Love



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Love doesn’t come to a stern command
Love is not a slave

Love does its own will
Love has its own way

Love’s awareness
Is with you
When your heart softens to let it in

Love melts down
All the wrong in the world
Into basic elements
And rebuilds it good and new

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Colouring books are gaining popularity among adults – Life & Style – NZ Herald News

Amazing how adults are swarming online to sweep bestselling colouring books off the virtual shelves, eager soothe their souls with the simple pleasure of adding a little colour to their world!

Wildersoul Colouring Book

Colouring books are gaining popularity among adults

via Colouring books are gaining popularity among adults – Life & Style – NZ Herald News.

What a fantastic article. Grown-ups everywhere are purchasing their best-selling colouring books without attracting attention from onlookers in bookstores! In celebration of the rocketing popularity of colouring books for soothing the soul, here is a small bunch of favourites to fill with colour.

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Greeting card fern2

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She saw the Minotaur pencil

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Happy colouring,

~WilderSoul

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Travis Rinker – Music

I really enjoyed this laidback guitaring by Travis Rinker after coming home from a visit to my folks.

They’re Red Hot

Coming home to music, fingerpickin’ good!

Ragtime fingerpicking started playing in my Reader all by itself, and I followed it to SoundCloud and found Fingerstyle_guitar’s  stream. I’d invite you all to take a look.

There’s a bit of blues, such as St James Infirmary Blues, a Russian Folk Song, some blues harp, and even a kazoo, which got me some contented giggles.

Fight the Night

Why do women bellow

Why do women fight

Is it men who are our enemy?

Must we battle them with might?

A world at war within itself

Rips itself apart

Are we really enemies?

Or is it something else, quite dark.

The darkness takes us over

Woman caves, Man succumbs

Shadows race to shroud us –

Reach out for the light!

fellow women, be sisters,

fellow men, our brothers.

Let’s Fight against the Night.

WILDERSOUL TINY LOGO gray-white 300dpi

Cold Stone Statue

The door closed. His face, sallow, crumpled, reflected the painful years of resignation shrouding the limp, haphazard room. The large pedestal towered over his dingy, sparse furniture, and his pale eyes were drawn once more to the cold stone figure staring imperiously from its regal position.

“Don’t stare at me,” he whispered vehemently, hissing under his breath, like a disturbed snake.

The perfectly carved eyes of the granite statue continued to stare, vacantly, dispassionately. He imagined a curl of the upper lip into a twist of disdain. He hated her. He wished he had never set eyes on her. The fire of his passion was now white hot, cutting like a gas axe through his former forgotten caresses.

“You sit there and do nothing!” he hissed, and his wasting body deflated further into his chair with the effort of forming intense emotion into words. She gazed over his head by a centimetre. Her rigidly flowing coverlet pulled protectively over the curve… He pulled his eyes away, shutting them tightly as his passion converted suddenly to the day he first caught a glimpse of her, stalwartly facing into a gusty summer breeze, her rough-cut hair tightly braided to keep it from whipping in her face.

“Curse you,” he muttered, his gaze now falling, unfocused, to his own emaciated legs, draped limply with crocheted granny squares of mismatched gay colours. His hands closed and opened, and he felt for a moment, the perfect curve of a carving tool curled into his palm, felt the vibrations of the hefty wooden mallet pounding… His reverie was interrupted as the door banged abruptly open against the wall, shaking the peeling faux-gold ornate picture frames on the opposite side of the room.

“This it?” grunted the heavy-set, bristly bearded man, his piercing eyes bored first into the vacant expression of the wrinkled man huddled in the old-fashioned wheelchair tucked into the far corner of the room, then held the lifeless statue in an acute gaze, measuring her sculpted form precisely, as he pushed the solidly fixed wooden crate toward her on perfectly oiled hydraulic wheels.

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I wrote this piece especially for OM, as part of a series prepared for guest blogging at HarsH ReaLiTy in early 2014. Although the guest blogging is not going ahead, at this stage, it provided much needed motivation for me to start writing creatively. This is probably the first serious bit of fiction I have written for over twenty years. It unfolded as I typed, as if it had a mind of its own. I could clearly see the room, the characters, and feel their emotions.

Christmas gifts, who needs ’em?

Free gifts are the best gifts of all. It is not what the media wants you to think. The brightest, biggest, newest, cheapest, or most expensive and trendiest “things” are loudly advertised in a Christmas frenzy to empty pockets.

Meanwhile empty pockets remain empty, stitched on to a shirt which is stripped from a shivering back in a snow-sprinkled park. The frenzy picks up as flashy displays of wealth are well, literally flashing on and off all over town. Pretty lights. Cold.

Free gifts are the ones where someone with more gives to someone who does not have enough. It is not a loan, and no interest is charged. It is a gift given freely. Not an exchange. Christmas is not about free gifts. It is about an exchange of gifts between people who have enough.

Christmas is not about giving to the poor. If it were, then you would see everyone giving to the poor, and there would be no-one exchanging gifts, whether exorbitantly expensive, or cheap plastic rubbish to add to planetary pollution.

Free gifts are the best gifts. Who needs more?

Inspiring Education?

Violence, Sex, Drugs, Obscenities, all those things that fill movie theatres and overflow box office coffers, are they harming our children in real life, in schools?

Strangely, it was not the major consideration when I chose to homeschool my children. I believe children learn best when secure in a loving home environment, with a strong family bond. Schools, in response to much research, try to replicate this bond, calling it a sense of belonging, and include it in their curriculum. The best teachers create this family bond with their students. As a child, did you ever accidentally call your teacher “Mum?” I did once, and blushed.

School teachers like E. R. Braithwaite, Ron Clark and Erin Gruwell inspire me. Anne Sullivan who taught within Helen Keller’s home also inspired me. They didn’t give up on kids who battle daily with circumstances beyond their control. They came up with innovative, creative ways to transcend those circumstances.

Each to their own. I have great respect for the school teacher’s ability to maintain control over a crowd of thirty-odd children. It was hard for me to do that for half an hour with a classroom full of five year olds. I am not a school teacher who sets up a classroom at home. I am a parent, who sets up a home environment to cater for the voracious appetite for learning that children are born with.

What inspires you about your children’s education?

The Cosmic Rolodex

We grow old and die, so slowly, and yet in the blink of an eye. Generations flip past on a cosmic rolodex of family names, blurring into each other, losing meaning, ripping out of the deck or quietly going insane. Now and then the spinning stops and a name stands out in full detail, there is a number to call.

We live like angels, we live like trolls. We spread life or disease, we are crawling on our knees, for prayer or despair, for water or for air. Does it matter, does anyone care?

The rolodex spins faster, it is about to blow apart. Life is birthed, shrivels, greys, passes away, replaced by the next card in the pack. Flipflipflipflip! One pair of eyes watches it, fast. Every name memorized in an instant. Details stored in perfect clarity. These eyes know you. These eyes know me.

Time stops.

Ripped pages steeped in blood are piled up on the floor, where they leaped in evil glee after torturing humanity. One pair of hands sweeps them up and tosses them into the fire. The same hands lovingly straighten the mass of crumpled names that remain on the sullied desktop, smoothing out each crease, tending to each tear.

His desk is wiped clean, his work re-arranged, and quietly does he write each name into brand new card file. Pristine, intact. A thousand years pass. It is a blink of his eye, his pen moves so fast.

You wake up. You and I.

~WilderSoul