Friday, 6 October 2023

SHE IS POWERFUL by Shahida Arabi


"SHE IS POWERFUL"
by Shahida Arabi

Here is a truth you often don’t hear:
Traumatized women have the potential to become the most powerful people in this world.
The most ignorant members of society call this type of woman “damaged.” But she is the most powerful type of woman there is.
What they forget is that survivors have the most dangerous advantage of all: resilience.
When you try and you try but you can never bring a woman down, you’ll know there is no going back.
Don’t fool yourself. You could never defeat her. You never will.
This is the woman who will always rise from the dead; Lady Lazarus, after going through hell and back.
This is the woman who has burned her feet in the flames time and time again and always lives to tell another tale – even if she has to crawl back to life. . . .
When someone tells her, “You can’t do it,” she says, “Watch me.”
She is fiery light birthed out of wintery darkness. Brought into the underworld by Hades, Persephone brings forth spring and rebirth when she re-emerges finally from the cold.
She owns her shadows and seamlessly weaves them into the fabric of her freedom, creativity, imagination and independence. . . .
She lived all of her nightmares in high definition. She was given every reason to give up, handed every justification to never believe in herself or anyone.
But there is raw magic in the ways in which she cultivates a faith in herself, to manifest the dreams her soul was meant to bring forth.
Despite it all, she still conquers.
She still survives and thrives.
The “damaged” woman is capable of immense manifestation not just in spite of, but because of the traumas she has gone through.
There is no one more motivated than a woman who has constantly been told what she cannot do or who she cannot be throughout her lifetime.
There is no one more determined to succeed than someone who has nothing left to lose.
The “damaged” woman doesn’t sign up for the hardships of her journey – but she plays the hell out of the cards she’s been dealt.
The “damaged” woman is not damaged at all – she is wounded, and in channelling and healing her wounds, she becomes the source of incredible energy, the site of unbelievable potential for abundance and change.
She possesses the power to use her wounds for the greater good and her highest good.
She builds her own success and becomes her own rugged hero; tends to her own scraped knees.
She uses every stone thrown at her to build the foundation for her empire.
Brick by brick she builds – and despite every attempt to tear her walls down, she rescues herself again and again.
Despite it all, this type of survivor may still face hatred, envy, greed from those around her. . . .
As a result, she becomes the survivor of countless witch hunts, the target of many persecutors. Yet when they try to burn her at the stake, she does what comes naturally: she resurrects herself. . . .
Now when she creates, she creates new worlds and transforms and manifests on a level that cannot be recreated by someone who never had to struggle to survive.
When you hear the voice of a powerful survivor and the will of a warrior – there is nothing you can do but to stop and listen.
She is the voice of a million lifetimes lived.
She is the voice of the hopeless and the powerless when the fire is brought back to their eyes. She is the harbinger of the justice that the voiceless have longed to hear and feel and touch.
Regardless of how much you try and how it may seem, you can never truly bring a survivor like this to her knees; she already knows the value her scars bring.
She knows how to fill the cracks between her wounds with gold.
She knows how to transform each bitter word cast upon her into an iron-clad will that will set her and other caged birds free.
You can’t ever defeat a “damaged” woman, because she knows exactly how to save herself.
-Shahida Arabi
excerpts from SHE IS POWERFUL
Artist: Cosmic Svasti

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Thursday, 5 October 2023

AFTERLIFE Becky Hemsley


"AFTERLIFE"
(by Becky Hemsley)

“In my next life,” said the tree
“I think I’ll be a dragon,
Or maybe be a mountain troll
Who owns a giant tavern
Perhaps I’ll be a little girl
With secret, hidden powers
Or maybe be a tiny ant
That lives amongst the flowers
Perhaps I’ll surf a waterfall
Or burrow underground,
Perhaps I’ll find a heart-shaped balloon
And float up to the clouds
Perhaps I’ll find a rocket
And I’ll fire it into space
Or maybe meet a pirate
With a scar upon his face”
“What do you mean?” I asked the tree
And that is when he said
“You know we’ll all die one day
But our souls will not be dead
So when the world assumes
That I have reached eternal sleep
I’ll worry not because I’ll have
So much life left in me
See, they will take my ever-reaching
Branches in their glory
And I’ll become the pages
Of a many-treasured story
And that is why you’ll often
Find them leafing through the pages
Or turning over new leaves
Of a tale they’ve known for ages
I will not look as I do now –
My life will be rewritten
But they will hear my echo
On the pages if they listen
So if you feel inclined to,
Take a walk into the woods
And take a bag upon your back
Packed with your favourite books
Then find a shady canopy,
A leafy spot to rest
And read the trees the stories
Of the lives they might live next”
*******
Becky Hemsley 2022
Gorgeous artwork by Quasirosso (@gio_quasirosso on Instagram)
‘Afterlife’ is from my newest collection, Letters from Life https://a.co/d/f1WmnD0

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USING OUR IMAGINATIONS By J. A. Elliott 2023


"USING OUR IMAGINATIONS"
By J. A. Elliott 2023
When I was a boy growing up during the 1950’s and 60’s in my home town of Mansfield, I was a Cowboy, Roy Rogers, Hop-along Cassidy or the Lone Ranger. I remember the little sheriff’s outfit I had, with it’s star of silver, and the cap guns that sat in their leather holsters on either side of my hips. The old brush from the yard was my makeshift horse as I ran down Bancroft Lane shouting ‘Hi Ho Silver’ and waving one of my cap pistols in the air, the smell of spent sulphur wafted my nostrils as I shot a few rounds at the baddies, lurking near the bushes. We would swap around a bit, some days being the goodies, others being Billy the Kid and his band of outlaws.
Sometimes I was a spaceman like Dan Dare from my comics, or the great Flash Gordon fighting to save earth from the evil Emperor Ming, our rocket ship being an old abandoned pram that’s seen better days, but to my friends and me it was whatever our imaginations could make it, from a boat in our pirate adventures to a world war two Spitfire shooting down a German Messerschmitt in a dog fight over our little Mansfield town.
One day I was Superman, with my red jumper tied around my neck to form a cape as I flew down our street to stop that runaway train and rescuing the damsel in distress, well one of my sisters laying on the pavement, shouting ‘Help Me, Help me Superman’
I was a crack commando wearing the balaclava that my mum had knitted, with mud on my face I fought my way to the old hut across the overgrown field, after all it was a German fortress and I had to knock out those machine gun posts, throwing small stones as pretend grenades to blow them up.
Another day, and another game, today I was a knight in shinning armour wearing a colander on my head, and the old dustbin lid as a shield, and a small garden cane as a sword. I was Lancelot or Galahad, King Arthur or Percival, defending the round table from the fierce dragon that lived at the bottom of our garden. It was the neighbours growling pet dog really, but to us it was our dragon for the day.
Our games were only limited to our own imagination. Every Saturday my friends and I would go to the Granada cinema, the sixpenny rush as it was affectionately known, to see our hero’s on the big screen, then rush home and re-enact what we had seen within our own games, adding bits to the plot here and there, as we went along.
These were the days of great adventures, where games and imaginations knew no bounds. A time of innocent fun as we frolicked in the sunshine enjoying the fresh air, after all, we only had a few real toys so we had to use our imaginations. I cannot remember ever being bored when I was growing up during the 1950’s. My friends and I always found something to do or some game to play. We didn’t have home computers; we didn’t have laptops, mobile phones, tablets or games consoles, all we had was ourselves and our own creative imaginations, using whatever we had around us, and like the song “We had joy, we had fun, we had seasons in the sun But the hills that we climbed were just seasons out of time”
The memories of those far away days still linger on, as vivid a picture in my mind as they ever were. My friends from my childhood games have all now past away and I alone am left with these treasured memories of our long summer days together playing in the sun.

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Wednesday, 4 October 2023

THE DRAGONFLY


"THE DRAGONFLY"
(author unknown)

The Story of the Dragonfly have been shared and retold by many, but it is worth sharing again as it can bring comfort to those who are grieving the loss of a loved one and make us consider that death is a doorway into a different existence, a doorway to a bigger room.…..
“Once upon a time, in a little pond, in the muddy water under the lily pads, there lived a little water beetle in a community of water beetles. They lived a simple and comfortable life in the pond with few disturbances and interruptions.
Once in a while, sadness would come to the community when one of their fellow beetles would climb the stem of a lily pad and would never be seen again. They knew when this happened; their friend was dead, gone forever.
Then, one day, the little water beetle felt an irresistible urge to climb up that stem. However, he was determined that he would not leave forever. He would come back and tell his friends what he had found at the top.
When he reached the top and climbed out of the water onto the surface of the lily pad, he was so tired, and the sun felt so warm, that he decided he must take a nap. As he slept, his body changed and when he woke up, he had turned into a beautiful blue-tailed dragonfly with broad wings and a slender body designed for flying.
So, fly he did! As he soared exploring and seeing the beauty of a whole new world which was a far more beautiful and superior way of life to what he had ever known existed.
He remembered his beetle friends and how they were thinking by now he was dead. He wanted to go back to tell them, and explain to them that he was now more alive than he had ever been before.
His life had been fulfilled rather than ended. But, his new body would not go down into the water. He could not get back to tell his friends the good news. Then he understood that their time would come, when they, too, would know what he now knew.
So, he raised his wings and flew off into his joyous new life ..”
The fact that we can't see or communicate with our loved ones after transformation which is called death doesn't mean they cease to exist.
We are – as the old saying goes – not human beings on a spiritual journey but rather spiritual beings on a human journey. Life should not be understood merely as a finite period during which we walk this earth but rather as simply the beginning of a spiritual journey that begins in this world – in a limited, constrained form – and continues for all eternity.

Death is merely the point of that journey at which the soul is finally released to take flight and soar to the higher station that it was intended for

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BUT I DIDN'T TELL HER by Becky Hemsley


"BUT I DIDN'T TELL HER"
(by Becky Hemsley)

I remember sitting in a bar once and watching a woman dancing. She was so full of joy and life that I found it hard to take my eyes off her. She was mesmerising.
But I didn't tell her.
I remember being in the supermarket one day and seeing a woman who had matched her eye make up to the colours in her headscarf. Her eyes shone when she smiled and she looked beautiful.
But I didn't tell her.
I remember watching a fellow mum on the school run years ago. She had a toddler who kept stumbling, stopping to pick things up and pausing to point things out. The mum was so encouraging, patient and calm with her toddler, despite being in a rush herself. I remember thinking what a wonderful parent she was.
But I didn't tell her.
And how often have you probably been that person? Not the one noticing and saying nothing - but the one being noticed.
The one exuding calm, beauty and joy to such an extent that people will remember you years later as the person in the bar or the woman in the supermarket or the mum on the school run.
The one who was mesmerising. Beautiful. Wonderful.
And yet you'll never know because they never told you.
But they noticed you. I promise.
*****
Becky Hemsley 2022
Beautiful artwork by Pascal Campion
This one is from my latest collection https://a.co/d/7ZqFeWs

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A PENNY FOR MY GUY By © J. A. Elliott 2023



"A PENNY FOR MY GUY"
By © J. A. Elliott 2023
During the 1950’s and early 60’s, it was an era of innocence, an age where we could play all over Mansfield, my home town, in relative safety, even for the very young.
There were fewer cars on the roads back then, so, street games for us kids were the norm. Where football was not restricted to eleven players a side, sometimes we’d have fifteen or even twenty; other times there’d be just five a side. Both girls and boys played the street games together, which often lasted all day, well at least till tea time, when mum’s throughout the area, would screech out our names to come home, and give us five minutes to do so or else.
It was during these carefree autumn days, that our attentions turned to making our annual Guy Fawkes, so we could go do penny for the guying in town.
It was quite funny really, as we’d scrounge old clothes, and stuff them full with newspapers. The guys we made, often looked smarter than we did in our play clothes. Sometimes we had a bought mask for our guy, now that was a luxury, but mostly we simply drew a face on some cardboard, it really didn’t matter, but the more effort that was put into making our guys, meant we’d probably get more money in our little pots. More money meant more fireworks, (mostly bangers) or more sweets we could buy from our local corner shop.
As kids, we were very competitive when it came to our guys, we would be in groups of two’s and three’s, and set off to gain the best pitch’s in town, which were usually outside cinemas or local pubs. My favourite spot was outside the Empire cinema, at the corner of Sutton Road and Rosemary Street, which was great because of the number of people passing to go into town as well as the cinema queues outside. There would be several groups of us kids, penny for the guying, so competition was stiff, and the commissionaire would sometimes chase us off if we became too much of a nuisance to the queues of adults, waiting to see their favourite movie. No such thing as Multiplex back then, but you did get two films, the main feature and a lesser supporting ‘B’ movie.
All this effort over our surreal manikin only to be thrown onto a bonfire when it came to November 5th. But it was all good fun, and our rivalries forgotten once we were stood or sat, around the blazing fire on a cold autumnal night, wrapped in our thickest coats, hand knitted scarves, gloves and balaclava’s, clutching our toffee apples and waiting for our traditional supper of backed potatoes, that had earlier been wrapped in foil, and placed strategically around the burning embers before us. The whoosh, crackle and bangs, as the fireworks sped off into the smoky night sky, the ahhh’s from the crowd as rockets burst into explosive colours above us.
The communal spirit warmed everyone and brought us all closer together, friends and neighbours alike. Sadly much of this spirit has gone from bonfire night. The magic of those happy days, all but a distant memory now. Penny for the guying is no longer allowed on our streets, it’s classed as begging, mind, you wouldn’t think our streets were safe enough today for our children. Still I can always look back on those simpler carefree days of yesteryear with nostalgia, happy in the knowledge that I was glad to have grown up during the 50’s and 60’s in my little Nottinghamshire town..
FOOTNOTE
Tin foil (as in aluminium foil, literally made from tin in those early days) had been around for quite a while - we know it was used for cooking as early as the late 19th century. But aluminium foil (which is often called “tinfoil”) was first manufactured by Dr. Lauber, Neher & company in Switzerland in about 1910. It was believed to have been used extensively during WW2 to block and confuse the newly developed radar signals.

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WHEN WE LOOK


"WHEN WE LOOK"
(author unknown)

My husband gifted me with a quiet getaway in the country last Mother’s Day. I arrived on a Friday afternoon and basked in the peaceful silence the entire first day and night.
But the next morning, I heard a flicker at the kitchen window. Upon closer inspection, I found that a wasp had somehow crawled inside the window and was buzzing behind the blinds. After about 20 minutes of psyching myself up and finally smashing the wasp with a scream, 😂 I patted myself on the back and returned to my solitude.
About 20 minutes later, a fresh wasp appeared behind the same blinds…a wasp I knew wasn’t there when I killed the first one. I immediately imagined myself killing wasps for the rest of the weekend. THEN I imagined a wasp stinging me while I slept.
So I did the only reasonable thing a grown adult can do - I messaged the owners of the cottage and asked if they had any wasp spray, hoping they would come to my rescue. 🤣 They replied that they would be there in a few hours to help.
And so…I waited.
And while I waited, I heard EV-ER-Y-THING. While the wasp itself wasn’t making much noise at all, I SWORE I heard it buzz hundreds of times.
Then I saw it fly across the room. Or at least, I THOUGHT I did. But when I returned to the kitchen window, the wasp was still there.
THEN I started to feel it crawling on me. Except…it wasn’t crawling on me at all.
Then the owners arrived, killed the wasp, and sealed up the window to prevent further intruders…and I suddenly didn’t hear or see or feel a single thing again. I went from pure paranoia of every tiny sound to ignorant bliss of the sounds I should have otherwise noticed.
And it really struck me that we find what we look for.
When we look for wasps, we find them.
When we look for drama, we find it.
When we look for our friends’ and family members’ faults, we find them.
When we look for evidence that the world is a terrible place, we find it.
When we hyper-fixate on ANYTHING, our brain will look for evidence to support our theory. It will nit-pick every situation, every word, every sound to say, “See?! I TOLD you so!”
But the inverse can also be true! Because our brains are just as capable of looking for the good in every situation.
When we look for peace and quiet, we find it.
When we look for our friends’ and family members’ best qualities, we find them.
When we look for the goodness in the world, we find it.
And when we look for reasons to feel thankful and blessed and grateful to be alive, we find them.
We find what we look for. So be sure to look for the things you actually WANT to find.

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"A VERY MERRY CHRISTMAS MARKET, NOT"

"A VERY MERRY CHRISTMAS MARKET, NOT" (author unknown) Is there anything less festive than the Christmas markets? Thousands of piss...