The Drive

As she pulled away from the house her soul felt a million times lighter.  She was leaving it all behind.
No more dancing in the shadows of her memories.  She would be herself now - free.
She drove for a little while in silence.  Respectfully stopping at lights and crossings.  Paying heed to the comings and goings of the ordinary world, she drove slowly.
It was spring time.  Although the sun had dipped there was still a wonderful freshness in the air, as if the air sparkled.  She opened the car window letting in the chilly that felt so good.
As she hit the open road, she saw it was quiet.  She smiled and pushed down her foot on the accelerator.  Yes!  She could drive how she wanted - no need to keep up with any one else's pace.  She turned on her music and smiled and put her foot down on the accelerator.  Woo hoooooooooooooooooooo!
Music, wonderful music.  She played it loud and she played it proud.  It didn't matter.  The roads were so quiet, no-one to hear her wailing at the top of her voice.  She didn't care if she couldn't sing that well.  It was fun to let it all out.  Weeeeeeeeeeeee!  It felt good.
Trees rushed past the window.  She saw the fading light show of the sun in the distance and marvelled at its magnificence.  Weeeeeeeeeeee!  This moment felt good.
Here she was.  Driving.  Music.  The sun glorious.  The air divine.  The wind rushing through her hair.  Alive.
And it didn't matter anymore.  None of it.  It was all behind her - all of it.  She left it behind as surely as she had intended.  It was done.  The decision had been made and now she could live her life.  HER life.
An elderly farmer watched the car whizz past.  He could hear her shouting and he smiled - she sounded happy!  He knew that feeling and laughed to himself at the simplicity of life sometimes.
She drove and drove for hours.  She didn't know how long it would take to get home but she'd told them she wasn't going to rush.  She knew they'd be there with open arms, waiting for her, with love in their hearts.
Until then, this drive was her adventure.  How she loved the feel of the open road.  The feeling of being alive.  Of being free.  Of dancing to the music.  Of just being there, in the moment, blending with the car, the steering wheel, the trees and bushes that rushed past, the setting sun, the stars above.
Life truly was magic and she wondered how she had ever come to forget that.  When the cotton wool was stripped away, it truly was divine and she revelled in the wonder of the beauty of her planet she called home.
Yes - life was good.

Little Girl

I came to visit you last night in my dream.
I came to tell you the truth.  The truth you needed to hear - that they never told you.  You needed to hear it so much.
I told you that you wasn't bad.  It was just them, blaming you because they weren't big enough to admit they were wrong.  They were struggling too.  They let you down and told you it was your fault but you were beautiful - it was never your fault.  You looked at me with eyes so grateful.  You needed to hear those words.  You needed to have someone on your side.  I know you believed me.  You were so relieved that someone understood.  You smiled at me.
I gave you presents.  Lots and lots of presents.  The presents they never gave you.  You told me you didn't want presents but I knew you did.  You needed to be given things because you gave so much.  Someone needed to give to you.  I gave you clothes - you looked so pretty.  You said you didn't want them, but I saw the twinkle in your eye as you saw how lovely you looked.  You looked beautiful.
I took you to get a haircut.  No-one had cut your hair.  You looked so pretty with nice hair.  I could see you smile at yourself in the mirror.  You felt confident for once.
I hugged you.  I hugged you so hard and you surrendered.  You soaked up my love like a sponge soaks up water.  You needed it.  I hugged you so hard and stroked your beautiful soft hair.  Your eyes went soft as you relaxed and allowed me to love you.  You cried.
I told you, you were beautiful.  I looked into your face and told you all the things you needed to hear.  I told you the truth.  You sat and listened.  Unaccustomed to hearing such kind words.  I told you to believe me.  I told you it was the truth.  You nodded your head and took in my words.
I told you to be strong.  I told you to remember who you are.  I told you to understand that the people around you were unable to love and that you must stay true to yourself and protect your loving heart.  I told you to always be loving but most especially, to love yourself as they were not able to.  You nodded and understood your responsibility.  I could see the weight settle on your shoulders.
I wanted to take the weight off but I knew I couldn't.  I knew you were where you had to be, for the time being at least.  And then I had to leave.  I told you that I would always be with you in thought.  Always.  And with a heavy heart I left you.
May you be well, beautiful.  May you always know that you are loved.  I am with you always.

The Quiet Ones

They were the quiet ones.  The ones that knew in their heart and in their soul that life should be about more than slavery to money.

They were the ones that knew that war was wrong and no excuse, ever, could justify it.

They were the ones that knew there was more to life than chasing paper money.  More to life than shopping and traffic.

They were the ones that knew, in their hearts, that all life is connected - the plants, the trees, animals, humankind.

And the world was noisy.  And politicians droned.  And banks bullied.  And bosses exploited.  And tvs hypnotised.  And newspapers created realities.  And traffic congested.  And people hurried.

And the quiet ones watched on...
...for a time...
...and then they began to speak, quietly at first...
...and hearts and minds connected and voices grew more confident...more wise...
...more assured...
...and the world was still noisy...
...but if you listened, another sound could now be heard...
...a harmony, a hum..
...quiet voices blending, growing louder...
...and more beautiful...
...it was the quiet ones speaking...
...and sharing their voices with the world...
...and theirs was a different kind of energy...
...peaceful and loving...
...growing stronger...
...every day...
...they were the quiet ones...
...and they had found their voice.

Park Bench

She sat in the middle of the park bench, waiting to hear her own voice, but she just couldn't hear it. Her mind was busy, jumping around like a hungry frog: “I need to get potatoes for dinner”, “I need to pay that gas bill”, “What time is it? I mustn’t be late”…busy, busy, busy. She sighed and closed her eyes, trying to ignore its constant chatter.

She took a deep breath in and then exhaled, controlling the breath, slowing it down. A dog barking behind her, the passing conversation of two businessmen, a plane passing by overhead, feet crunching on the gravel, a ball bouncing. Noise. She took another breath in, relishing the smell of cut grass. A police siren screaming out behind her, loud and aggressive, jabbing at her ear drums. She opened her eyes again briefly, and then closed them.

Another deep breath, slowly exhaling and then another. The sun broke through the clouds, flooding her face with light, its warmth relaxing her. She breathed again, slowly in, slowly out…slowing it all down, quietening her mind. The noise around her was beginning to blur, becoming less of a distraction, more a hum, she was separating from it all now. Sunlight streamed onto her face, and eyes closed she continued to wait for that quiet voice she heard only rarely. That peaceful loving wisdom that was so often drowned out by the distractions of the world.

It wasn’t a voice really, it was more a feeling. A feeling that came from within, that permeated every cell of her body. It was to her, a source of power and strength, that she so often forgot to switch on, living in the real world. The real world had a rhythm, a pace, a beat that banged on like a marching army. It wasn’t in time with her inner rhythm which was soft and flowing like a delicious mountain stream. She breathed in and out again, feeling softer now, releasing herself from tension of the world and opening up to the connection with herself, once more. The rhythm was gentle, was soft, was soothing and it spread throughout her body. She felt okay, she felt calm, she felt peaceful again. The feeling of being alive, of being loved, of being happy, of peace and contentment swept over her. And she felt without any doubt, that life was meant to be fun. She smiled and opened her eyes. The park seemed so much greener than it had before, so lush now, full of energy and life.
Another siren sliced through the air and glancing at her watch, she realised that her lunch break was over. She stood up from the bench and resumed her day, leaving the seat warm with her presence.

The Smiling Game

Walking down the street one day, he was saddened by the faces walking past him. So many dressed in blacks and greys, with foreheads furrowed with worry lines, heads down studying the pavement, consumed with the cares and worries of the world. Grey buildings, grey pavements, dead eyes staring out of unhappy faces. Jeez! This was fun!

If he possessed in that moment, an auto-eject button he would have chosen to exit that scene and re-enter planet earth in a brighter place. Maybe the caribbean or some other treasure, where the colours of the sky and sea were so vibrant and happy. Maybe a steel band would be playing near by and his clothes would be multi-coloured and bright. Instead of a McDonalds, he'd have before his eyes, a plate of brightly coloured fruit.

But they hadn't invented a portable auto-eject button yet, so he made up a game to amuse himself and avoid the creeping feeling of depression that was pervading this street.

He called it "the smiling game". It was maybe a little odd but it kept him amused and it didn't hurt anyone. He continued on his way but this time smiling. A big warm happy, god isn't it great to be alive, sort of grin. The aim of the game was to get as many smiles back as possible. He smiled at every single person he walked past, looking them straight in their eyes.

It was kind of amusing, because many of the people didn't even see him or they looked at him strangely, as if he had just been let out of the nut-house. But regardless of that, he carried on up the street, deliberately smiling at every single person he passed by. A few stared back with blank faces. And then every so often he'd hit a jackpot. A person smiled back at him, a real genuine grateful smile. And he'd feel all warm inside because he knew that even for the briefest of seconds, he'd made the world a little bit brighter for that person and that person had made the world a little bit brighter for him.

It was his secret game and it made him happy. And no-one was any the wiser but maybe they were a little happier.
See saying hello to strangers

The Girl Who Fell To Earth

(Inspired by a painting by my friend David Bezzina, the artist.)  Visit him at:

http://www.davidbezzina.com http://comicartcommissions.com/Bezzina.html http://www.myspace.com/davidbezzina

And so it was time to go. To land on that planet they called Earth. It was a sad place and yet so full of beauty. It was a place of limitation and yet so full of possibility. It was a place of minds and yet so full of spirits. If they only knew.
And that was her mission - to help them remember. She looked down at the planet, so full of magnificent colours yet she knew they could not see, except for those special ones. The creative ones. The artists, the poets, the musicians...
It was a mission she had chosen voluntarily, as part of her soul's learning. But she knew once she landed on Earth, she would have to forget her true nature and don her human suit. No longer free to shine like a star and create new worlds just by thought alone, she would have to play by the 'rules' of Earth. And she hesitated - she knew the trials and struggles that awaited her. The sadness and the loneliness she would experience.
But it was all an illusion, one that she would soon forget. Love never leaves anyone alone.
Her commander had arranged her life; she would work in a market in London town. One of the busiest places in the world. Full of dead eyes. And it was her job to remind them of their true nature. She would sell jewellery. The most exquisite and most beautiful kind. Not of silver or gold, but of transparent aluminium. And they would wonder how, the people that bought it. And as they wondered, it would begin to open their eyes to their true reality - the magical world of energy and vibration. For in each piece of jewellry, a vibration had been set to enchant its owner and bring about new dreams. So that each morning, the owner would awake with a new spiritual truth and understanding.
She donned her suit and prepared for her adventure. She would be gone awhile.

http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?pid=5673006&id=668491941

Painted Walls

It was a funny place actually.  Grey.  Grey streets, grey buildings, rows and rows of them and windows - one, two, three, four stories high.  Dusty windows, shut windows.  Dreary curtains.  Everyone lived indoors, went home, closed the door, closed the window and shut themselves off from the world outside.  Leaving the street behind in its greyness.
Everyone complained about it; the neighbourhood.  Everyone said how it had gone downhill, how no-one cared about it, how it was turning into a slum these days.  Outside on the pavement, an old television and a three legged chair on its side.  Nothing unusual - the dustmen would pick them up soon - when they could be bothered.  But it didn't matter, they'd soon be replaced by a mattress or an old coffee table with stains on it.
You couldn't tell what the people were like - it was almost as if nobody lived there.  The street was so quiet.  Only the gentle strains of tv stations in living rooms and the occasional bark.  There were no plants.  Not even one single plant pot outside.  It was if people had decided one day, that the street outside had nothing to do with them, and had disowned it.  And so now, the street belonged to the corporations and the councils - and the people left it alone.  Unloved.
But when Zion moved in, things began to change.   You see, Zion believed that the street did belong to him.  If he had nothing else, he had the street.  Every blank space became his canvas.
Sometimes he painted in black and white - just painted the things that were going through his mind.  Sometimes he painted in colour.  He didn't plan it - he just drew and painted what he felt, at that moment.  And it was easy, the streets were so empty - no-one ever caught him, except for Mouse. She loved it, she loved his wild side - the fact that he didn't give a damn.  She couldn't draw like him, but she tried.  Adding little daisies and petals on the edges of his work.

She knew what he was doing.  He was reclaiming the street.  He was saying, "Here you are people, this is for you - this is yours.  This is your street".  But not everyone got it.  A lot of people complained; they said it was just another sign that the neighbourhood had gone downhill.  They tutted as they walked past and got white paint to cover it up.  Sometimes Zion would see them; little old men and women, middle aged men trying to look important, a little committee emerging from their doors on a mission to remove his 'vandalism'.  He didn't mind though, he laughed and waited until the paint had dried and used it as a fresh canvas.
It was a game for him. Fun!  He found it hilarious when the old folks marched out to clean up his 'mess'.  Some even complained to him about it, and he smiled, because they had no idea it was him.  He was to them, just the quiet guy who lived at the end of the road.  That's all they knew about him - because that was all he allowed them to know.  He was sure, if he did own up, confess his ways, they would smile politely and then talk about him together, when he had gone.  He could see that was their mentality.  They were too scared to confront him.  Too scared to own their own street.  But he had got them to own it, with their neighbourhood committees working overtime to clean up his work.  He felt like Jack the Ripper and the Scarlet Pimpernel rolled into one.  On a mission - Man Mysterious.

He played with them for a year or more.  He was having fun and his plan was working.  He had brought art to this street and it was starting to do its magic.  There were plant pots outside now.  With plants in - he smiled at the change.  And now, it seemed they had started to embrace his work.  The pots of white paint had gone and photographers came instead, to capture his art and display it in an exhibition.  He felt so proud but saddened too.  His mission was complete; he had given them back the street.  And they never even knew how.  And now it was time for him to leave the neighbourhood and paint elsewhere.  He painted one last picture and packed up his cans and left the house at the end of the street, for the last time.