The Strange Economy of the Human Soul.

Waking is when my economy switches – if I can use that verb – from where I have been all night to the new day mode and it is always interesting. Wriiting publicly like this, there is always a tendency to discuss what happened “out there” in the past few hours, and forget where it all started.

For me, the time of translation from waking to walking about is probably the key phase of my day: it’s when I make my most important decisions, about who I am and where I want to be the light of my past selves. I mean too those decisions that are hardly conscious, the railway tracks of past resolutions and obsessions, all together.

So I will head to the toilet of course and take a blood pressure tablet (no cat to feed here), then fill the electric kettle and get the caffeine hit in prospect. All the while, things are happening in my awareness as I decide whether to meditate, pray, or get online – too often here in Iowa, the latter is winning, like now.

Intuition comes in to play: for instance, I took a picture of this table where much of my outwardly creative life here will be spent, with its books, pens, lists and billet doux. Yet when it came to head this post with a picture, as I like to do, instead of that one I posted the family in the boat, taken from the bridge at dusk a few nights back.

I love its essentially lonely and somehow heroic quality – not the picture as an example of fine photography, as it is buzzing with what the camera geeks call noise – but the framing of the family on the water.

It tells me I have come from sailing, from my dreams where I saw many of you, including my daughter and Donna Tairakena who lost her husband Tetaki in the February 22nd earthquake in Christchurch last year.

With her was her sister-in-law, Maggie and her friend Gill Hood, who lives now with Donna since her bed became empty on that terrible day. My dream had Gill returning from Japan with souvenirs she had brought back from visiting the families of long dead kamikaze pilots.

Gill had doll’s clothes which I asked to hold and admire: little hats, which now I think of it were like those little stitched Uzbek caps – duppi – but decorated with shiny discs. Of course this is all the poetry of the dream, mixing the elements of my lives at will.

It all reminds me I have lived many times over and each day is a fresh chance to be human and creative, to be part of my story: that I have more than enough material to live richly and to make things; to love and to know the mystery of good and evil, which are in the world and at work right now as the apostle Paul has written somewhere.

Speaking of whom, it’s time I went and talked to the Ground of My Being. I had a vision on arising of the two US political parties right now as great flesh-eating dinosaurs preparing to tear each other apart: Tyrannosaurus Republicus vs Tyrannosaurus Democratica – I’m sure of the Ancient of Days knows just what I mean.

So here is my desk…vacant for a little while. Now, I think I am really awake – we’ll see.


About paparoa

Writer and researcher.
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