Realisations

I called myself The RGF in a blog post yesterday.  This was interesting, well at least to me. I'll describe why in a moment. Firstly, I last wrote a blog post in August 2023 (well before yesterday). Secondly, I haven't described myself as The RGF for erm years I think. I simply forgot. It turns out that I forgot far more than my self made label. I forgot what's important to me. Not loved ones, obviously that's locked in but who I am. The things that make me tick. Like caring for the planet, connecting with nature, writing, music,  making a difference in the world and basically being unashamedly WOKE. Capitalisation intentional. 

I like big WOKE and I cannot lie.  

Note: when I say I forgot, I only mean partially. I've been me with a little 'm'. Rather than 'ME'! 

The interesting bit: 2024 in numerology is an eight year. It's also the year of Leo because Leo is the 8th sign of the zodiac. We are still in the energy of a Leo full moon, expressed in the season of Aquarius.  I have just discovered that my moon sign is Aquarius ie the moon was in Aquarius when I was born.  I'm also a Pisces rising or Pisces Ascendant. I'm neither Numerologist nor Astrologist at the time of writing but it seems that your rising sign and moon sign tells you more about who you are than your starsign or at least than your starsign alone. The house the sun was in tells you stuff too but I haven't fully checked the whys and wherefores on this yet. Aquarius is all about activism, innovation and the Leo moon is all about authenticity. 8 in Numerology, amongst other things, is about strength (Leo of course is also about strength). All this being said, it's not surprising that I want to shout loud my vibe into the ether.

Right now, for me and, well, for everyone, it's time to be authentic. Not from the shadows, but uniquely in technicolour. Shining out whilst bathed in a glorious metaphorical sun. 

Coincidentally or perhaps meaningfully, my previous post talked about infinite mirrors.  8 is also the infinity symbol.  

Interestingly, Ophiuchus is the 13th starsign according to some. If it's accepted as a thing, then I'm one of them. And according to various descriptions on the web, I kinda resonate with the traits.  

Sooooooooo this is a lightbulb moment.

I will speak out and I will speak up. I'll do so in unity with my weird, space blob, Aquarius, Pisces, empathic, humanitarian, eco warrior self. 

Ready.  

Set. 

Go!

The RGF xx

Mirror World

I shared some words today and those words reminded me of something that happened when I was a kid. I recall looking at the back of a cereal packet and seeing one of those infinite pictures.  A picture within a picture, if you will, but continually.  Like looking in a mirror and there are other mirrors, so from an angle, you are seeing infinite versions of yourself.  I never liked them - those pictures or the infinite mirrors or russian dolls. They make me feel uneasy.  It's a 'when will it end' emotion. Infinity. Arrrrrgh. OK so the dolls ended. And the tiny baby dolls were cute. But the mirrors and the pictures...

I wish I could occupy the same mental space as Vince Noir. His complete nonchalance when he entered the Mirror World. He was nonplussed at the prospect of forever looking upon his own reflection. Myriad versions of his strange yet somehow beautiful face.  Vast angles of his perfect, weird hair. Fortunately for Vince, his ego was as large as his hair halo. My ego, or hair for that matter, isn't quite so expansive.  

I'm not aversed to my own reflection but I like to be prepared.  It's like when someone gets a camera out and pretty much holds it under your chin, and you think, this isn't going to end well. Cameras are not a buttercups.  We are not carrying out some serious 'do you like butter' science here. This is a photo. Aim high with your angles.

Yet this isn't about vanity. It's about the unnerving feeling, that by staring into infinite mirrors, you'll somehow be pulled through the vortex and end up living someone else's life in a parallel universe. Terrifying.  

Vortex aside, if ever happen upon Mr Susan, I'll try to embody my inner Vince.  

The RGF xxx

Wibbly Wobbly Timey Wimey

I feel like The Doctor sometimes.  Probably Matt Smith's incarnation or maybe David Tennant's.  Indeed, I believe it was Tennant that coined the phrase "wibbly wobbly timey wimey". Is it an overstatement to call it a phrase?  Not to Whovians (of which I'm actually not but I do have potential).

Anyway, I think it's fair to say that parenthood turns you into a Time Lord. In other words, it completely messes with the experience of time. It's not linear. It's some kind of weird, instant, looping, time hopping ride of terror.  No Tardis. No sonic screwdriver. No map. I'd say it's like a computer game but I'm pretty sure games have hints and tips. Parents, on the other hand, just have other parents (who also simply guess their way through every transition).

How can it be that my child - who seemingly only yesterday, left the house cutely tucked into her romper suit, gripping her Iggle Piggle - today left the house with 50% attitude and 50% childlike enthusiasm?

I suppose we become more aware of time as parents. It matters more. It also zips by then stands absolutely still.

I wonder if I'll ever get my head around any of it. I wonder if I'll become the Eckhart Tolle edition of mothering: contemplative, calm, wise, pausing between each moment... It seems unlikely but I DO try. I try to just be with what is (even when what is: is a child screaming that the Internet does not work and that I need to fix it). 

So with my magic router resetting skills primed, I keep riding all the waves of motherhood. The joy, worry and temporal glitches all present in roughly equal measures..

Xxx 

That's the HRT Pat

There was a time in the deep memories of my youth that HRT was merely an acronym.  I had the vague idea that it related to aging but my knowledge ended there. And if im honest so did my care. I was young then.  I had the kind of youth that Oil of Ulay could hang their advert upon. Sadly these days the Ulay is as forgotten as the line-free version of my face.

I remember Peter Kaye referencing HRT in a stand-up routine.  He stated that his mum blamed HRT for hearing voices in her head. Though in fact the voices were caused by Peter on the other end of the phone, trying to get his mum to 'put the phone back in its' holster'. Thanks to Peter and his mum, HRT is always coupled with the word Pat. 'That's the HRT Pat'. I still quote Peter Kaye (I'm the original thief of other people's humour) but it resonates at a different tone. I am not in my 30s anymore. In fact I'm barely hanging onto my 40s. 

My Perimenopause is in full swing. Sadly this isn't the type of swing that one gets their rocks off on. There are plenty of late nights, if by late nights we mean insomnia. There's much rolling around in the covers but it's sans hot passion and full hot fluey.  I could go on but we really don't have time. Basically the list of symptoms is soooooo long, it's like Tolkien generated them when he was in uber descriptive mode. I just wish they were a work of fiction, like his Middle-earth.

And so it is that HRT is no longer a vague nod towards a barely contemplated future.  It is not HRT Pat but HRT Hazel. I just need to visit my GP and start replacing my much missed hormones.  

Xxx

The hierarchy of tea

I do love a good brew.  It's the quintessential English pastime - to find love in the hug of a mug. But what constitutes a good brew? The answer is open to debate and that debate can often be a fierce one. I understand the passion. Tea matters.  

For me, the hierarchy of tea looks like this:

1. Clipper Lemon Green Tea. It's a kiss of vibrant lemony joy! It's fairtrade too. Well done Clipper. 

2. Twinings Lemon Green Tea. Comfort in a cup but you're not a patch on Clipper.  Sorry Twinings. 

3. Tetleys Lemon Green Tea. Old school. Familiar.  Inexpensive. It's not a bad brew but it does not get a gold star from me. 

4. All other green tea... 

5. Other tea

Life without tea is really just existence.  Tea lifts you up. Tea snuggles. Unlike almost everything else, tea can by relied upon in a crisis.  A good cup of tea is a plaster for the soul.  

Fancy a cuppa? 

Gifts

We did Ynot Festival 2023. This was not without its trials. Though in many ways that is the drunken wander of festival life. You get great bands but baaaaaaad toilets. You find beautiful people but endure god awful sleep. This is expected, and, for the love of music, you take it in your mud splattered stride. Yet Ynot 2023 took the lows to a new height. We had flooded toilets and blocked showers in the laughably named VIP camping area. The app did not work so we struggled to straddle the band intinary. The campsite wasn't a mile from the entrance so we paid for an overpriced tractor ride for absolutely no reason.  We lost three mats (on the pointless tractor ride in) and one anorak (for a reason unknown).

I have one picture of Simon and Amber playing mini golf. Usually I'd take many fun-filled photos but this is tricky when the fun is infrequent and you can't charge your phone. I missed James, Royal Blood, The Charlatans, Paul Weller, Kasbian and Faithless DJ set. However I did see Beans on Toast, The Pigeon Detectives, Reytons, Lime Garden and Mystery Jets. Now I write it down, I really didn't get the bands in. In my youth that simply would not happen.  I'd stand in pain to watch good music.  Now I'm middle-aged so comfort has taken over (in so far as you can be comfortable at a festival).  Also I got ill, not festivalitus (as it's lovingly named) but actually ill ill. And so it was that we threw in the towel one day early.

Tuesday marked day one of our trip to Devon. The train was an hour late but that's pretty standard these days. The walk from the station to the hotel was longer than Google implied. Moreover Google seemed to think that we were Bear Grylls or David Bellamy. I mean why wouldn't we want to stomp through a hedge, nettles and traverse a street sign to reach our hotel?

Despite Google's confusing instructions, we arrived at our destination.  A little tired and a lot hot but salvation, relaxation awaited. Sadly fate had other ideas. The Holiday Inn had cancelled our booking but entirely failed to share this joyous happening with us. Furthermore it was fully booked. Naturally we were a somewhat displeased with the news. 

The reception chap did manage to find us one night with another hotel in their chain of evil. Then we filled the remaining four nights of our holiday with a different hotel chain.

As I write, we can't yet check in so we're wandering around beautiful Exeter with our luggage.  Yet we are here.  We're dryish.  We've had unexpected breakfast-included. We were gifted with shiny new toothbrushes and teeny tiny toothpastes.

Right now the Great British weather is weaving its weird magic: the rain dances in then almost immediately out again, the sun has its hat on (but it's a damp, lopsided straw hat, that should only ever see the inside of a long-forgotten-cupboard). I'm sure rainbows are on route, though as yet, I haven't spotted one.

Life much like festivals are filled with moments that test us and moments that treat us. The trick is not allowing the rough to permetate the smooth. If we can be with what is, as each moment passes then we live more and suffer less. Certainly it's a damn challenge on a shitty festival toilet but it's a breeze when waving happy hands to momentous music.

So here's to the moments.  Each and every one of them is a gift worth cherishing.  

Bugs eye

I remember hearing the song 'The bug in the rug' maybe 15 years ago. It's a spoken word sample by Coldcutt / DJ Food. After hearing the track a few times, I recall realising - it may have been an epiphany - it's so important to live with a higher perspective.  I've dipped in and out of this realisation ever since. 

To clarify: The bug lives in a rug. I guess it's main activities are eating and sleeping.  Do bugs sleep? No idea. Anyway. The spoken word piece talked about the bug being fraught with frustration.  The rug's pattern made it difficult to move around,  thus the pattern, which you and I might deem beautiful, the bug perceived as problematic. The nub of the analogy was that the bug suffered from a bug's eye view. Whereas a higher state of consciousness would see the pattern and appreciate it. 

Today, I've listened to 50% of a Russell Brand Eckhart Tolle podcast.  Eckhart talks about consciousness and recognising that the self is not our history, our thoughts, our appearance. The true self is the silence in between. He refers to this as space consciousness. The identification with stuff, thoughts, appearance etc is object consciousness.  

Through the culmination of hearing Tolle and remembering the bug, I now realise that the pattern isn't just the beautiful experience.  It's all the experience.  Moreover, we are the bug, the carpet, the pattern. It's all connected.  

So to see the patterns as beautiful, to place oneself as having a wider, higher perspective is itself object consciousness.  

Life actually happens in those spaces in between.  It happens when we stop trying to get somewhere or to get something.  If the bug, finds mental stillness, the bug will, for a moment,  have already arrived. It will be in space consciousness, pure consciousness. It will find samadhi. 

As I write these words, I simultaneously find myself worrying about grammar, clarity and, if I'm honest, how intellectual I sound to anyone reading this. This is the ego or more specifically my ego. Right there, I am identifying with object consciousness. In a way this seems ironic, to write about stepping outside of thought identity whilst recognising a thought identity. It isn't though.  It's actually a eureka. It's part of waking up.  

Xxx