Creativity and Yoga Retreat Day (or, What Happens When We Make Space for Ourselves)

Hello friends,

Life is often busy. Our minds are often busy. Our emotions can be like the ever-changing waves of the sea. Somewhere in the midst of the busyness and shifting inner tides, we can seem to lose ourselves and our sense of peace.

But that peace is always there. It is ever-present, a vast space within us, bigger than any busy schedule or emotion ocean horizon. We just need to make time to connect to it.

We can access that sweet stillness and sense of true self or Source or love (for it has many names) in many ways:

We can move the body, breathe the body open as we stretch it through movement. This soothes our nervous system, balances our energy and also quiets the mind. When we create inner space, we can then receive all that we need.

From this space of receptivity we can allow ourselves to unfurl further and explore. Through playful activities, we remind our hearts and minds it is safe to be spontaneous, to let go of control and to deeply connect to ourselves, to others and the world around us. Through play we expand our awareness, become curious and child-like as we re-see life with truly open eyes. We no longer chase a sense of peace; we are opening to it, allowing it to flow up and out from within us, as we laugh and delight in the moment.

From this space of expansion we are ready to listen. When we engage in creative practices, we can better hear the wise, quiet voice deep within. We can then allow out that which has been calling for expression. By simply engaging in nurturing, creative practices, we tell ourselves: 'I hear you. I love you.' We open, we receive, we expand, we listen, we express and we allow. And so we return to the peaceful, playful path that leads us home, home to our true nature, to peace, to love.

On Saturday 27th June, I'll be sharing a specially created Creativity and Yoga Retreat Day at the Lightworkers Cottage, Brisbane. And you, my friend, are invited.

Come journey together with me as we connect to the sweet inner expansion that comes when we make time for ourselves.


(Image: Karolin Schnoor)

Twelve Days of Christmas: 1

A Very Merry Christmas to You!

Here we are at the last of our twelve days of Christmas. Thank you for your presence on this winter  adventure in words. I hope you, yes, you, have a restful, playful, heartening holiday.

Alice x

 

A Partridge in a Pear Tree

 

On the first day of Christmas my true love gave to me

a memory.

Everyone’s lying on the sofas and the floor

stuffed fat with too much food

and he comes in

wearing a borrowed jumper

telling me how cold it is in the garden

and that

I should come and look

I’m playing scrabble with my siblings

but I’m losing so I say

okay

and we walk through the hallway

with its wood chip wallpaper and

peeling paint.

The kitchen’s still steamy and the big mirror’s

dripping wet.

So I draw us on it.

I make his ears look bigger and

my hair look curlier

and we both have dots for eyes.

We put on some wellies

not ours

that are by the back door and

I wrestle with the bolt at the bottom

and then we’re outside

on the patio.

It’s so cold

a cold that I sometimes miss.

It wakes us up.

The sky is

familiar grey

I like it

not too bright

not too blue

not all the time.

We look at the veggie patch and

we don’t find much that

doesn’t look like sticks and twigs.

We go to the pond.

Together

we lift up the wire protector

which keeps the hedgehogs from drowning.

We poke at the ice

but don’t break it

just to see if anything’s moving underneath.

He starts making up a song

and

I join in

we put the cover back on the pond

so the little ones don’t fall in.

The song sometimes rhymes and

sometimes it doesn’t

and it makes us laugh.

He points to a robin in the holly tree

he points as he sings:

‘And a

partridge in a pear tree.’

 

 

 

Twelve Days of Christmas: 5

Five Gold Rings

Five gold rings. One for each winter he’d come to me across the sea on his sailing ship. Finding me at first frost; gone before the darkest day.  Leaving me wet, anchored to the shore, waves pushing me away. Five gold rings. Each holding the hope he will take me as his winter bride once more.

 

 

Twelve Days of Christmas: 6

Six Geese A-Laying

 

Christmas List.

He kissed/she kissed

a frog

with a golden ball

rolling in from the wrong fairy tale

it was an egg

rolling on to the wrong Christmas song

melting into five golden rings or

flaking gilt leaves

autumn into winter

 

Just an egg again

that falls inevitably

 – gravity –

out of one of

six geese

a-laying.

Egg cracks open.

A laying on of hands

faith healer

sweating blood

hoping to bring the silence of snow

this Christmas.

 

She kissed/he kissed

a frog

and waited.

It grew golden hair

plaited into thick rope

as rough as straw

as strong as steel cable

it held their weight

as they scaled down

the tower

waving goodbye to their

green true love

who never did become

anything other

than a smiling

boss-eyed

frog

unaware of their wanting

more.

But they knew a man

with a bag of magic beans…

Twelve Days of Christmas: 8

Eight Maids A-Milking


 

Photo credit: Spamily via Flickr



Merry Christmas. What a gift! The cold shoulder!

Get this, Sunday lunch and I’m feeding the baby. My mother-in-law says breastfeeding is not something to be shared at the dinner table. I told her ‘It’s not your dinner table.’ Then John reminded me she’d helped pay for it.

            ‘She didn’t pay for this chair,’ I said, ‘I’ll do whatever I like on it.’ And I carried on feeding the baby. She went to the bathroom and didn’t come out ’til pudding. Ridiculous. And now we’re not invited to Christmas.

‘Breastfeeding at the table is not in the festive spirit of things.’ I don’t know how she thinks baby Jesus got fed.

So that’s it, no seeing her granddaughter on Christmas day. Says she’ll come for mince pies on Boxing Day. I haven’t invited her. Neither has John. He says he’s with me on this. Although he did say Arabella probably doesn’t care if she gets a boob or a bottle and perhaps I could compromise just this once. I threw Flat Bunny at him. ‘That’s not the point!’ I said. So he’s staying home with me.

I told the girls from Mums and Bubs Club. They were spitting teeth, couldn’t believe it. They agreed with me, they said all eight of us should stage a sit-in at her house: turkey, brussel sprouts and boobs out.

            Merry Christmas! I should tell her not to cry over spilt milk.

 

 

Twelve Days of Christmas: 9

Nine Ladies Dancing

Slowly, like music box dolls, we turn on the spot. Feeling small I close the gap between us, hoping a change will make me seem bigger, more, enough. Cheek to my love’s chest, I hear a heart beating in time with the record player’s tune.

The dance floor is full. The dance floor is empty. I don’t know. My eyes are closed. Flickering, they visit – all masked – parodies of me, these women who dance through my body and are gone. They dance on.

My love has given me another chance. I am a cat with nine lives and this is my last.

Photo credit: Tilemahos Efthimiadis via Flickr

Twelve Days of Christmas: 10

Ten Lords A-Leaping

On the tenth day of Christmas the King announced that he wished to find a fitting suitor for his daughter. He set three impossible tasks. Whomsoever could swim the vast moat that kept the castle as a far-off island, whomsoever could scale the castle walls that stood as tall as mountains, whomsoever could leap over the giant fire that would await them in the courtyard, that man, that man would marry the Princess.

            ‘Easy enough’ thought hundreds upon hundreds of dukes and lords, princes and peasants. They could swim, they could climb, they could jump. They were the perfect candidates. And so they came, from all four corners of the kingdom, they came, trudging over frozen fields and plains until at last they arrived at the edge of the moat.

 It was as deep as it was wide, as dark as it was dangerous. It was coiled around the castle, a blue-black serpent waiting for its prey. Teeth chattering, the many men surveyed the freezing-cold passage that stretched before them. At the King’s behest and the sound of canons nobles and knaves alike fearlessly, foolishly, launched into the water.

Less than half reached the other side. Struggling for breath and blue at the lips, fewer still could cling to the castle walls – each and every stone was covered with frost and moss and though they willed their frozen fingers to work, down and down again slid the men. There was, however, a lucky number who used brutish strength and spider-like skill, fight-climbing their way to the top.  By nightfall, ten Lords had landed in the courtyard. They stumbled towards the blazing bonfire that roared victoriously, towering above them with flames like fists pounding at the dark night sky. The Lords thawed themselves. On the other side of the fire was the Princess.

‘Over the fire you leap, good men! Your bride awaits you!’ said the King, his rabbit-skin gloves softly coming together in a clap, clap, clap.

And so it began. The first lord staggered forward, shaking, exhausted. Gripping his own arms he tried to compose himself. Another stood by his side. Soon all ten stood together. Solemn silence, stolen moment of reflection. One lord thought only of the Princess’s striking beauty. Another revelled in her youth. Ten men and many eyes wide with anticipation, mad for the power they would gain in just one leap. Only one lord wished to make the Princess proud, to see her heart ablaze with a love to match his own.

One by one they leapt into the flames, one by one a shrieking, a crackling, a pop and a hiss as black smoke billowed up from the bonfire. One by one they tried to jump over it. One by one they failed until only the last lord remained.

He faced the flames, strong in the knowledge that in his death he would die a happy man for trying. He softened, thinking of the Princess and all he would do for her. And, with each loving thought a snowflake fell, one after another until a flurry filled the air and the entire courtyard was covered in a thick white blanket of snow and the bonfire was nowhere to be seen. The lord leapt over the spot where it had been and into the arms of his Princess. And with the fire of their hearts to keep them warm, they lived happily ever after.

Twelve Days of Christmas: 11

Eleven Pipers Piping

 

Hairnets on, dressed all in white we look like snowmen. ‘We’re making Christmas, my darling, right here!’ with a twist of her wrist, softly squeezing, she conjures delicate lines of green icing as holly leaves appear on the blank face of the cake.

M-E-R-R-Y C-H-R-I-S-T-M-A-S. I’m in charge of the lettering. It’s easier than the holly but harder than the edging.

‘Me, your grandmother, her mother before her and her mother before that. Your Aunt Nell, Auntie Jeanie, Great Aunt Eleanor – all the way back, eleven women, five generations. Including you.’ Mum comes round my side of the counter, wraps her arm around my shoulder applying the same gentle pressure she does to a full piping bag.

We reach the last order of the day and she takes the sherry bottle from behind the plastic tubs of glacé cherries and mixed peel. She pours what is left into two mugs and passes one to me as she admires my handiwork.

            ‘You’re a fine piper, my girl, and a fine baker!’ She’s being kind, my mum.

She makes my Christmas.

 

Photo credit: Mink via Flickr

 

The Twelve Days of Christmas

Merry Christmas!

It does feel somewhat strange saying this with the fan on, sweating in the heat here in Brisbane, Australia, but it is Christmas time nevertheless. And that means Christmas carols.

A number of years ago my siblings and I stood, cocooned in jackets and scarves, in a packed pew at a local carol service. We warbled away with gusto ever aiming for the high notes – usually missing them – and then we spotted it: a simple typo on the carol song sheet that resulted in much mirth amongst us. 'Hark the herald angels sin' was probably not what the Almighty had in mind by way of celebrating his birthday. And so an alternate story existed: wild angels taking the day off and making merry in their festive woolly jumpers.

This year, I've written a series of alternate interpretations, responses to the English carol 'The Twelve Days of Christmas'. I've written short stories, script, poetry; I've played with style and genre, some are happy, some are sad some are something else. For the next twelve days I'll be posting the pieces here and also sharing excerpts of them via my twitter account @wulftheatre.

I hope you enjoy them and I would love for you to share your own responses to either my creations or the original 'Twelve Days'. Words or music, song or sound, illustration or even movement – whatever you feel inspired to do is very welcome and would be a gift. And, if you like short and sweet, tweet using the hashtag #12DaysOfXmas or post to this blog.

I hope you and your loved ones have a very peaceful, playful, caring, creative festive season!

Twelve Drummers Drumming

 

Hands stuffed deep into the pockets of my oldest coat I walk, head down, hiding from the cold, to our familiar spot. There he is. Sat on the bench facing the swings. He doesn’t turn around. I can see a limp sprig of mistletoe resting on his knee. I can’t see what is coming.

I sit down. Smiling wanly, head to one side, he dangles the mistletoe above the space between us. I remember sighing. He crosses his legs – and I think that must have been a signal – a drilling sound erupts from right behind us. Out of the bushes come twelve grown men dressed in red and white. Twelve Father Christmases all beating a rhythm I can’t recognise, hammering at their long-suffering drums. It could have been festive. It could have been a death march.

            He’s smiling again. He kneels down on the concrete, on one knee, slipping slightly where it’s icy, still trying to hold the mistletoe high – waving it at me, a white flag. It starts to snow. His lips are moving, the drumming gets louder and I can’t hear a word he says.

Musical Cloakroom: Hack The Barbican 2013!

Musical Cloakroom: Sounds, Stories and Sensors

 

Throughout August 2013 the Barbican Centre, London, has seen its cavernous foyer spaces hijacked by theatre performers, hardware hackers, sculptors, musicians and computer scientists as part of the unconventional arts event Hack The Barbican.

Imeh Akpan and Nebulous Flynn invited me to collaborate with them on their sound installation Musical Cloakroom. Thirty-three squares linked to sensors form the stepping stones to musical tones: each time participants step into a square they trigger a sound: Nebulous Flynn's soundscapes or a story. I wrote six separate thirty-three-word stories for the project. The piece, conceived and programmed by Imeh Akpan, offers multiple ways for the public to play and create within the space. Participants can twirl through the cloakroom at random forming their own sound piece, or step through methodically following the trail of a tale.

If you're not in London you can still make your own music and catch five of the stories online here.