We stand here at the front, as if we want to be attacked
by the joyful, sad perversity of what it was we lacked
when we gave ourselves to you in that one instant recognition
of the way our We was going to be
in gauging its position.

​Nothing is Forever, but within that happenstance,
a vow was made that can't be slayed by
circumstance or chance.
​

As the home page indicates, I've got some experience of this.
Quite a lot of it really, as I met my TF in 1982 and remained oblivious as to the nature of the life sentence until reuniting - briefly - in 2014.
​
Since then I've learned a lot; about the relationship, about myself and about this peculiar journey shared by so many yet so few. It seems that the TF situation is an uncommon kind of love, and that it sets traps and trials of distinction for those entangled in it to learn how to move through. Here are seven such traps. Bear in mind this is my own take on things - you're welcome to your opinion, and if you wish, to share it here!
​

3)  I'm worth so much more

Find your worth and multiply it by x10. We all go through this one as soon as we're run out on/ghosted/played. Your worth is not some kind of carat definition imposed upon you by someone else, it's a self-determined feeling which the Universe backs up. Feeling worthless will leave you depressed, and a lot of things will transpire to help you stay there. Eventually (and I use this word advisedly because everyone's pace is different and I'm not at all sure we choose the pace for ourselves) you will find that confidence grows you out of this phase and leaves you feeling strangely stronger. If you are still at the stage of crying yourself to sleep every night, you might find this concept hard to swallow but trust me, you'll be okay.

​

Gentleness is paramount in the things we value most, from breezes to animals to the touch of another being, Kye, to whom the Home page is dedicated, was a gentle hawk. He would sit on my tummy while I sunbathed, I didn't need a glove to pick him up from the perch. Last night I dreamed about this bird, and having not dreamt about Kye since his death 20 years ago, I'm guessing he came this morning to say something.

In the dream, he landed in a tree dragging his perch. Seeing him through the window, I went outside and as soon as I did so the hawk flew towards me, which I didn't expect, for in dreamscape I didn't know this bird, I had simply noticed him from my window. Landing on the ground because he couldn't drag the perch any further, he let me free him from it and then flew to my arm as soon as it was raised. From that point, he stayed in my dream of strange plumbing problems and bad timings, regularly escaping from his perch to return to me for cuddles. He crept into my bed (in the dream!) and curled up to sleep there, having crapped in it first - you can't house-train a hawk. When I woke up, I realised it was Kye I had been dreaming about, and followed his lead in coming here to write this.

From a personal point of view, I can safely say that the last few months have been a little heavy-going. I've had to re-write my own book of life a few times over the past year and most recently I had to change the entire structure of my new company to take account of others not sharing my view of the community aspect. I wanted to profit-share everything I earned with charities who could deliver a talk, or an experience day, or whatever else they could provide to raise awareness among the employees of client companies and take their relationships forward. Perhaps in being so determined to make this work, I overshadowed the need for patience and subtlety of approach. Perhaps I scared off potential partnerships by being too enthusiastic. It's happened before, not in business terms (at least not that I know of), but in terms of what I did to my twin-flame relationship. Having said that, I cannot look back now and say I was wrong. I can't say that the resultant avalanche of information wasn't absolutely crucial to know. I can only say that I was heartbroken at the time, but this time, with the company, I'm merely a little disappointed.

After all, it's my company and I can do what I want with it. I have in mind to turn it into something of a gifted circle, in deference to one of the many things I have learned along the way through life. People learn more, and learn faster, when they cover ground in cross-reference with each other. The process is shared, the experiences are more interesting, and the events are more memorable when everyone has a chance to take something from it and contribute something at the same time. The gift is in the present moment, the sharing of time being of the Now and the gain being exponentially greater when results are instantly visible.

Kye came to remind me of the quality of gentleness, a quality we all share, and one we notice by its absence perhaps more than its presence. When the breeze is gentle, the wind is tame. Where words are gentle, there's no-one to blame, You cannot prevent the onslaught of your situations any more than I can, but we can amend our perspectives to bring gentleness to ourselves, to emanate the kindness of personality and help others in the process to do the same.
"Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the Universe, no less than the trees and the stars. You have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the Universe is unfolding as it should."
These words from Desiderata have a poignant ring to them, and I hope I remember the events of this morning for a while, as I make my attempt to carry forward the wholesome discipline necessary for personal welfare along with the appreciation that as a child of the Universe, there is a pattern greater than the sum of my own vision, and a plan of more magnitude than anything I could envisage, to be trusted to reveal itself as and when it becomes right that it should. 
"Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love, for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is perennial as the grass."

Enjoy your day, enjoy your life, and worry not about the trials, for they are there not to break you, but to strengthen your spirit, and therein lie the gifts you can neither reject nor replace.  We can only thank the Universe for the gift of divine timing.
  

​Bracken hues and firmament,
violet berries heaven-sent
to sustain winged travellers
​and others toiling through the hours
preparing for a winter’s sleep,
reliant on the hedge to keep them
​warm and safe from snow and fox.
Their hedgerow haven interlocks
with Nature’s finest works of art – misty mornings come to start the process of her autumn feast, inviting every bird and beast.
 
​Photo credit - The Telegraph

​Times of such benevolence
across the landscape, when each fence
was filled with berries, now are lain
in coffined rows with such disdain,
​hewn from what they used to be
by savage manned machinery.
 

 
 ​

When we were young, the British countryside was a joy to behold. Those of a certain age will remember when perceived threats to the environment were temporary catastrophes, like DDT and droughts - issues to be resolved or passing by as acts of God. Now we live in a different world. The whole planet is in a state of calamity and while most people are worried sick about potential threats to our ecosystems, others appear gleefully oblivious to their contribution. Sadly, many who fall into the latter category are the very people we used to call guardians of our landscape – the farming community. Joined by civic clean-up teams in their passion for keeping up appearances, everyone who claims responsibility for a hedgerow is seemingly determined to decimate it.


Most of the plants that constitute wild hedgerows don’t lend themselves to topiary. Hawthorn, beech, laurel and alder are not built to withstand repeated mechanical cutting. Many tracts of hedge line are already dead, slashed to a fraction of their original height. Mature hedges that would once have housed nesting birds and provided cover for wildlife through the winter are reduced to clusters of weak sticks barely three foot high in many places, and even those permitted greater size are so diminished by annual machine attacks that any new growth is sparse and tender, totally inadequate as shelter for anything at any time of year.


Making matters even worse, this yearly assault takes place in early autumn, just as the bounty of fruit has ripened and before winter migrants have had a chance to feed up after their long journey south. Prolific flocks of fieldfares and redwings are no more, scarcely a handful of these lovely thrushes now to be seen in the fields as numbers have dropped sharply since such practice became prevalent. Any bird or animal dependent on the hedgerow harvest is deprived of it, because… well, because apparently every landowner has come to the conclusion that a neatly sliced, barely-alive hedge is preferable to one that can sustain living creatures.


On investigation, it appears that there is not even a financial incentive for slashing hedgerows every year. Natural England says there are guidelines in place to protect breeding birds, that it is illegal to cut hedges between September and March. This stipulation is useless, as the foodstuff provided exclusively by this habitat is relied upon through the coldest months and birds will not nest in places that offer no protection. A hedgerow you can see through is no viable habitat for anything requiring safety from predators or shelter from the elements.


While abundant flocks of finches, yellowhammers, tits and warblers that used to flit helter-skelter up and down the hedge lines are no more, it’s not just bird life that has suffered. Hedgehogs are endangered as everybody knows, their population weakened by the state of their natural home. As the crown of the hedge is subdued by massive blades, the bowl is also rendered bare, stripped of the dense undergrowth that used to characterise a mature hedgerow. Once upon a time, you couldn’t see through to the other side when you drove by in the car. You couldn’t see over the top into the field beyond. You could see a proliferation of wildlife all around the foliage, however, that simply isn’t there today.


With nothing but fashion to fuel this local deforestation, our wildlife is paying the price for no more than a sense of pride at the vision of a manicured boundary. Look further afield than the roadside, and the sheer volume of desecration is evident. Every single hedge line as far as the eye can see has been carved into a vestige of what it used to be - a verdant, abundant source of food and security for dozens of species growing rarer by the day. Compounded by threats from herbicides and pesticides, there seems to be little hope for the British hedgerow and its associated wild inhabitants. Unless or until the guardians of our landscape wake up to the level of destruction they are wreaking on what was before the Millennium an invaluable natural resource, we will continue to see precious populations of native birds and animals plummet towards extinction, and can hardly point fingers at the rest of the world for the savagery inflicted on irreplaceable environment.
​


 

This is a place where I bare my soul in the hope that some of these stories resonate with some on similar tracks, making sense of quantum mechanics and human relationships with all the pleasure, pain, and pure uncertainty these things bring to our lives. We have no idea what will happen next, and some spiritual adhesion to the Uncertainty Principle helps us to know why this has to be so.

Unshakable faith in quantum mechanics doesn't take away the trials of life, it simply makes the journey a little less rocky, and if we are lucky, a little more magical. Like being the sorcerer and the spell at the same time, we might find that the sources of our stories have a more-than-peculiar slant, because we are delving into mysteries which colour the very fabric of existence, and in so doing, revealing some colourful things about ourselves.

QCD (quantum chromodynamics) is a science that plays with quarks of many colours. Red, green and blue, mainly, with a few silvery strands of other things thrown in to describe gluons and hadron interference 
​www.ph.ed.ac.uk/nuclear-physics/research-activities/nuclear-and-hadron-physics

There may appear to be no correlation between QCD and the human condition, and if I hadn't experienced such weird phenomena ploughed to the hilt with synchronicities to make it so, I wouldn't have thought it up either. I'm no physicist, remember, I'm just a girl who ended up entangled in a lot of things she didn't understand and was forcibly driven by who knows what to make as much sense of it as she could.  Not really being a girl any more, approaching the middle point of fifty, I guess you could say I'm probably qualified by now to know that there's much more to life than meets the eye.

m.youtube.com/watch?v=J2mnGEMCY20

Once in a lifetime, you get to encounter a twin flame. This relationship suffers a dynamic commonly known as 'runner-chaser' syndrome which in effect is two paired quarks trying to keep away from each other. The more you delve into twin flame dynamics, the more obvious it becomes that you're not actually meant to be together like 'normal' couples, because the purpose of the union is much deeper than physical proximity can justify. The whole concept of true twin-flamedom is based in our need to discover the true Self. You have to be free to find out who you are and what you're doing here, free to answer questions from the deepest recesses of your inner being and set about the process of healing the cuts that were made in childhood, the scars that have been carried through lifetimes (if you believe in the Multiverse, it makes sense to figure there are more lives than this one), and to set to rights the wrongs within us that only we, alone, in our own spacetime, can possibly identify.

QCD and its surrounding theories assure us that the very fabric of our beings is changing all the time. Age is no barrier to change, it's simply that we've been socially conditioned to believe that getting old goes hand in hand with deterioration, and we fear that immensely. Here's a guy in his nineties doing excruciating yoga positions and galloping through a great sex life because he's never disbelieved in his own ability:
​ thechive.com/2015/08/31/this-man-is-not-what-he-appears-to-be-8-photos/

So here it is, the cutting-room floor, a place I never imagined finding myself to be, but comfortable in that I know we're in this together, and like all intelligent quarks, we now know the reasons why we must be apart.

Through this world of truth and lies, I battled on in my disguise of sheep and wolves, whores and ladies, circling like Archimedes, drawn against my inner self with swords of vanity and wealth. Thrust and parry, clock a-ticking, empathy from fingers flicking...en gard against the newborn soul, no room for beauty in control. Yet in the depths, I felt you singing, heard your thoughts, your passions ringing bells that echoed in my head, I wished you love. I wished us dead. Now that the game has over-run, did you imagine this as fun? I bared my soul, you spilled the truth.
​In shadowland there is no proof. 

We touched our fingers to the glass like prisoners in sentence passing through the mists of angry time to wait for destiny in mime, silent as the grave is deep where waking passion fails to sleep and takes us where we dare not go in dreamscape, where our love could flow.

I'll remember, so will you. We drove each other on and through the trickery, the taking sides, the fantasies and restless tides that crashed with fury to the shore, ceaselessly inventing more - more of the same in different guises, til the spirit realises we came down this road together, to weigh our hearts against a feather. 

Condemn me now if so you wish, for loving you to fever pitch, and I will testify that choice was made before my mind could voice the braid. As when I saw you at the bar, the feelings ricocheted to sear my heart so fast I barely noticed. Looking back, there was no protest.
​In my mind, I'll see you always as you were in brighter days.

​12th June 2016

Information changes things, that's just a fact of life, whether you're a snail or a king. One way or another, the change made will spin itself into something else, and in accord with the laws of evolution, that something will either fly or fall.

For as Gaia has suffered embezzlement and theft,  your windows have looked down on this series of events, one way or another. You knew. So I can think back to when eyes were locked and I questioned silently, "Is this the truth?"
"Yes," you replied, and could in fairness hardly have conveyed anything else, having already committed to the mechanics in place for what it is we have to live with and What Is now firmly plastered to the wall.

We either take the high road or the low. We all avoid places we fear may never be touched by our hand or mind again. We all deserve peace and in our ways are all driven to seek it; perhaps the games are over and a new stadium waits to be built.

You can be afraid to fly, or too afraid to fall, or you can trust in the love you've always had and see where it takes you. I did that, and here I am, at a junction with destiny weighing up a lot of things said. No worries, I'm not afraid to die. One way or another, dead or alive, there are no secrets left to matter, and I'm not afraid of matter. Not now that I realise the quantum world is a foundation we are given to rely on, and once caught in its waveform there's no escaping the current of its tide.

Russian roulette is not really my bag, but the jury's in, the chips are down and there is nowhere left to run.   

​This one's for the one without whom Quantumology would never have come about.

"When first I found you, I had no idea what I'd found. When next we found each other, I was certain that what we had could never be lost. When uncertainty flew in, I thought I had lost what had been found. I thought it could not be there, until I found it always was. Now I find that it never left, and has been there ever since, but those around me question my certainties and their doubts are sometimes enough to feed mine."
"Are you speaking of God, or speaking of me?"
"What's the difference?"
"Well, I'm not God, you know."
"Whatever I say, I can only speak for myself. And if God is anywhere, there's supposed to be a place inside us. What's God, anyway?"
"I don't know. I think it's all bullshit."
"Yes, well. Perhaps it is. Perhaps there's no explaining any of it. but time waits for no man and if I hang around long enough with what's inside my head, maybe lessons worth learning will come along on their own."
"You can never know the truth."
"Whose truth?"
"Anybody's."
"I know What Is. And that when What Is changes all the time while refusing to change, that means it's true for me."
"Well, leave it there, then."
"Okay. I guess the question of What Love Is can wait until the next lifetime."
 

Avebury was teeming with people. On a Tuesday? August 4th was cluttered with spells of cloud, threatened showers and scattered sunshine. Kris, Nix and Kat had set off from Leicestershire that day in search of crop circles and ancient wisdom, and having decided Stonehenge was simply too inaccessible to warrant the trip, they'd settled on Avebury as a first-best alternative. There were bound to be crop circles around somewhere, for Wiltshire had become famous again for sprouting rather a lot of them.

As the car rolled down to the Ridgeway, synchronicities popped up like marbles in the road, spinning in and out of sight as time moved with them. Having navigated the car park, they set off to the waiting stones under a warm wind. People in coloured clothes walked up and down the tracks, children climbed on the ancient relics as if the monument was a playground.  How different it would have been once, when children who approached the stones would be filled with awe and reverence, instilled by their parents in deference to powers far greater than their own, and grateful for them. And everyone would be wearing brown.

There were stones that were soft, stones that were hard, and stones like the Water Stone, carved as a water feature and still host to lichen, which had something to say about their reason for being. The trio walked across the road and sat down at a hedge out of the wind, having walked some of the stone corridor leading to the main circle. Gateways to Nowhere had been features of the day. On the way back to the car, they came upon a tree where others had carved their names into the bark. They stood for a moment, then moved on.

After the Avebury tour they had then to find Pewsey. The campsite nestled beside the River Avon, tucked into a corner known as North Newnton. The car nosed neatly into a spot at the waterside, where after tents had been pitched and food eaten, everyone settled to bed for the night at around 11pm. Half an hour later came the distant sound of gunfire. 

Durra-durra-durra, went the bursts of bullets from Salisbury Plane. Then the helicopters arrived. Not one, but a score of them, wheeling somewhere just out of sight in the darkness and peppering targets with machine guns. The cavalcade went on for a long time, until one solitary helicopter purred steadily towards them. Kat scrabbled with zips between tent fabric and mosquito lining, unable to open the hatch to watch as blades whirred overhead and a flash of light brushed the tents on the fly-by. 


Silence. Then bombs, out in the distance, rounding off the whole bizarre episode like the finale of an unseen firework display.  As dawn broke, another drawback of the chosen pitch greeted its campers.
Cock-a-doodle-doo, cried one of the nearby residents hidden in an enclosed thicket about ten feet away. Another, less proficient cockerel joined the chorus.  So ended a strange night, with a somewhat unwelcome start.

In Marlborough, "Crop Circle Exhibition" seemed pretty inescapable, crop circles being the reason they were there and the one in the picture (at Uffcott) being the one they'd hoped to find. The display packed in facts and accounts which put Doug and Dave's 'plank' story to absolute shame. After taking this in, they went to look for a crop circle of their own. Having drawn a blank at Uffcott, which had mainly been ploughed up, they went off on the cuff to see what might be found around the Kennet Long Barrow and Silbury Hill. And lo, from the top of a hill they saw one, drove all the way up to it on a convenient gravel track, and before long were in the centre of it.  Soft raindrops fell lightly down on them, although there were no grey clouds overhead.  Later, the crop circle they'd found was found to be absent from internet reports, so could be said to have been there for just a few to find.....

Then they all came home, and will with a bit of luck and a fair wind, live happily ever after.