.worn mirror.

If self-awareness

carries the assumption

that we see ourselves clearly,

can it not also

carry the assumption

that we see ourselves dimly,

with blind-spots?

Looking into the reflection

of a worn mirror.

Would not this realisation

move us to feel compassion for others

seeing them blinded by blind-spots?

What if this new self-awareness

led us to be humble?

Would not this kind of humility

be truly humane?

.hartland.

.place of power.

It is time for women to stop striving for equality with men – this is ridiculous.

Let us seek to be the very nature of woman – perceivably one of the most feared creatures on earth. Do you doubt that we are feared? Look around at all the ways in which women have been suppressed – now tell me this is not due to fear.

Suppressed and distorted women only become more feared, because they are an unknown entity – unrecognisable, even to themselves.

Women, it is time to learn our true nature. Not by observing other women or men, but by looking within. To be attentive to our own heart thoughts.

Now is the time to strip bare our truth, and wrestle with it.

Let us recognise why we do what we do, and then, with compassion as our filter – let us question ourselves again.

I am not saying let us strive to wield power over men – only the insecure and sick seek such power.

I am saying, let us realise our own beauty, our own mystery, and our own selves. Let us honour our point of difference, whilst honouring the point of difference which is man.

Let us live with a well-developed conscience founded on the solid ground of truth – unearthed in the quiet place.

Let us be women anchored in compassion for the men and women who have been dwelling in the slums of generational ignorance and fear.

Let us take responsibility for our own thoughts, attitudes, needs and desires. Let us not live in a place of victim-hood – passive and shrivelled.

Our hearts are our own stomping ground – no-one but ourselves rule this sacred place. This is our place of power.

.hartland.

.perspectively infinite.

– I hold my opinion loosely –

loosely in my hands and wait –

wait and watch for the truth –

the truth to filter through my fingers and fall –

fall to the ground,

where it can be kicked up and stirred –

stirred to settle; to settle into a foundation –

foundation worthy to be built upon.

But

just as I begin to dream –

to dream of a grand building,

I see a crack –

crack in the foundation.

I fall to my knees –

not in despair, but hope!

I look into the crack;

it takes time for my eyes to adjust to the new perspective…

and I see.

I see a vastness of particles –

particles of truth.

I focus all of who I am on just one particle –

knowing; with my new eyes; knowing – that this particle of truth,

is but a tiny aspect of the whole –

whole far greater than my comprehension.

Such is why,

 I hold my opinion loosely –

.hartland.

.voice.

I let my mouth carry sound.

The sound comes from nothing,

an empty echo for the comfort of myself and others.

The act creates loss within.

Why is not silence honoured?

Why can we not be in another’s presence and wait?

Wait for the words to be primed by reflection –

to spill forth and overflow from the heart.

Give our heart-thoughts voice.

Voice to feed, fill and overflow – to overflow

into the life of another, the fullness of which imploring action.

Instead

connection is prostituted to save face; the opinion

of the perceived other too great to gamble.

So we sit

engage in interesting conversation, letting our mouths carry sound –

competing in being informed, competing for knowledge; knowledge by rote –

society perceiving this transaction as intelligent.

We become a cog, transferring external motion to engage with another,

unconsciously devaluing internal discoveries –

the cost of which is life-altering.

And then

the heart cries out – only to comprehend an empty echo.

The heart manifests itself in a foreign land, expecting to be recognised –

but it is not.

So

it depresses,

and wears the armour of pain.

But alas, western culture recognises pain, and will treat it like a trespasser,

coming forth with an anti-aid –

anti depressant.

This pain is not a tolerated tourist, it is not welcome to explore this foreign land –

tourist guides are certainly not available on the front line!

and so

we are presented with a choice.

Do we accept passive aid, huddled and relieved, shying away from the murky waters below?

Do we continue to prostitute in hope of pseudo connection?

Or

do we stand in the depths of who we are, while we are –

allowing the overflow to seep into the recesses, showing us?

If I choose to stand in my own depths, perhaps then when I speak,

I won’t sound an empty echo.

Instead my sound will resonate within myself; within another,

and their sound within me.

.hartland.