentlessly at her shirt tails as tiny tots tend to do,  is a typical take on thoroughly modern mummyhood. Looking like, and yet not like any young mum taking the chance to escape the terraced cage for a bit, another pregnancy, baby bump bulging through tight, once loose top. Dirty disposables, playgroup melodrama, and conversations cradled in cliches and laundry lists are the order of the day if she’s lucky. More often than not it’s tantrums, Telly Tubbies and tea after tears. Stopover at the coffee shop is a welcome temporary release from the monotony of reluctant motherhood. A skinny latte, and almond croissant when she thinks nobody’s looking and nobody cares. After all a little indulgence helps her get through the routine of yet another lonely day. Is this it?  A grade ‘A’ student with potential to do well someone had once said. Somewhere, sometime, something had happened to change the course of the class room. She had fallen in love with the wrong boy, and as so often happens when young girls lose their hearts had got pregnant because she believed in fairytales and happy ever afters. Hers,  however was not a Cinderella marries a Prince Charming kind of story where the glass slipper fits but more a reality tv show where the ill fitting shoe is now on the other foot and the feet are blistered and sore. Fairytales are not real, they never were and dreams are but a distant destination of a deluded delinquent imagination. Sleep is hit and miss, though more missed than hit these days. Life is filled with small demanding people and big demanding people. Somewhere beneath and between the lines of the never ending story, the girl got lost in a clothes peg world of chores and domesticity. 

Fast forward 30 years and the rest, and the girl now a mature woman of 54, grey unsaloned  hair frames her face where once was mocha and chocolate carefully corkscrewed curls. Her roles are many but still she is lost, still lonely and alone in a crowded coffeeshop where the conversation has become comfortably stale. This is an unknown woman without a face still trapped in the fairytale that she sold herself in 1984. 

“And what will it be today Madam? Your usual skinny latte and almond croissant? said the Barrista.

“No, not today. Today I shall have tea and toast’,

© Liola Lee 2016

I wrote this while treating myself to some time out in a Costas coffee shop. It was an idea I had for a book idea. It’s still an idea…..

 

 

 

 

State of no fear…

I am here, I am now, I am there, but how?

Mindful inner eye, as wide-angled lens

at once comprehends –

The totality of me, wild running free;

wind in my hair, loose vacant stare, ensues

flashing light beyond flick of switch –

Witch-way, way which?

Magickal myth or mythical trick?

Dust-silvered Darkness spreads wide her cloak;

spell-spoken lyrics, Spirits invoke;

arms thrown wide open, encircle, ensnare,

draw down the Moon, O Maiden so fair.

Empress of darkness, Goddess of night,

by day Mother Nature, earthly bound sprite;

maid in the morning, mother midday,

to crone full of wisdom by end of Sunray.

Whisper ‘O’ Willow, word-wagging pillow;

dream-spoken verse, unearthly mirth;

laughter and chants, meditate, enhance

the lives of the living, the lives of the lost,

shovel-spread organic compost.

Dance to the tune, of the Piper, the Pan –

sing, skip, make merry, drink life while you can.

Savoury sweetness, of cherry red lips;

bouncing bare bosoms, child-bearing hips.

Man borne of woman, she borne of man,

flesh interlocking, five-fold kiss, foetal plan.

Blueprint of Nature, bear fruit of the loom,

threads spun on spindles, in wheel spinning room.

Fortunes and foibles, on yarns woven tight:

a girl and a woman and hag within sight.

Singular stable, Hel’s horses three,

nag, mare and filly, on plains plainly see.

Past, Present, Future, time-tangled vine,

conceptual calendar, evergreen pine.

This way, not that way, that way, not this,

ritual direction, throw dice, turn, miss.

Earth worn costume, bone and skin,

not the body, box-like shell;

not the folds of flesh that tell;

this head, these hands, these legs and feet,

function as white cotton sheets.

Cover the bed, protect, preserve

spring-coiled foundations – Kundalini is served;

domiciled, dozing, down spinal tube,

Creation’s conundrum, carefully cubed.

Powerful presence, framed focal point,

quizzical querent, queue and annoint.

Wheel ever turning, circle rotates

on spherical cord, suspending, sedate.

Pisces pass over, pale into the night,

Graceful gradation, Saturnian slight.

Aquarian vessel, sail in with the Sun;

brilliance and beauty: out with the gun.

The circle is constant, clearly compels,

Pagan circumference with love binding spells.

Peace loving people, true and sincere,

Fool’s foot is forward –

State of no fear.

© Liola Lee 1999

I wrote this around the turn of the century as we went from one millennium to the next. 

 

 

 

Let it flow…

Many times,  I sit with my head in my hands, wondering what on earth am I doing with my life? I feel the passing of time as it whooshes by without looking back because let’s face it we cannot go back, not ever, at least not in any real sense. I see my reflection in the mirror when I can bear to look in the mirror that is, and know that I am she who is looking back at me. The girl in me is still there somewhere, I can see her in my eyes if I look closely enough. This me that I see staring back at me in the glass has the same curly hair but that which was once darkest brown/near black is now silvered and metallic. I see a few lines here and there, some that were not there before. Some have been there longer than others. They are my life lines, my story etched into my once smooth, once dewy skin. The mask of youth has been replaced by the mask of maturity and that’s okay.  Wrinkles for that’s what they are,  are the laughter, the joy, the sorrow, the anger, the confusion, the certainty of life. They are the information and data gathered over a life time of living. Sometimes I take those lines and allow them to take shape and form on a blank page, allowing them to flow freely from my fountain pen, then the ink runs dry and the current is interrupted once more.

Time to refill and flow.

© Liola Lee 2019