Haven for the living Princess and the Pea


Creative pieces


Every day she’s so depressed and angry and in pain. All she wants to do is sleep but today she was woken by her mother’s guests. Now she must lie awake and suffer. She suffers silently behind closed doors, closed blinds and under the blankets of her bed while laughter fills the house. Her dark room is both her refuge and torture chamber, the darkness seeping into every bone and tissue of her body to the point the pain becomes physical. She breathes and exhales darkness. There are no tears; she lies in a dried up riverbed, thoroughly scorned and beaten by life.

dried river 3

Point of no return

I am at my university and all the buildings are collapsing. I am running, away from the buildings which are falling like giant skittles. I run and run until I think I am safe, but now I have run too far. It is nightfall and it is time for me to go home but I can’t find my way back. I desperately search for the train station but the only stations I can find are the stations of faraway towns and towns I don’t recognise. Finally I find a name I recognise: Heathmont. But it is not just Heathmont, it is Heathmont “South”. I never knew there was such a station. I am on the platform now and loud diesel trains like those on the country lines pass by, scooping up the waiting passengers. I cover my ears to block out the harrowing noise. The trains depart and I gaze across to the platform on the other side of the tracks wondering whether that is my platform. I jump onto the tracks and run across. I need to get back onto the platform quickly before another train comes. I try to heave myself up but my arms are too weak and I fall back onto the tracks. I try again with a bit of a run. This time I manage to get up. Again, it’s not the train I want, but there is another platform on the other side of this platform which might be. There are many platforms here, like at Richmond station. An endless series of platforms. I continue the futile search for the one I want, before surrendering to the fact that I am completely and utterly lost.



I got to know her in Year 9, the year I was cruelly bullied.

We started to sit together in science class. She saw something in me, a kindness she had not known enough. A friend.

She was a peculiar girl, a sad girl, a girl who stabbed pens into the palm of her hand, something I only came to understand later in my life. I tried to take the pen off her.

She dressed in black and hung around girls who dressed in black. I didn’t dress in black, but my life was black and my year was black. I had no friends. She invited me to come sit with her’s, but I never really took her up on that.

One day I came into class in tears. Some girls in my class swarmed around me like vultures, like journalists, girls who’d never taken an interest in me before now warm and fuzzy. Sara warned me to stay away from those girls. She could read people like she read the periodic table, pointing out the dangerous ones.

Sara never faked kindness. What she did fake was coldness. Behind her “stay away” vibe she loved passionately and she hurt passionately. Her heart went out to me that day, probably because she knew the territory all too well. She took me outside and we hugged and it was exactly what I needed in that moment.

I ended up leaving the school, which Sara never really forgave me for. We lost contact, much to my regret. A year ago I tried to befriend her on Facebook but she never responded.

I was kind to Sara and Sara was kind to me in return. I wonder where I’d be if I had of stayed, and sat where I belonged: with girls who dressed in black.


Summer meditation with dream harp

White lady, radiating white light, spun from the dream spell of a harp.
White Tara, saviour, seer, she who has guided me among the waves of tumultuous emotion or is it Kuan Yin Chinese Lady of Compassion.

It is ten years since I have been in China, sitting on an ancient city hilltop on stone stools, sipping green tea and cracking open sunflower seeds.
A five year old girl dressed in red, her parents beaming with pride and love as she sings me an English song. I had come to ask if I could take a photo. It is my birthday.
Another lifetime ago I had celebrated birthdays here in this vast land. There are few memories, one is me as a young girl sitting in a garden and eating a persimmon.

I am glad Tara is here, Tibetan deity of compassion. I long to know the God’s again, to reach my own inner God.

Windows of the soul are open. I am surrounded by silence, shadow, grass, birds, water flow, nature opening the windows of vision. I am earthed and yet I fly inwardly.

I need to get to know you again, Tara, my starlight that holds true within my heart. Beat your rhythm like a singing bowl, sing to me so I may sing back to you. Beat, beat, beat sings the bird up on a branch, twit, twit sings a smaller bird. I am trying to find my song to sing, the inner heart song, the inner truth.

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