Muzu Creative

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 ...

It has taken me three years to understand that my `Just give it all to me, I can handle it’ attitude caused my cancer. My “just keep going, be strong’ mantra, nearly killed me. At the time I was thinking that I was doing the right thing. I was a good mum, a good wife, a fantastic employee. Hard-working, obliging, diligent. However not once at any time did I listen to my body when it said I was tired. When it called to me that my heart was pounding, my neck muscles straining and my pulse racing. I would be thirsty, my head would be aching, I would just push on. “I will just finish this and then I will rest/have a glass of water/take a moment” but that moment never came. I just kept adding to my never ending to-do list. My body had no choice but to make me stop. It was a physical intervention. I had a disease and cancer was the cure.   Since my diagnosis three years ago, I have been on a journey of self-discovery. Sounds all spiritual and mystical doesn’t it? Actua...

  I wonder what you would say, if I asked you for your definition of “Failure” The Oxford Online Dictionary defines FAILURE as… ·       Lack of success… an economic policy that is doomed to failure . ·       An unsuccessful person or thing… The lack of water resulted in crop failures. ·       The neglect or omission of expected or required action… failure to comply with the rules . ·       A lack or deficiency of a desirable quality… a failure of imagination. ·       The action or state of not functioning… heart failure, engine failure . ·       A sudden cessation of power… a sudden power failure . This word Failure and its myriad of definitions is responsible for many of us living unfulfilled, unhappy lives. Chained to inappropriate jobs, relationships and circumstances based on the belief that if we e...

I found this piece of writing just now. I had completely forgotten that I had written it. It was quickly dashed out as I sat jammed into Virgin Flight VA something or rather...on my way to Bali.  I feel the pain in this writing, however that pain is no longer present. Something has changed. I left something behind in Bali. Whatever it was, I washed it away at the bottom of a thunderous waterfall, scrubbed it away in a ceremonial body scrub and massage, soothed it away with the sound of the ocean and the heart of friendship, breathed it away with pranayama and many, many, asanas. I wish to share that piece of writing with you. Un-edited, raw. For all of you who have felt this particular pain...I wanted to let you know...you can be free of it.  So here I am. Flying high. The earth is below. Clouds below. Nothing above. It was my choice. NO not even. I was compelled. There was no choosing. At the time of booking this trip, money was an issue. As away...