Inner Chatter

I wandered around dazedly in the park the other day and watched the magpies hopping on the grass. A bird that has lived in human superstitions for years whether they are predicting our futures of Sorrow, Joy, a Girl, a Boy or stealing our jewellery.

According to legend the magpie collects sparkly things and takes them to his nest. His eye seeks them out, whether they are pieces of foil, diamond rings or a shimmering thread. 

As children we are told these tales and we believe he is a badly-behaved old bird, a corner-cutting thief. Or maybe he is a wise old metaphor really...

We should collect the things that are shiny to us. Whether they be physical activities, people, places or things that we do not have but are attracted to having. 

Still your chattering mind and listen to your gut and take note of what brings you joy and make space for it in your life. What makes your mouth twist up and your heart beat fast, what steals your focus and enthrals you in its clutches, who makes you laugh so gutturally that you clap your hands over your mouth. Where do you go to feel like you are floating in a dream. THESE are your shiny things... collect them. Even the ones you do not yet have. 

No, there is no need to steal as the magpie does, but if someone else has something or is something that we admire, it is ok to notice that and add it to our list of desires. Maybe we can put ourselves around people or situations that have that thing or experience. Use that instead of feeling negative and jealous and believe that you too will have it one day.

Collect your shiny things, shiny places, shiny people and seek out those shiny desires and goals. In the end, this is why life is what you make of it... a collection of your shiniest moments and noticing what’s shiny to you.

You know when you were young and walked along the stone fences after hours of throwing rocks into the fjord, and thought these kind of moments would last forever? Most days they seem so distant, yet somehow so close you can almost imagining touching them again. Only a few millimetres away from your finger tips, as you stretch towards the memories that has survived your poor memory. 

As you grow up, every now and then you come back to these moments and places. Curious to see if anything is left of that old magic, if the place has survived time, if it somehow has still lasted. 

I recently went home and this curiosity awoke. From my lovely London flat to my original home country; Norway. The places where I used to look for little crabs under rocks and the wooden docks I dangled my feet were calling me. What is home? A confusing question to anyone relocated from their original roots. Which place do you belong? A pulling game between this beautiful place I was born and my new home across the sea. Some childhood places completely change and others remain untouched. But for how long? The places changed makes you feel like a guest with no further invitation. Who is that woman on the balcony where my mum used to call our name for dinner at 4pm? When did that wooden decking appear where I used to roll in the grass and run screaming of joy in ice cold water through the sprinklers? When do we become strangers in our own town? 

It’s looking a little shinier now  as the days of my dark years  slowly dissolve into ashes  bit by bit.

Let whiter days gently emerge into an astounding triumph. The years of tears and mourning gradually dimming into a forgotten psalm. My skin still playing host to my faded lacrimosa. Gradually overshadowed by the sound of victorious trumpets.  

This torment shall be suffocated as I claw my way out of this darkened cave majestically arising like the perfect movie scene. Eternal light, shine on me. Trickled thoughts gathered by their throne an army arisen gleaming in their defeat of my persistent shadows.

Let the dark days tremble in fear as they await their eternal rest.

I think you're lost little darling,

Your soul has wandered off.

The blank stares,

No trivial cares,

Quiet and then the rage

That sits within you sometimes -

Ignore the rhymes.

What I'm trying to say is that I'm here,

To listen to your woes, dispel your imaginary foes.

There is something in you that calls out to me,

I just want to soothe you until you see

How fucking unique -

A fascinating freak

You are.

Because what you have done and achieved,

You helped others breathe

And created a space where people felt worthy.

To me, you are magic

Your story isn't tragic.

Stop making it so.

The most complicated, mixed-up minds in life

The ones that create and help the most

Are often left sobbing when they're not playing host,

But you can choose a different way.

Cliches say,

Live day-to-day.

Choose joy instead of self-flagellation;

Pass by that station.

Put your shoes on and step out today,

(No need to make hay)

Don't absorb the world's troubles.

Think about glitter and bubbles,

Feather boas and plasticine,

Other things that make one scream

With joy at the nonsensical silliness of it all.

And if that doesn't work my friend,

You can depend

On the many that love you.

Who would sit and count sheep

Or listen to music on repeat

Or talk and talk and talk and talk

Until the planes begin to fly again.

I am one of those my darling, you know it too.

I would spend my lifetime helping you find your soul.

I would paint pictures of joyful things,

Write you stories, buy you beautiful gifts.

I would stay up all night Googling happy news for you to read

Give a speech on your qualities, whether you agreed -

Or not.

Your magic, your kindness, that limitless smile.

Your soul is not lost,

It has only gone away for a while.

This silence is so loud. Stop interrupting my perfectly organised chaos of self-doubt and judgement.

or perhaps

Let’s get to know each other. Be my new bff share a glass of half priced white wine. My treat.

You and me. We could co-exist. Lost together in a choreographed masterpiece.

All I can think about are flamingoes. Giant inflatable ones that are all over my Instagram news feed, those printed on a shirt, phone cover, notebook. They are the current bird of choice that consumerism has wrapped her talons around. And so my mind flashes them back at me during meditation, taunting me with their pinkness and their skill for balancing on one leg. 

Balance has always been my problem, in yoga and in life. I’m getting better at it in yoga, I’m not sure about life. Why can’t I figure it out? Why am I always the person who drinks the most wine, eats the most cake, the one with whom people cry the most until I suffocate with exhaustion.

Why aren’t I ever able to finish anything or keep my promises to myself. Why do I set myself such impossible tasks and standards, almost purposefully, so I fail. So my already rabid self criticism is perpetuated back to me again and again.

I don’t think I’m ever empty of ideas or thoughts, my mind is constantly churning them out, most of them completely useless and most of them totally narcissistic. Sometimes I wish I wasn’t so obsessed with myself. Is this what seven years of singledom has done for me. My head seems to think it is in the Truman Show or something. Seriously honey, you’re just another middle-class, white, perpetual child with the same depression as every other person.