~ The Art Of Change ~ with Carol Omer ~

Art and Creativity as Mediums for Empowerment , Connection and Change…

Archive for the ‘Lifes Stories’ Category

The Warrior Woman template as a life coaching & community development tool

Posted by carolom on January 7, 2017

As a life coach and  empowerment artist working in the areas of domestic violence and cultural diversity I recognise that creativity, art, story, song, dance and music are the tools and activities that affirm women’s strengths and interconnectedness regardless of our cultural background.

Engaging with art in a communal setting creates a place where we can celebrate our connections and share the richness of the stories and experiences that define our cultural and individual uniqueness.

I am very appreciative to the women who attended a  Women’s ART of Change  Empowerment & Life Coaching Camp and allowed us to photograph some of the sessions. By doing so we can share the powerful message that sharing and creating together is the answer to crossing the cultural and language barriers that can prevent women from coming together.

When women from CALD (culturally and linguistically diverse) settings engage with this form of  life coaching tools they are able to express their unique culture as expressed through the templates that are the equivalent of the hand outs and power point presentations in most  training environments.

Art and creative expression is a unifying medium across all cultures and a powerful medium for sharing our stories and expressing our vision for the future.

We had a Warrior Woman’s Empowerment Workshop on camp. From black and white templates, the Warrior Woman is created…

The Warrior Woman…
Her head~dress represents developing the power of the mind to overcome obstacles and adversity. Cultivating thought patterns and mental focus for creating the life we envisage for our selves and our children.

Her large heart symbolises the importance of remaining compassionate and connected to others whilst not being overwhelmed by the d.v cycle of promises and repetitive abuse. This is especially significant when recovering from domestic violence as safe personal boundaries are core to keeping the family safe.

Her wings remind us that our mental well being and health requires  balance in our emotions, mind, physical and social health.

Introducing the Warrior Women theme for the day:

Phoenix Woman was created as a way to express changes that came about through trials and difficulties.

Stories of the past and stories of the children’s future are shared as we create the warrior woman.

Two communities came together on the 2nd day of the camp.

Patty created her Warrior Woman’s Headress using spirals of wool…

Sisters…We are all the same within regardless of the skin we are in..

Posted in Aboriginal, Art, Australia, CALD Women, Change, Community, Creativity, Imagination, Life Coaching, Lifes Stories, Love, Peace, Social Artistry, The Art of Change, Transformation, Warrior Women, Wisdom | Leave a Comment »

Ode to the Rescuer

Posted by carolom on September 15, 2016

*Updated
This poem is dedicated to the many women, especially those who I meet in domestic violence shelters, who really do believe:

If I just keep on loving him, he will change & we will have the relationship that I know is possible…

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We hear the words “I thought he would change” so often inside of the walls of domestic violence shelters that I created the following dramatisation for our Talking circle so that the group of women who have sometimes had 2 or 3 relationships with violent men, could begin to unravel what keeps them there and how to recognise the pattern.

The following piece is not relevant for all women who leave domestic violence, but for those women who sit in support groups and say “I believed him when he said he would change” and “He is a really nice guy, he just had a rotten childhood”, this piece is for you.
And for Janet who was killed in domestic violence by a man who then killed himself, leaving four beautiful children behind.

Ode to the Rescuer:

There was something very appealing about his pain, it matched her pattern perfectly
and her pattern goes like this:

Give me a damaged man with potential and I will embrace him as my life mission
My personal quest!

I will claim myself to be his Rescuer and through my eyes he will see how sorely he has been denied Love

And with the love of this Good Woman, he will heal!

He will heal
He will heal
He will heal

With the peace of mind that I alone have brought to him, delivered to him on a sincere heart that pulses with conviction, his heart shall finally, after many troubled years finally beat with contentment in symbiotic rhythm with my own

Ahh..this future memory brings tears to my eyes and reminds me to be patient and the reward will come.
Of this truth I have created, I am sure.
He will change
He will change
He will change
I shall interpret his moodiness as poetic brooding,
his sarcasm as merely the shadow of his enormous artistic sensitivities and
his broken promises as the unfortunate repercussions of a busy, preoccupied man.
I shall deny myself my heart’s desires,
less they place too much of a burden on his already busy mind.
I shall desperately seduce him into security with words thinly veiled
with the false reassurance that I want nothing of him
After all he is the broken one
Not me!
I will prove to him that I am the one single woman
on this Earth who can heal his troubled Soul.
Because I believe in him like no other has in the past
or could possibly at any time in the future
As the rescue program gets under way I will slowly begin to allow
the duality of the situation to come to the fore
Actually I won’t have a choice!
Having ensnared him with my rescuers net
or having fallen into his
I shall wrestle with the duality of being drawn to his charismatic withdrawals
whilst also experiencing an awakening awareness
that he is indeed mirroring my own need to heal and rescue the wounded heart.
There is something painfully seductive about that wounded heart after all it’s in all of the fairytales and rom-com’s isn’t it?
Love that Beast fair Beauty for he will come good in the end!
In order to ignore the needs of my own hopeful
desperate
optimistic
aching
wounded heart
I will plunge into my rescuing role with paradox and passion
for I am drawn to the angst of tortured feelings
which I have misconstrued as Romance and Love
as haplessly as he is drawn to his broody silences
and the acidic observations he casts out to bait me every now and then.
And quite regularly at times.
And yes. He has hit me in the past but the degree to which he is so truly deeply sorry overwhlems me with compassion for him.
Every time.
Every single time.
Except the last three times when I only felt fear and loathing,
But I got over that!
Didn’t I?
Didn’t I?

or Did !?

Words that forge our bond like who else would put up with you or me and
we were meant for one another, we are as bad as each other
will be the hypnotic sound track of the saga of our co-dependence

He will be my co-star as my life unfolds according to the stories I believe
Stories that I have created, many that have piggy backed onto the romantic tales of how the good girl transforms the bad boy with exquisite mastery and tears.
Fictional stories that I will defend as
Love!

Alas it is a tired old script with no surprises in the Story whatsoever!

but it will take me a long time to understand that
to reinterpret and rewrite the lead roles
because most of this is new to me!

And I am a stranger to myself.

Indeed aren’t we all until we remember who we really are?

Therefore I will need quite some time to realise any of this
as this predictable Olde Story unfolds on a roller coaster of
drama and desire
yearning and conflict

Those old scenarios and inevitable cycles replaying themselves in the guise of Love.

Love?

No this is just unlearnt lessons in re-enactment!
I will come to realise this one day
though I do not know that yet of course!

Although my heart does skip a beat when he looks at me in that certain seductive kind of way
Surely that must be Love?

Though you may well think I am making a banquet from a few crumbs of moments of hard earned intimacy
You are wrong of course!
Wrong
Wrong
Wrong

I know this banquet will be rich in the fruits of my desires so long as I am patient.
I will be Patient
will be Patient
will be Patient

My mantras give my life meaning and hope
They really do
Really really they do.

In the meantime I will deny that the toxins of this relationship are causing me great harm.
Souring my naiveté.
Poisoning the sweetness of my illusions whilst I continue to defend his lack of friendliness and warmth as justified

The increasing violence as a sign
that his love for me is so much he can barely handle the intensity!
I understand that and why he is violent
on account of the awful things he went through as a child.
The unresolved issues with his difficult father
The conflict with his troubled mother

There was just so much trouble that went into creating his troubled life
that I share

I am perhaps the only one who really knows that
and understands him and LOVES him
The only one

The lonely one

BUT

Love will conquer all. I think I am sure of that!

There is only one fixed rule in all of this apparent uncertainty
And this the rule I made and now obey:
I must Love him no matter how hard he is to Love.

I will Love him unconditionally
will Love him unconditionally
will Love him unconditionally

This one rule will make it all wonderful one day because

He will open up
He will open up
He will open up

Ultimately of course I will deny myself the right to move forward, to reach my fullest potential because I will be anchored defiantly to our co-dependence and staunchly courageously

desperately

refer to it as
Love!

This is what I know Love to be.

The End

I dedicate this to my lifelong friend Janet 1959 -2001 who was killed by her husband who then killed himself.

Your life mattered Janet, your stories are important to be told. I miss you dearly my friend.

Carol Omer
Certified Life Coach
Author of The Big Girls Little Coloring Book

Posted in Change, Chaos, Childhood, Co-dependence, Denial, Domestic Violence, Drama, Fear, Journeys, Letting go, Lifes Stories, Love, Men and Women, Poetry, Relationships, Sisterhood, Transformation, Unrequited Love, Wisdom, Women | 9 Comments »

The Magical Child in Exile. Why does the Creative Well-being run dry?

Posted by carolom on June 22, 2016

Every child is born an artist, the problem is how to remain one. Pablo Picasso

 

Creativity is Oxygen

The Magical Child in Exile is a dramatised story written for people who have yet to reclaim their creative Magical Child in order to experience the mental, emotional and spiritual well being of the naturally free flowing creative state.

While the story makes sweeping statements about  academically, competitively structured education systems for the purpose of dramatising the impact of losing our connection to our innately creative state, I would  like  to acknowledge the wise, creative, fun loving  teachers who recognise that creativity should not be left behind in the eclectic  gallery of  kindergarten and  value it as highly as the science and 3-R subjects. They are the gate keepers for the Artists Soul.

Where does the unlimited imagination, the energy creativity and passion of childhood go? We start out at the kindergarten level oblivious to skin colour, cultural differences and economic status, yet have created a society that has so many divisions and ‘isms’.

As a maturing society we are face racism, sexism, agism and the complex needs of  people who are isolated, mentally unwell and disconnected from their fellow human beings. In the journey from kindergarten to adolescence and adulthood many people have learnt to believe in the differences that set us apart rather than celebrate and engage with the broad range of differences from within the sameness of our shared humanity.

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Why does gossip and drama preoccupy so many people  these day and why do tabloids and celebrity gossip have such a strong hold that feeds social media and popular culture?

I think it began in a land far and near in  times as long ago as yesterday and  today…

The Magical Child in Exile

Once upon a time there was a Magical Child who loved to draw and dance and sing and paint and laugh and play. Some days the Magical Child just twirled and swirled in circles for the sheer pleasure of it all.

The Magical Child even had an invisible friend and all the grown ups thought that was very cute, just as cute as when the Magical Child played ‘make believe’ and “I can do and be any thing”.When the Magical Child was sad, tears flowed. When the Magical Child was happy, laughter cascaded.

When the Magical Child was angry there were big yells and sometimes a full-body splat onto the ground as the tsunami of outrage and disappointment is just too much for a  little person to contain. However as soon as the moment was processed the discordant energy left their body leaving the cells free to breathe and grow and remain in their healthy natural state.

But by and bye-bye something happened one day!

The Magical Child was in the midst of telling one of the grown up’s about a funny little make believe story when the grown up said, stop being silly! You can’t keep pretending like that! You are a big girl now! 

They had said the same thing to her brother not so long ago. You are a big boy now. Stop crying. You’re not a baby! STOP IT.”

The Magical Child was shocked and her shock was accompanied by an unpleasant feeling inside of her tummy that took a long time to go away. It was a shaming,  conforming moment. A matter of fact moment that began to alter the course of the Magical Childs life forever.

A shaming moment that would seep into the recesses of the subconscious mind and like a noxious weed, eventually choke the fertile magic-making  soil as surely as if a nuclear land scape  had been dropped in the new’clear landscape of the Childs mind.

And so it began. The artist, the story teller, the dancer , the scribe, the prophet , the mystic all living and breathing through the imagination  – the I~magi~nation-  of the Magical Child was told to stop!   Be quiet!  Don’t dance on there you’ll fall!   Sit down.   Don’t be silly.   Stop fidgeting.  Stop asking so many questions!   STOP!

On and on the commands continued. All the way through school where the Magical Child was now only permitted to create only between 10 am and 11 am (art lesson), to tell stories between 2 and 3 on Tuesdays. (English lesson). Creating whilst remaining as motionless as humanly impossible.  Stop fidgeting! Stop day dreaming! Pay attention! A’tension indeed!

Facing the front board, often bored inside of a square box   they called a room, a box  where whirling, twirling, playfulness no longer came through the door,  banned from ever mentioning invisible friends lest you invite the horrors of medication and mislabeling before you have even learnt how to tie your shoes up properly, the Magical Children sought to become what was expected of them and learn about things beyond their Magical, creative realm.

The Magical Child quickly learnt not to show sadness, anger or confusion and to repress inappropriate eruptions of joy, fear or insecurity in the class room.

Of course eventually the Magical Child stopped completely. Making sure instead to h~o~l~d~It~In!! Sit Still! Eyes to the front…STOP whispering, laughing, talking. Stop. Stop. Stop.

A kind of who-I-Am-amnesia set in.

Forgetting about the art, the magic, the songs, the dances and the stories and instead replaced those Magical currents with learning the things that the teacher insisted was important to their current learning, competing with the other lost Magical Children in the sports yard, in the academic arena and eventually in the work place. If they were able to still function that is.
Magical Children are resilient and they are able to forget if it means freedom from the shaming, the naming, the labeling and the ire of the grown ups but some succumbed to their true self in spite of the challenges and sometimes became known as disruptive, troubled learner, withdrawn , different and uncooperative and  other such names that reveal an inability to conform to the lost-Magic around them.

So was born the latest generation of leaders, lost Magical Children, who will perpetuate the lost-magic and creativity of the system. A system saturated with lost Magical Children, living unreal lives, not even realising – real’eyesing – that who they have become is not who they were meant to be.

Not. who. they. were. meant. to. be.

Many of the Magical Children, now groan-ups themselves are still h-o-l-d-i-n-g—i-t—-i-n. It is not surprising many of the once-magical-minds of the grown up’s  became choked with the weeds of mental illness, alcoholism, drug dependency, neurosis, psychosis, anger, depression, boredom and frustration, competition and back biting and preoccupation with celebrity lives and drama!

Magical Children are full of pure, free flowing creative energy and energy can not be destroyed, it simply transforms, turning toxic, creating tragic from the magic.

Millions of grown up’s are lost Magical Children in varying degrees of exile though a few do escape and return to their natural state I hear. Perhaps this is  why a nation can be preoccupied reality television and obsessed with the lives of the stars! The gods and goddesses of magic and creativity who not only stayed connected to make believe and pretend but are richly rewarded for doing so. They delight audiences who sit still in their chairs, immersed in intrigue and adoration, seeing the world of possibility in the magic-mirror of television.

No longer creating and producing their own stories and art and dance, the need for fantasy and magic nevertheless remains ever strong. Indeed when Magical Children in exile see others leading a “magical life” something within their own self may yearn to return to that place of Magic, creativity and infinite potential for love and connection.

How many people are sighing their day away, feeling that something is missing not realising that ‘Something’ is their free flowing creative Self. It even has been names the mid life crisis  and the seven year itch and finding meaning and purpose in life. Like the kind of meaning and purpose we knew as creative children I guess

Sadly though the lost story teller may now be churning out reams of tragic rather than experiencing that once familiar creative magic. Workplace gossip, chaos and unhappy relationships, forever telling wounded story teller tales to friends and family, occasionally plummeting into the deepest chasms of depression and despair, overwhelmed by the tragedy of an uninspired life.

Depression is on the rise in the western world and there must be a reason why.

I know a lost artist who now  obsessively cleans a clean house and a former magical child inventor who  weeds a weed less garden seeking to create something of note in their world, processing those ever-flowing creative energies towards their small boxed in life.

If it is true that ‘in order to experience heaven one must become like a little child then it might well be that the Magical Children no-longer-in-exile, those who have recovered from the amnesia and remembered who I Am will be the ones to remind us all how to begin the wonderful journey back to our authentic, creative  self and to reclaim what was always within. After all the word reclaim is simply the word miracle in anagram disguise!

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http://www.CarolOmer.com

Posted in Art, Childhood, Creativity, Lifes Stories, Magic, Oneness, Peace, Spirituality, The Art of Change, The Big Girls Little Colouring Book, The Magical Child in Exile | 28 Comments »

It is White Ribbon Week. A poetic tribute to Resilience.

Posted by carolom on November 23, 2015

The Flashing Light

Saturday night and an empty dance floor

a flashing, aging disco light and desperately loud music

that pulsated a false promise of a fabulous time ahead.

In he walked with three loud and noisy friends

Handsome Hunk. That was her very first thought.

It was love at first sight!

At least it was for Grace, who would say many times in the coming weeks
He is my knight in shining armour, my love and light, my new best friend

 

The seeds of the kind of crazy making chaos

that had begun by date number five

were planted at a time when other suitor-seeking-women were travelling joyously

in four wheel drive chariots and on shiny motorbikes

that roared with the sound of it’s so good to be alive!

 

The first time he shoved her into the wall

she was holding their brand new baby girl

By the time their fourth child arrived her friends were chanting a mantra

that made Grace’s ears burn and her heart race:

Why don’t you leave him?

Surely you don’t still believe him?

What are those bruises on your face?

 

Cupid’s arrow had shattered into dangerous shards

that she now slept on in a bed of nails

but she didn’t tell her friends that of course

She was already grief stricken that baby number four

was not a union of love and light

but a creation of forced submission after an evening of fear and fright

Grace had to ignore her friends to keep herself from going mad.
How did she go from the disco floor to being kidnapped into confusion

amidst the a landscape of a romantic illusion

that transported the once light spirited, optimistic, amazing Grace

into the place of fright and loathing?

No longer did she laugh when he said, you are my pussycat!
Truth be known she had learnt to protect her children

by placing herself in the jaws of the fierce lion

all the while feeling like a vulnerable, scaredy cat.

One day in the supermarket, surrounded by her tribe of children,

lead by the dangerous man with the vituperative tongue,

a woman with a tray of pomegranate samplers approached Grace
The woman smiled brightly, her gaze fixed upon Grace tightly

Try this one it’s delicious, she said
and then whispered urgently

Leave him or he will kill you –you deserve better than this!


Grace stood dumbfounded that this pomegranate wielding stranger

this once terrorised sister, had sensed her present danger

 

Something changed for Grace that day

though it didn’t happen straight away

Within six turns of the full moon her children and beloved pets

had escaped and were now living in a shelter house

a place where the walls were light and fresh, with fences high

They were safe!

It took a Village to rescue Grace from the illusion

that was cast that night under the flashing dance floor light

In the words of the police officer

who attended that very last incident that Grace had to endure

You were lucky to get away

But we know that Grace was brave, it was not a matter of luck at all!

Flourish and Nourish

Posted in Chaos, Domestic Violence, Family, Fear, Lifes Stories, Uncategorized | Leave a Comment »

Give Me The Courage of a Mouse.

Posted by carolom on January 2, 2015

Give me the Courage of a Mouse

I heard my cat Junipurr rustling in the dry leaves by the back door. It was the sound of Cat Chasing Mouse so I went out and ordered him inside.

I didn’t want another of the spoils of  Junipurr and Purrly’s hunting to arrive on the door mat. Their hunting is instinctive. I get that and equally it is my instinct to protect mice and birds and lizards from the deeply coded jungle instincts of my well fed domestic cats who play with small animals and birds with the same kind of cruelty that humans delight in when they make the bulls run or roosters fight one another for no reason.

When I am able to intervene successfully, Mouse always runs as fast as she can whether it is back to the nest and her babies or to the foreign soil of the garden next door I will never know. I just see her run and I cheer her on, a sense of satisfaction that I have liberated a tiny little animal from the jaws and claws of the lions.
Mouse’s world is no less important to her than my own. She lives by her wit and skill in a garden fraught with tigers and lions and panthers ready to pounce on her day and night. Sharp metal mouse traps, poisons and bait, night owls and frightened humans who will kill her in an instant. This is the world that she is born into.

I bent down to see Mouse hiding under the leaves, her body heaving with a palpitating heart and her back leg covered in blood. It was a distressing scene and I knew her terror was equal to that which I might feel if I was attacked by a pouncing giant or trapped in a corner with no escape.

I moved towards her and saw that she was not in a very good state at all so I picked her up to bring her inside where my husband would euthanise her rather than have her die slowly from her wounds . Despite her injuries she pushed against my closed hand with the strength of a small lion, all the while her heart, which was now close to the palm of my hand was pounding in terror. In a deft twist of her body she lunged at my finger and bit it sharply, jumping to freedom as I recoiled in pain. It wasn’t a big bite. Can a Mouse  ever really make a big mark?

It was enough to free her from my grasp and she ran into the vegetable garden.

I don’t know where she got her energy from as it was apparent when I picked her up that she was critically injured with a stomach wound.

I have learnt over the years to accept that there are limitations to the difference I can make for a suffering animal or a struggling human being so I didn’t pursue her into the vegetable garden. In spite of my best of intentions I will never be able to transmit a message of safety and protection to a wild animal, big or small, so instead I transmitted a prayer for her pain and I let her go.

The rustling leaves told me she was on her way to her freedom and I walked back inside, past Junipurr who had moved on to the effortless task of getting my attention for his breakfast, the wide eyed hunter now replaced with the purring, tail wrapping choreography of a cat who will never have to hunt for food to survive.

My encounter with Mouse had impact and occupied my thoughts over the next couple of hours. She was so strong and determined in the face of what must have felt like my second attack after the cat struck her with his razor claws.

In the few seconds she was in my hand, I noticed how perfect her own claws were and how her limbs were not so different than mine with her perfectly formed legs and hands that grasped at my skin to push me away.

An hour or so later I imagined her laying in the garden dying a slow and painful death so I decided to see if I could find her and return to my first plan of bringing her inside to be euthanised.
I found her straight away.

She hadn’t run very far into the garden at all. In fact she was only a few inches away from where she jumped out of my hand.

She was laying on her side, eyes closed, covered in ants. She must have died shortly after her escape.

Her stillness enabled me to see the extent of her injuries and truly, I could not see how she was even able to move let alone fight with the strength and fierceness that made me recoil and release her.

I picked her up and stroked her head as I carried her to the flower bed for burial.

I told her she had been amazing.

She died on her own, no doubt in enormous pain and blood loss but she truly gave her survival her all.

I was able to look closely at her tiny little hands and the perfection of her face, her magnificent rope like tail and in her I saw the courage of a lion and the fierceness of many of the women I have met in domestic violence shelters who continue to fight, even though the battle is with an enemy far bigger and physically stronger than she will ever be.

I dug a shallow grave next to the mint patch and placed Mouse down gently. I thanked her for taking me away from my computer and the technology that so often removes us from the world of animals and nature and death and victories and into the realm where to have the courage of a Mouse is a thing to be proud of indeed.

She was a hero of mythic proportions.

She fought both the jungle cat and the human-giant and I am honoured to have been the one to lay her to rest.

Give me the courage of a Mouse and I would consider it an honour of equally mythic proportions.

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Posted in Animals, Letting go, Lifes Stories, Metaphor, Mouse | 2 Comments »

Celebrating the Women that we have Known & the Love that They Have Sown…

Posted by carolom on January 22, 2011

 

Another much loved Elder passed away recently. This Mandala poster (below) was created in memory of the senior  Women who have passed away and the empty seats they have left in our Women’s Group.

We farewelled Aunty L in the Church she loved in the Community that is her Heart and Soul.

 

 

 

 

 

“We celebrate the Women we have Known and the Love that They have Sown” is a black and white      coloring in  poster that gives a creative place for the loss and the grief to be expressed as well as the happy times and  beautiful memories of the Mothers, Sisters, Aunties and Grandmothers who are no longer with us.

We miss you very much  sisters Aunty I and Aunty L ….

 

 

 

 

 

Celebrating the Women we Known & the Love that They Have Sown...

The Centre Flower surrounded by Hearts represents the Love that is seeded by our Mothers.
The circle of seeds surrounding the Hearts symbolises how the love continues down the generations and is seeded each time we remember her and tell stories.
The Spiral Flowers remind us that the circle of life continues and the circle within the circle shows us that as Women, we are who we are because of the Women who have travelled before us…..
The three lined border is the River of life…ever flowing, sometimes fast, other times trickling…and the tears we cry when we are missing her, come from the waters where we are all One…..

Colouring the Mandala:

Red for the power of the Emotions
Blue for tranquility and peace of Mind
Green for nourishment and growth…
Orange and Yellow for the Sun and the Flowers.
Pink for the peaceful Heart
Purple for the colour of the sun as it sets on the horizon…

Posted in Change, Community, Creativity, Elders, Family, Friendships, Grandmothers, Gratitude, Journeys, Letting go, Lifes Stories, Oneness, ProsperArty, Pt Pearce, Sisterhood, Spirituality, The Art of Change, Transformation, Unity, Women | 1 Comment »

Reflecting on Oprah’s visit to Australia and When Women Dream and Create Together…

Posted by carolom on September 17, 2010

Over the years I played  a selection of Oprahs programs in-house as they were a rich, rare source of discussion and reflection and glimpses into new possibilities and self reflection during the years I ran a personal development group at a shelter for homeless young mothers.  Oprah’s personal story is one of over coming enormous obstacles and  the impact of abuse, liberation from racism and the power of aligning with the Divinity of life,  putting practical action to make the Dream come true. Many homeless Women I met over the years recognised their own potential through the Stories that Oprah brought onto the world stage…

For young Aboriginal Women at the shelter who grew up seeing only white faces on Australian television (sadly not much has changed), Oprah’s presence on national television was hugely significant.

Oprah Winfrey is surrounded by a co-creative team and it has taken many years of creativity and co-operation for her to have reached the stand alone level of influence and impact she has achieved.  I saw how impactful and life changing her motivational shows were for homeless Women throughout the 90’s – especially the Remembering Your Spirit series .  I admire her achievements enormously,  though I am not so much interested in her  programs around celebrity and make overs as I am about what people can do to create change and activate their fullest potential.

Women’s Well~Being has been the focus of my work from many years & most of the  ProsperArty Mandalas and the personal development art that I create for workshops express the Goddess aspect of being a Woman. We would sit and colour the Mandalas whilst watching the Oprah Show ~ a very relaxed way to sit and absorb information.

For me, one of the most powerful off all internal keys to creating change is Creativity…returning to the free flowing, creative state we came into this world with & have  often lost along the way….

In the Spirit of recognising a Woman of great influence, who manifests the very best of the Goddesses, Athena the Warrior who invokes change, Hestia who presides over home and heart’h, Persephone who transcended the subjugation of the underworld and Artemis who cares for young girls and sacred animals, I acknowledge Oprah Winfrey’s role that she has played in showing women that you can create and grow and bring about change in this world, irrespective of which of the skins you are in, where you have come from or what others will say can or can’t be done….

The Mandala below – which I have called “When Women Dream and Create Together” is created in the form of a Mandorla, the name of the shape created where two circles meet.  See my “About me ” page for further explanation of the Mandorla.

I was inspired to create “When Women Dream and Create Together” when it was announced that Oprah Winfrey would be coming to Australia, in a jumbo jet with John Travolta in the pilot seat and dozens of over joyed audience members! How fitting that Oprah completes her 25 years of public television with a trip to the Dreamtime Country.

Australia is Aboriginal country with a history of profound culture and wisdom that goes back thousands of years prior to European’s arriving here just a very short time ago. It is a living culture with so much to teach the world about how to live in harmony with Nature and within our Self. It is still the very early days of recovery from the devastating impact of white-settlement and I sincerely hope this important  Australian story to the world during her visit.

I chose the words at the centre of the Mandorla to reflect three things that are core to creating together : Love, Passion & Service.

Service is rent paid for room on Earth”….

In my workshops we add colour to the black and white template to create our own ProsperArty posters for relaxation and reflection.  For those who have not experienced working with the Mandala (circular) art form, I encourage you to give it a try!  Place your Vision, / thoughts / feelings into the Circle and see what Magic will unfold….

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When Women Dream and Create Together

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Together the Women are united in their Vision.

They hold up the Pyramid, symbolising the  Feminine Trinity:

~ Mother, Daughter, Divine  Spirit  ~

The Women  rise from the Heart together.

Love is the powerful, unifying force that generates their Creations.

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Posted in ART of Change, Australia, Beauty, Change, Creativity, Dreaming, Energy, Fun, Gratitude, Imagination, Journeys, Joy, Lifes Stories, Love, Magic, Mandalas, Oneness, Oprah Australia, Oprah Winfrey, ProsperArty, Relationships, SiStars, Spirituality, Stories, The Art of Change, Transformation, Unity, Warrior Women, Wisdom, Women | 3 Comments »

” ~ As I Lay Dying ~ I Learnt How to Love ~ “…… The Poetry of Remembering…

Posted by carolom on August 18, 2010

Spending time at the bedside of someone who is dying transports our every day world to another place…a place where there are no guarantees and all of the things and all of the ‘stuff’ we have accumulated mean very little in the light of the next chapter of our infinite Journey…

I wrote this poem to honor the people I have known who made their journey back to the Spirit world from a hospital bed… and  to pay my respects for a beautiful, simple act I witnessed recently as a family member  tucked the blankets around her loved one’s well tucked in body, and patted  them down with the tenderness of a heart that was bursting  with love from a scared a place where  words could only transmit the tiniest fragment of her love…

 

As I Lay Dying…

 

For many days people came to my bedside.

I was moving between Here and Out There and would awaken

to see smiling faces  sad faces  concerned faces

standing over my bed side

Why even my old enemy from many years ago

appeared from yesterday, our passions long spent, our lessons now learnt

His  once suspicious  eyes that  mirrored my own

were gazing upon me with Love

It was a little strange but when he took my hand in his

I squeezed it lightly

I didn’t really have much reassurance to share as

every single thing took a great deal of effort

as I lay dying

Who ever would have thought all those years ago

when we fought it out in that stuffy meeting room

that we  would share such a tender moment as this…

~

 

Next  a sumptuous lover who I believed

I could not possibly live without

who I once wept, raged despaired and hoped for

Smiled down at me from her weary  wrinkled face

Her eyes exuded the very same Love we once revelled in

before jealousy soured the sweetness and poisoned

all possibilities of Love gifting us

with its fullest purest force

My jealousy, that burdensome trait I created from

who on earth knows where….

How silly it all seems now…

Jemilia, with the strange name and outrageous flirtatious ways

completely unsuited to one as insecure in Love as I!

Our Love never died. I understand that now

We  had different roads to travel.

Jealousy and the fury of insecurity seemed

a little ridiculous by the time we met again

When love kissed us with its fullest purest force

~

 

 

My friends they gathered

An  impressive array dressed in

different skins and shapes and sizes

Strong people, troubled people caring people edgy people

The whole eclectic cavalcade of those who travelled with me for awhile

they arrived like an endless stream, the audience from within

The theatre of my life

In spite of my semi conscious place

Well actually I was fully conscious at all times

but I was not always in the room

and from the vantage point of my  plumped up pillows

I realised that all of my family and all of my friends

Now all looked exactly the same

regardless of which of the skins they were in…

 

Love had softened  their eyes, made their smile tremble

some would even tuck in  my well tucked  body a little more

To let me know they cared (as if I couldn’t tell!)

and to move some of the Love that was making them feel very emotional indeed.

And I bathed in the pure sanctuary  of their uninhibited compassion

perhaps understanding Love for the very first time

Better late than never I heard the angels say…

~

 

When my time came, almost ten days into the final chapter

of my physical demise

I slipped quietly away

just as the new dawn was awakening

The nurse had stepped out of the room for just awhile

…I wanted  to leave with no fuss as we had agreed not to

resuscitate my body  under any circumstances

And that final breath, a dramatic moment indeed

the biggest noise I had made for weeks…

but oh such Joy!

My Spirit stretched like a cat who has been sleeping for a very long time

Stepping out of my body was so easy

I wondered how I had not accidentally slipped out before!

 

I was greeted with the open arms of those

who had travelled back to the Spirit world before me

There was much to catch up on, a great deal of Remembering to do

and  many new sights and delights to   see

~

 

Over the next few days I visited the grieving

as they gathered by my breathless earthly shell

and I saw how their Love had melted into tears

as people cried and told stories and remembered the times we had shared

even those stories I had once commanded  “Don’t talk about that!”…

were joyfully retold over and over

making me laugh and twirl through the air with delight

late into the dark night of their loss…

 

 

I learnt a lot about Love as I travelled through its embrace

and would share with you this one last thing

Though you may think I am gone

My Spirit travels on

and one day soon, we shall Love and laugh and dance

once again…..

 

R.I.P.  ~ Revel in Peace……

******************

 

This Love cloud floated past me … when we leave this world what we have learnt about Love will travel on with us… the rest of our ‘stuff’ stays behind….

 


Posted in Dying, Forgiveness, Letting go, Lifes Stories, Love, Poetry | Tagged: | 6 Comments »

The Virus

Posted by carolom on September 16, 2009

The Virus is a representative story. Though names and some of the details have been changed for narrative purpose, it is a true story.

The Virus. An Australian Story

I was 5 or 6 years old a migrant child of parents who were swept away from the sooty chimney towns of Britain’s working class north by the promises of a bright new life in a young country. A country brimming, spilling and erupting with outrageous opportunities for people, white people, who dreamt of owning their very own land. Australia.

We were the ten pound package , government assisted chance of a life time Brits who flocked in their thousands to these shores and landed like sparkling white seagulls that squabble amongst themselves as they fly in kindred form. Noisy chattering seagulls on the look out for the best morsel they can find.
Some have said seagulls all look and act the same…

Poms they called us, the latest flock of new arrivals following in the footsteps of the convicts and our sea faring ancestors who came to seize new territory in a land that was not young at all.

Big skies, wide streets, pupil dazzling light Brand new asbestos houses far removed from the tall sooty terrace flats cramped side by side back Home.

We staggered wearily, eagerly into government issue houses that nestled expectantly in the middle of tiny little paddocks. Neatly sliced quarter acre blocks that beckoned the new arrivals to seed a brand new life and sow a future far removed from the misty grey land where the sun rarely shines.

This was The Lucky Country and we thought that we were very lucky indeed! There was much to learn and many new things to see and for awhile my migrant child’s world was consumed with more space new friends, big school, new sounds, interesting sights and beach time delights.
In fact we were so immersed in our new life we were utterly, completely, mind numbingly oblivious to the Land where we were living.

That is when the virus struck.

I remember the day it happened.Unlike those silent viruses that sit invisibly on taps waiting to hitch a ride on fingertips that brush past lips this insidious, relentless, sickening parasite travelled effortlessly upon the breath transmitted upon invisible sound waves elusive in their source, the destination always the same.

It was very hard for young children to escape a germ such as that! I was standing by the milk shed when the virus struck.

Its current host was a plump red freckly boy called George. He was no doubt named after a king, an uncle or grandfather back Home .

The kids called George names like dot-face and carrot top.
Giggling and laughing, George entertained us by pulling faces and joining in the fun. His best friend stood with us, Peter Green, an Australian boy who was fond of saying “we go back 6 generations“, even though he didn’t really know what it meant.

His father said it all the time so it must have been important.

Peter was teaching George the real Australian way

We were standing in the cool shade, a rare find across the sweltering expanse of the asphalt playground when the virus emerged and the first cross infection occurred. In a loud voice that announced his cockney origins wherever he went, George sang out four words in the mocking tone of a confident child: “Dirty coon, rotten baboon” Four words that speared my consciousness and left a tender wound, a vulnerable space to host a virus that I was too young to fight.

Georges words invoked contempt a voracious contempt that swept through the crowded school yard as quickly as it took to catch one another’s breath. I followed Georges eyes and saw the object of his loathing.
Curly haired Lindy and her little brother Jimmy the Aboriginal kids. The Blacks

Lindy and Jimmy stood out from the sea of white faces. Shiny black birds surrounded by vicious seagulls. They stood holding the eyes of their attacker whilst holding tightly onto one another’s hand. Jimmy leaned towards his big sister terrified that the big kid with the flaming red hair was about to lunge and squash him then and there.

They were the outcast kids the Abo’s who were never ever invited to play our games. Peter smiled at George approvingly and one or two others snickered our way the virus twisting itself across children’s faces annihilating the anti-bodies of innocence feasting upon the collective enjoyment of someone else being teased.

This particularly robust virus had its own language.

After coon followed different words boong-boong –that’s the noise they make when the bull bar hits them. Before long other children joined in the heckling until a bubonic plague of racist torment swamped us all in its vitriolic grip.

That was the day I learnt a new A, B C. The uniquely Australian alphabet. A. B. C.

Abo
Boong
Coon.

This was the alphabet I was infected with as a child.

In the lucky country. A magnificent land older than the mountains with secrets winding back through time. Something terrible occurred. A virus was unleashed long before our little family travelled to the down under shores.

What became of Lindy and Jimmy? Innocent children who were called half castes, treated as out casts.
Removed from their Mother, kidnapped before her very eyes.
Thanks to the power of forgiveness and decency and common sense, strong medicines for curing the malaise of toxic tongues and the virus that leaves many deaf and mute and blind, Lindy and Jimmy and I became friends.
Precious friends and together we are all in recovery from the virus that strikes so many innocent children down. UnityinCommunity

Posted in Aboriginal, Australia, Childhood, Community, Forgiveness, Injustice, Journeys, Lifes Stories, Racism, Reconciliation, Relationships, Sorry, Stolen Generation, Trauma, Violence | 9 Comments »

Another “Bead Happy” process completed…

Posted by carolom on November 20, 2008

They say that you are living  your passion if you answer  “Yes!”  to the question…“Would you still do the work that you do if you were rich enough not to have to work at all?”….My answer is “Yes indeedy-do!!”…I’d just drive a different car to the venue!

To spend time creating Personal Development art with Women who are walking through journeys of change, healing and Creating New Dreams…is such a privilege……and a whole lotta fun!

Here are a few images from our 5-week “Don’t Worry- Bead Happy ART of Change program 2…

We begin with a formless lump of air-drying clay, thinking about what we would like to create in our life…how things would look and feel in the ‘ideal’ world. We roll and twist and shape and from beads and add a pendant that defines the shape of things to come…

By week 5 have created our own Vision jewellery with our own unique fingerprints pressed into the clay…completing the process by spraying the beads with gloss sealer and hanging them in the afternoon sun to dry.

Rolling the beads is a form of meditation, very relaxing and as the process gets under way, the brain waves relax into the alpha rhythms as the rhythmic, repetitive actions slow down the busy mind chatter and return one to a more centered, present moment focus. It is a very enjoyable, highly effective way for people with mental health issues, stress, anxiety and depression to creatively activate a different ‘state’ and access positive creativity over the negative forms of creating thoughts that are anxiety, stress related images.

We think about color and form once the beads are made…. with  relaxing music in the background and conversations around change, personal development and creating the life we want by over coming past patterns and limitations our learning and sharing is focused on  the “How” of change not just the reasons ‘why’…and all what has happened in the troubled past…

 

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Posted in Art, Community, Creativity, Lifes Stories, Oneness, Peace, The Art of Change, Wisdom | 3 Comments »