Writing Creatively With Spirit

A journey of psychic discovery


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The Invitation

 

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It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living.

I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.

It doesn’t interest me how old you are, I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow; if you have been opened by life’s betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain. I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it or fade it or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own, if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, to be realistic, to remember the limitations of being human…..

I want to know if you can see beauty, even when it’s not pretty, every day, and if you can source your own life from its presence…..

It doesn’t interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the centre of the fire with me and not shrink back.

It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you, from the inside, when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.

Oriah Mountain Dreamer

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Waiting for the storm to hit

A few days ago I commented to my friend that I’ve never experienced a hurricane, and wondered what it must be like. It was not a request to the universe just a passing comment.

Well, it seems like I will soon get a chance to know what it feels like to be in a hurricane. It’s been kind of weird listening to the news about the effects of Hurricane Matthew across some of the other Caribbean islands while life remains so tranquil and beautiful here.

The only evidence that all is not well is the restlessness in the sea. We swim every morning, and for the last few days there’s been a lot more movement in the water, more buoyant, more insistent as it pounds the rocks. The sand, used to being caressed, must feel like it’s being slapped by an angry lover.

The regular updates on the news and internet tell of the increasing intensity of a storm sitting 450 miles off shore with its eye fixed firmly on us. I now understand the difference between a tropical storm and a hurricane.

When the storm reaches hurricane status the government holds emergency meetings to work out our national response. Warnings are issues and those who make their living from the sea all called in first. Hurricane waves are merciless, takes no prisoners.

The thing is, while all this preparation is going on the sun shines brightly, the breeze is soft and soothing and the few raindrops that fall are welcomed for their cooling effect.

Ironically, I’m travelling to Kingston tomorrow, a trip planned prior the hurricane alert. Kingston is likely to experience the worst of the hurricane. ‘Why go?’ a friend asked.

Two reasons. The first is that I will be with my family and if I have to experience this, where better to be? Secondly, hurricanes are capricious and can change their minds and their direction without warning. Can decide to go and bother someone else, or just go out to see and burn themselves out.

June to September is officially hurricane season. I was born in hurricane season. Someone asked if that’s why I was capricious and volatile. Maybe a younger me would have demonstrated those qualities, but not anymore.

Like the hurricane, I have the right to change my mind without having to explain it to anyone.


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I’m Ready

DSC_0095What a lovely surprise to find that one of our local Birmingham radio stations – Genesis – has been playing one of my poems three times each Tuesday to Friday mornings. Chicken George presents the morning show between 7 a.m. and 10 a.m. on these mornings. He usually plays the poem not long after the news which appears on the hour. The poem’s called I’m Ready. He thinks its a great get-up-and-get-going call.

I’m Ready

I’m ready to soar
To fly high in the sky
To unclip my wings
To spread them wide
I’m ready to glide on the currents of love
To swirl and twirl
to feel the air in my feathers
I’m ready to sing, to twerp and tweet
I’m ready to feel the highest branches
beneath my feet
I’m ready to hover
by the beating of my own wings
I’m ready to stretch life
until it pings

I’m ready is from my CD Raw (vols 1 & 2) Copyright Cymbals Publishing


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They send their love

Just got back from an evening’s demonstration of mediumship at Sutton Coldfield Spiritualist Church. I learned a lot from Eamonn Downey about the art of giving messages. I was absolutely blown away by the message he brought from my grandmother. Apparently I AM on the right path spiritually and its OK to go more public with it.

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Back in my writing home

 

2016-04-02 13.38.57I’ve never been to an AGM (Annual General Meeting) quite like the Writers Without Borders one today. Usually they are dry, tedious, and something to be endured. People usually avoid them if they can, but not this one.

We had a fantastic turnout – 22 of our 25 paid up members made the trek to our new meeting place in John Lewis store in Central Station. Members were rightly proud of the many events we took part in over the last year, including the triumph of our latest anthology, and eagerly planned next year’s activities.

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There were two surprise presentations, one was a belated Easter egg offered by Tessa Lowe to Sue Brown as an appreciation of the way she has lead the group, and the other was a picture offered by Patricia  Bamurangirwa as an appreciation of the love and guidance Sue has personally given her over the years. We were all moved… we all felt the love… we were all reminded why we are members of this group.


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Cape Coast Castle in Ghana

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When humans replaced gold and ivory as cargo
When Africans were sold and branded
as merchandise
When the castle became a hothouse
of rebellion
Then protection was needed  from within
As well as from without.

Barak and Michelle Obama once came
Wonder if they too smelled the lingering
500 years stench of death
felt the pain of the souls the screamed
‘Remember us, Remember us’

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Where a church once administered
to the souls of the slave owners in the sunshine
A Priest shrine, in the bowels of the dungeons,
now minister to the souls of the dead
and to the hearts of the living
who want to remember
Marriages too are celebrated here

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If each wreath, stacked neatly in a corner of the dungeon
Represents a million dead
There would not be enough
To atone for the blood that was shed.

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Cape Coast castle offers an opportunity
for the Diaspora
whose ancestors left through the ‘Door of No Return’
to find our way back, via Ghana, ‘The Gateway to Africa’
Through the ‘Door of Return.’
Akwaaba! Akwaaba! Akwaaba

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Predencia Dixon Copyright 2016