Muzu Creative

Today on my morning walk it rained. This was not a bad thing. I watched people ducking for cover; however, I like the rain. It is wet, not bad. The path takes me along the beachfront and eventually over a large headland. At one point I looked across a small beach inlet toward the headland and noticed a Pandanus tree up high, nestled into the rocks. I imagined what it would feel like to be sitting under that tree, sheltered from the rain, looking out to sea. Then it struck me…why imagine it, just climb up there and experience it! Pushing aside apprehension, ignoring my inner voice screaming at me that this is NOT something we do… I walked to the headland and climbed. Rock by rock. It was slippery and wet, I stumbled a few times, but I got there! Sitting under that Pandanus tree, (actually, hanging on for dear life) it felt just as I had imagined it, serene and simultaneously empowering! To my right the headland twisted around a corner, south to another beach. The tide was h...

I sit across from her acutely aware of the unfamiliarity between us. At first glance she seems stable, sturdy, dependable, however we have only just met, so what do I know. She will show me in time, I am sure. I notice the years on her and feel her observing me also. Watchful, amused. Bemused? “We’ll see” she seems to say. Years of being there for whomever needed her have taken its toll, although her stoic determination to prevail has led her to me. What lies beneath her worn appearance? What stories will she tell as I spend time with her…love her…the best I can…with what I have to offer…for all that is worth. Today we just sit together. No pressure. No expectations. Tomorrow we will go a little deeper… not far…a few casual questions…some gentle enquiry and then we will see.

Remember the Neuralyzer from the MIB (Men In Black) movies? One zap and all memory of what just happened was erased! Zappo. Gone! No-one ran from the scene in hysterics, screaming Aliens, Aliens, we’re all going to die! No one went home and built alien proof homes or developed elaborate alien detection systems…preparing for the worst. One zap and they simply continued their day, completely unaware and at peace in the moment. So, I have been thinking about this (and learning some stuff too). What if we couldn’t remember our past experiences? I mean really, didn’t know what we had been doing or feeling back there. What if we didn’t have any memory of our job, our finances, our likes and dis-likes?  What if we couldn’t conjure up past agreements with ourselves, ‘I’ll never do that again, I’ll be better next time, I won’t break it, drop it, lose it!” I wonder what we would do if we woke up one day with just the daylight and nothing else? How then, would our day unfold? I t...

Those who know me, know I love to travel. Those who really know me…know I love planning the trip! Ah yes, the sweet, sweet, comfort of a check list. God, how I love something to tick. Give me a check box and a red pen and I’m in heaven! Planning a trip is exciting at best. You are going away, leaving behind routine, familiarity and the daily grind. What will you find when you get there? How will each day unfold, who will you meet, what stories will you tell on your return? Will you have frost bite, a suntan, sore feet or a blown-out credit card? The unknown is exciting, sometimes a little dauting, but always fluid and unpredictable. But for me, one of the best bits is the planning…the preparation. I’m not talking about organising every moment of the trip, far from it. I love stepping out each day afresh, embarking on Christopher Columbus style exploration! What I’m referring to is the little things, that in my Virgo mind, make the lead up to the big event so enjoyable. ...

We are low releasing to the mat, surrendering, waiting to begin. Instinct, intuition and a wealth of knowledge, she observes the physical before her. Today’s plan abandoned, new plan…she sees and knows what is called for, Instruction given incrementally, outer pad of big toe, inner wrist, skin and breath. 200 hours? Try 200 hundred thousand and more, living, giving, being yoga. With wisdom and a life dedicated to the practice, she shares her expertise, Resistance, fear and self-judgement, we falter. We harden, unyielding, rigid. We are not there to be pampered, nor ignored, she is discerning, watchful, ever present. The impossible is possible, securely guided, supported, we grow stronger and softer, Each day we are shown the path forward, although not always do we journey. Sometimes we wander, distracted and disillusioned, however we suffer no judgement. Her presence is steadfast, respected, gratefully accepted. Back to the mat, forever chan...

Today I decided to crack open my art box. I’ve always loved to draw; however, I have never devoted much time to it. Why? Mainly because of the voices. You guessed it; we are following on from the theme of last week’s blog. Ego mind. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves… Art. I enjoy all forms of art, painting, drawing, sculpture, printing, decoupage, even furniture restoring! I have tried my hand at most of it. There is something etched inside me that yearns to create. I dream of tapestry and weaving (tried that), fabric landscapes, tile mosaics (tried that too) and mountains of paper iced with inks and liquid foils. (Inked it, drew it, painted them) However, whilst I have dabbled in most forms of art, I have rarely completed any project I have started! I have collected every manner of medium; pastels, pencils, acrylics, miles of fabric, wool, canvases and literally every type of paper! These lay stacked and stashed waiting for my attention. (A bit like my journals…...

I am a student yet. Still. Yoga is my teacher. I feel that I am getting it. I have achieved and I am good. Then Yoga shows me my ego. Bam! I am shown the truth. I struggle, this is hard. Really really, hard. I am uncomfortable. Challenged. I don’t like it. It doesn’t feel good. Yoga sees and knows, EVERYTHING. I can be humble and just be with where I am until I am able to move on, or I can berate myself, feel lacking in some way, angry with myself for some sort of failure. What to do? Which will I choose? I react in a very familiar way, I feel it coming…the tantrum. On the outside I am composed, on the inside, full scale dummy-spit…spade and bucket thrown…I storm from the sandpit. I’m not playing anymore! Sound familiar? We don’t like to be uncomfortable. We like smooth sailing, calm seas, a bridge over troubled waters and why not, it’s nice. Right? There are plenty who would argue that life is meant to be easy and we do not need to struggle and to ...

I ain't got no home, ain't got no shoes Ain't got no money, ain't got no class Ain't got no skirts, ain't got no sweater Ain't got no perfume, ain't got no bed Ain't got no man Ain't got no mother, ain't got no culture Ain't got no friends, ain't got no schoolin' Ain't got no love, ain't got no name Ain't got no ticket, ain't got no token Ain't got no god Hey, what have I got? Why am I alive, anyway? Yeah, what have I got Nobody can take away? Got my hair, got my head Got my brains, got my ears Got my eyes, got my nose Got my mouth, I got my smile I got my tongue, got my chin Got my neck, got my boobies (just one and that’s ok) Got my heart, got my soul Got my back, I got my sex I got my arms, got my hands Got my fingers, got my legs Got my feet, got my toes Got my liver, got my blood I've got life...

I’m am going to the beach now. I decided to go two hours ago and have been distracted. Before heading off for my sea salted meander, I sat down to create a list. The list was 20 ways to get a writing practice going. (I could only think of 10) Twenty ways to create a habit. Then I was going to go to the beach. However, from that list, became a second list, ‘Twenty ideas to nurture creativity’. Twenty things I could do to keep me focussed on writing. (Amazingly, I came up with twenty-three.) During this time, I remembered the names of some writers I liked so Googled them and then connected to their Instagram. Whilst on their Instagram I saw other people of interest and Googled, then subsequently followed them as well. Then a thought struck me. I remembered a book I bought years ago when I was trying to find inspiration and endeavouring to get a writing practice going. Did I still have it? I rummaged through my book case.  I bet you just saw I vision of me crouched in fr...

I should have written this long ago. I should have thought of this long ago. Should have listened, should have heard, should have followed through. I am seeing my world differently now. Looking with new eyes. Eyes that are razor sharp and discerning. To look objectively at ones’ life is difficult at first, however I have found the rewards far outweigh the awkwardness we feel at first. Should. This is a word well-worn in my vocabulary. I have learned that when I use the word should I am running in the opposite direction to my heart’s desire. I am saying NO to me. Talk to hand I have said. Not going there. I want to write today, but I should spend time with my family. Why? Because if I don’t, I am selfish. I am unloving. I feel guilty. (I am less important. I am not worthy enough of my time) I have been invited to a party, but I don’t really want to go. I am not anti-social and I love the people attending, I just want to do something else. Something that feels b...

Sacral and sacred. Warm, illuminating, energising. Aglow with the passion of fire, I give you freedom, freedom to feel. Trust me. Pleasure, not forbidden, essential. Embrace me. The sweetness of Intimacy. Sensual connection. Surrender. Creation. The core of me. I invite you to embrace the artist within. Long languid afternoons with liquid inks and flower pressed paper. Charcoal smudged fingers and paint splattered feet. Prose and print making, creating your mark. Come, I call. Come play with me. Change. I give you permission. Whilst I wrap you in robes of saffron security, I encourage transformation. Feel your way, following your emotional map. Intuition is key. Feel and follow through. Take action. The scent of citrus and sandalwood soothes me. I am one with the energies of Citrine, Calcite and Carnelian. Cinnamon, honey and passionfruit feed me. Associated with water I give you access to flow, flexibility and fun. Second in a sequence of energy centres, not one gr...

Pearly Shells, from the ocean Shining in the sun Covering up the shore When I see them My heart tells me that I love you, More than all the little pearly shells . We used to sing this as kids. While doing the dishes. A Hank Snow song sung over and over, passed down through the family. My grandmother would have sung with my mother and her sisters, sometime in the 50’S and I guess they just kept singing it. We sang it, while doing the dishes. Three girls singing, usually in harmony – without even knowing what harmony was. This stopped the arguing, the throwing of plates, flicking of suds, pulling of hair and other shenanigans. I’ve never sung it with my son or stepsons. They – glued to the electronic devices of their era   - do not know about the pearly shells. The dishwasher replaced tantrums of who’s turn it was and the half-arsed wipe down of the kitchen bench was always done with one hand and both eyes distracted by said chosen device. I think of my ...

I’m so wild I could scream! She would shout this often. Wild? I thought. Like the Brumby’s that could been seen grazing on the ridge at sunset? You make me so wild! Directed at me, caused by me. I made her wild. Wild? Like the tiny purple and yellow flowers that grew out from the tree stump down by the creek? Like the orange breasted Robin, who played hide and seek in the crevices of the now crumbling and abandoned quarry? No, not that kind of wild. Thundering black clouds, rain pelting, wind ripping at worn white sheets on the old wooden line, broken branches flying, hundred-year-old glass window smashing kind of wild. Yes. Because I was wild too. Free, untamed and pure. River running, mane flowing kind of wild. Reckless, shoeless, breathless and careless. I ran from routine, from order, from responsibility. Don’t hold me, don’t cage me, just love me. You better do as you are told. They would say. She will be so wild if you don’t. Strap flying, spoon bre...

I have a collection of journals. Writing Journals. I do not collect journals; however, journals seem to collect me. It’s true I do write and yes, in journals, however on closer inspection, I own a great many empty journals. Too many. The empty journals are not lying in wait, I did not purchase them knowing that in due course, I would fill their pages with beautiful prose, witty satirical observations, or heartfelt outpourings of emotion. In fact, I did not purchase them at all. The empty journals were gifts. Gifts for a writer. Carefully selected, each one. Some leather, silk and fabric bound. Some hand made with flower pressed paper pages. Recycled, reclaimed, re-purposed. From distant shores, India, England, Thailand. Leaves of possibility, tactile and tempting. I have journals with pages illustrated with moons and mermaids, clouds and clowns, pages tied with ribbons and some with jute. All empty, too beautiful to touch, to fill. When I open their pages…words fail me...

Six years old. I wake as a ball. Arms clasped across my chest. Braced. Shielded. Fists tight, fingernails pressing into pink palms. Chin down, shoulders up towards my ears. Back curled and knees drawn. Untouchable. Protected. Safe. Every night, in my childhood bed with blankets over my head and fingers in my ears, I cry quietly. The red transistor radio under my pillow does its best to drown out the bad things outside. It fails. I am terrified. My body aches. My legs long to stretch out, my shoulders yearn to release, but no, I keep small, tight, I barely breathe. My sister sleeps in the bed next to mine. Another in the room next door, but I cry, fear my captor. The neighbours are restless. They argue. Drink. Fight. Across the road screams are heard. Tyres burn. Glass shatters. Faces in the window. Our window. They have come to try and see us. The single woman, the three girls. Draw the curtains tight. Lock the windows. Go to sleep. She says. Fifty-one...

Beep, beep, honk, honk. Or is it Honk…beep…honk? It is a secret code. Mopeds, taxi’s, car s and trucks ceaselessly chatting, via this mysterious sequencing of horn blowing. Hey! I’m coming up the inside…watch out for me, I’m turning in front of you…excuse me could you please go faster…slow down, move over, don’t cross in front of me….and on it goes! I am so intrigued by all this beeping. I carefully watch the face of our driver. In Australia, beeping while driving usually involves fingers thrust upwards and cursing. However, here in Bali, our driver is expressionless, hand hovering over horn, deciphering this secret code, weaving effortlessly through, what to me, is dangerous, heart stopping, traffic mayhem. I wear out the imaginary brake at my foot, although truly there is no need for worry. On motorbikes at five years of age, sometimes younger, the Balinese learn the secret code and how to navigate the narrow streets, sidewalk shops, stray dogs and other vehicles, very ...