“There is no means of testing which decision is better…”


“There is no means of testing which decision is better, because there is no basis for comparison. We live everything as it comes, without warning, like an actor going on cold. And what can life be worth if the first rehearsal for life is life itself? That is why life is always like a sketch. No, “sketch” is not quite a word, because a sketch is an outline of something, the groundwork for a picture, whereas the sketch that is our life is a sketch for nothing, an outline with no picture.” Milan Kundera (The Unbearable Lightness of Being)

It’s the same old, same old… If another does not know their own mind, their own heart, how can they be ready to embark on anything? I am the same, feeling my way along and through this mortal coil, trying to remain aligned and present and make sense of the uncertainty, that is the human condition. There is no judgement here, not from me anyway. We all seek the same Holy Grail; the mystical marriage of self and from there, a love affair with another. A joining of two hearts and an adventure of discovery, an opportunity to speak our truth and be loved and respected for it.

Is Love therefore the answer to every question? I suspect it underlies everything we seek, both externally and internally of ourselves. It is both the foundations and building blocks of life. It evades us often, especially when we fail to recognize it in ourselves; unable to trust in it fully and feel totally safe just being ‘me’.

I continually try to understand why I am where I am. Why I have met the people I have met, what lessons there are to learn from these encounters and physical interactions.

I’ll put my hands up at this point. Yes, I do tend to rush forward, racing towards an unknown future. Am I any different from you? Everyone, in some way or another, is trying to be true to themselves and that of course can lead to disappointment. It is indeed always disappointing not hearing what you would like to hear; when you catch a glimpse of another like minded soul, only to be pushed away. Don’t I know all too well, that at times what you want and what you need are in opposition and the bugger of that is, you know that is how it sometimes has to be. There is gold to be found in those moments, along with frustration and at times tears. But why am I running scared? Scared to feel emotions, scared not to feel emotions…. Scared of feeling too much, scared of not feeling enough… Scared of getting it totally wrong…

Fear can rule mercilessly. It can bury us in indecision and feelings of inadequacy. It can strip you of your knowing and push you down a path of blinkered illusion. I know this is true. Fear has led me down many dead-end roads. Fear is my unwanted guest, arriving uninvited, with an air of self-importance.

So how can I move past this? How can I remove myself from its scrutiny? I know I am impatient to move past my fears. Impatient to get on with my life unabated by my own misguided limiting beliefs of not being enough. Not being ambitious enough, not being aligned with my life purpose… The ‘not being’ lists are like Kryptonite to my soul.  They strip away my intuition and kill my uniqueness.

Something has shifted in me though. I no longer wish to carry around my own dead weight. I want to shine. I want to dust off my ambition and step forward with a sense of my own worthiness. I want to stop procrastinating and start holding myself accountable to the life I want to be living. This life does not depend on anyone else. It rests solely on my own shoulders. It is my gift to myself. I would be doing myself a great disservice to not hold up my own mirror and honour myself and my gifts.

I want, I want, I want…

What I need however, is to be honest with myself, to believe I am worthy and to keep moving forward.


Promises were made

in the darkness of shadows.

A reality filling the spaces

between whispered intent.

Oxygen breathing

life into the fiery belly

of a fictional world

where truth is misspent.

Love undersold

in a heartless transaction.

It’s previous owner

removed all the tags.

No longer shiny

it bares the hallmarks of lonely.

Its beauty hidden

beneath a soiled layer of rags.


The last peg is stuck fast

in the fertile earth

of my past.

I have kicked,

sworn and cried,

with frustrated understanding,

not noticing

my steadfast hold;

my foot in the door.

One hand tied,

bound by memory.

The other pushing,


grasping at straws.

She’s sowing seeds, she’s burning trees

She’s sowing seeds, she’s burning trees

She’s a Super girl, a Super girl

Sunflowers pulled,


for unfulfilled promises…

My mistake?

Your mistake?

When you’re in love what can go wrong?

The last peg is stuck fast

in the fertile earth

of my past.

My First Date…

The words fell from his mouth, in an audible traction

The large gaps in intent, an unfortunate distraction

Opinions heavy with prose, exposed a man of inaction

Nudging forward an opinion, I looked for bantered interaction

His profile was witty, of his age… a liberal subtraction

He had an air of importance and an arrogant satisfaction

No generosity on his part; a clear monetary protraction

I nodded and smiled, whilst scoping exits for my extraction

His intent, it appeared, was for a physical exaction

‘It’s all about me!’, explained his social contraction

So I bid him farewell and his crass benefaction

Knowing I’d never again repeat, this dating transaction


A marked down emotion

Like a drunk, I sway in the wind,

legs opposing the mind’s intention

to keep parallel to the path.

Only determination holds steady

this march of commitment, amid

a sea of uncertainty walking, a path

cracked and downtrodden,

loose with unfulfilled holes, spilling

desire into puddles.

My stomach creeps up to my throat, seeking

reassurance from its familiar cries,

that a Mother’s bliss could soothe

by the lullaby of youth now outgrown;

unaware that innocence had a sell-by date.

A marked down emotion, now piled high

at the end of an aisle, its tainted promise

offering nothing more than the value of immediacy.

‘Too good to be true’, remembered,

and immediately forgotten

that first touch, that made my world whole.

Am I now vintage, not newly discarded

or merely second-hand perhaps,

to be found by another who has mislaid

one similar? Can a touch become new,

no comparison made to the hands

that knew every crevice

like the back of his own hands?

His Decorated Soldier

I attached pins to his words;

wore them like badges

sewn onto my breast.

Accomplishments, they were.

Skills attributed

to an adherence

of another’s will.

Another’s way of being.

A projected accolade

to which I conformed,

reflecting nothing more

than his desires;

a mirror of his intentions.

How proud I had been,

to be his decorated soldier.

My medals shining

more brightly than my heart.

The velvet lined box,

taking pride of place

above and beyond

any of my own desires,

which sat muted

in the shadows of a love

I could never make whole.