I am from the suburban streets of Buckhurst Hill with its Mrs Bouquet demands and too many elephants in the room to begin to explain. I am the daughter of John and Margaret,  swimming champion and tom boy in my street.  The perfect house with perfect Sanderson covered sofas and perfect matching children.  

I’m from the era of Enid Blyton, the English children’s author,  captivated in my teens and immersed in the magic and wonder that these characters evoked in me with their different adventures.   Apparently at thirteen, I was too old for such frivolities and needed to grow up.   So to avoid such shame,  I am instead, from the era of super,  perfectionist,  workaholic, middle class Maggie Thatcher look-alikes  with a string of ‘burn outs’,  broken health and relationships being a marker for this unacknowledged madness and collective trauma.  

I am of course, a child of Tarzan and Jane, for those who remember the television series that captivated so many and right now in my spiritual maturity,  gained from hard life experience where I’ve reconnected with my lost inner children,  there is no doubt that building a tree house is a definite must on the Bucket List,  regardless and perhaps because of Italian laws that say otherwise.

I am from my first dog Archie who taught me how to open my heart and walk in the woods, remembering how far away from home I had truly become,  in this search for stardom that was never my own and the emptiness I could never fill of my starved mother. 

I am from the same place as the broken, empty addicts and homeless souls living on the streets,  choosing different addictions but still driving myself into an early grave because the unresolved pain in my own system and those of my tortured ancestors that had never been acknowledged, was simply too much.  I might have pretended otherwise, that I am from a different class of addiction as a workaholic, super-achiever but a gaping hole inside is a gaping hole and,   whatever your chosen addiction is, ultimately it’s a coping strategy to find some desperately needed comfort.

I am one of the empathic souls, aching for a multi-dimensional model to tap into, sponges for entire family systems, scapegoated by a survival system and society that is not willing to see the larger Truth.  Instead, those souls blinded by their ignorance and intellectual arrogance, denying and bypassing their own shadow,  project their disowned vulnerability on other scapegoated and betrayed souls who by the brutal grace of their suffering, have been forged to wake up and see beyond the illusion and enslavement that entraps the masses. 

I am from religious sinners and toxic patriarchy,  seeking redemption for merely existing, the prostitute and whore for daring to have a female body.   I am the child of mothers berating me for the inconvenience of my first bleed, ‘cursed’ for letting this happen, desperate to cover the shame of being so flawed and fouled. 

I am from the Suffragettes and activists who went before,  secretly excited to be part of a new team of Love-Rebels who,  having been asked for too much life blood, too much sacrifice, now demand and commit to sovereignty and freedom,  even if it means death by burning at the stake. No I will not conform to wearing a mask any longer, of any kind.

I am from those who being so programmed,  have smashed through their cages and consciously changed the job title of limiting roles.   My scapegoat is now an uncompromising whistleblower determined to speak truth at all cost, and the brutal inner critic so intent on destroying me for so long,  is miraculously a deeply loyal and discerning judge.  

I am from the sacred breath that finally gives me dominion over my own temple space, this in and out cycle of life and death that connects us all.  This breath that I had blocked from my own body,  in a desperate attempt to keep demons at bay,  a survival strategy of disconnection in order to manage complex and invisible trauma……only to realise that now, this One breath that is mine, IS the beloved whispering to me in each moment.

I am from the animals, the dog kingdom in particular, who lavish on me the adoration and acceptance that helps me return back to my own heart, to remember that love is all that matters. I am from my abandoned and beloved dog Chammy who cannot bear to be separated from me lest she will lose herself in abject loneliness. I am from my wild and orgasmic dog Misha, who found me here in the mountains and who taught me that it doesn’t matter who likes or dislikes you,  so long as you step up to be who you really are,  with no apology and complete reverence for life itself in each moment. 

I am from the Corona Viruses, an indispensable part of our majestic earth micro-bium,   so cruelly vilified.  I too had forgotten to live by nature’s laws and forgot in my ignorance that I am nothing without them. My soil is theirs and theirs is mine, we are not separate.  I choose the symbolic truth of what it means in this secret Third World War and Luciferian agenda, because I know it is really a Sacred War to return to the light, to my own divine nature and the symbiotic relationship that must be fully honoured and recalled to its rightful place.  

I am from the crone Goddess Dhumavati,  exhausted, shattered and ‘stuck’ for years in apparent hopelessness,  only to find the stunning gifts and medicine offered by HER,  of patience, wisdom, humility, peace and holy grace.​

I am from  martyrs like Joan of Arcs,  who gave up everything,  knowing that nothing was more important than holy listening, wholeheartedly trusting and surrendering to their sacred mission whatever the cost.

I am the Divine Child recognising my humble place, letting go of any entitlement that is not mine to own,  finally able to forgive myself for being a holy mess of a human,  and finally honouring my own trampled and yet exquisitely beautiful divinely,  sovereign nature.   Just as Kabir said ‘My father is the absolute godhead and my mother is the embodied godhead and I am their divine child, dancing for them both on their burning dance floor”.