Tag Archives: confrontation

Who Do You Think You Are?

 

When you have a dream.

When you follow your inner wisdom.

When you Dare Big.

This is a question you will be asked sooner or later.

Insinuatingly, between the lines or smack in the face openly.

Who. DO. You think. You ARE?

Remember to breathe.

image

 

Do you remember this picture?

Impulse by impulse, by Marie D. Tiger. Buy print here.
Impulse by impulse, by Marie D. Tiger. Buy print here.

When you listen to your impulses – all of them, not just the ones that are in your inner default operating mode – each impulse opens up a set of new potentials. Your intuition acts as the captain, choosing the most optimal set of impulses. This means that for each followed impulse, creation by creation, your life becomes something new. Tailor made for you, courtesy of your core.

That is why we can trust the Unknown, in the flow of our impulses. It makes everything possible. No matter how scary it feels at times.

So. If your life recently had a huge or even the tiniest Boooom!

Boooom! By Marie D. Tiger. Buy print here.
Boooom! By Marie D. Tiger. Buy print here.

And you’re wondering what to say to the people who ask you who you think you are, to dare so greatly and act so irresponsibly/crazily/weirdly/whatever?

You don’t really need to say anything.

Just get back to the paper, to the canvas, into the coaching room, to your children, into the kitchen, in front of the microphone or in front of the piano. You know.

That’s all.

 

Day 6 of Scintilla – Letter to a Fourteen Year Old

You have a winning way, so keep it
Your future
You are an angel headed for a land of sunshine
And fortune is smiling upon you
Prepare for a series of comfortable miracles
From fasting to feasting
And life to you is a dashing, bold adventure
So sing and rejoice
And look for the dream that keeps
Coming back
Your future

Land of Sunshine, Faith No More

Writing today starts from a picture. The one on the left was taken when I was fourteen, the one on the right painted in art school, many years later, with the above excerpt from Faith No More song painted as background.

Dear Marie at Fourteen,

You are often in my thoughts. I owe my life to the faith you kept through one of the hardest years of  [y]our life. There’s soul growing in you, a yearning that is too big for your age and for the small constricted place you go to school in. Breathing hurts. You’re so afraid.There’s darkness in your every thought and when you go with your True Nature, the wolves around you notice it immediately and gather up to scorn, to tear your hair, to hit you in the school bus.

Your courage gives me chills. The hairdo in the picture set the hurricane of bullying in motion. I remember looking in the mirror, after Mom’s friend had finished blow drying it. The curls were permanent. At home, you used a comb to make it stand up more, until you were pleased with the wild ruff.

It was in the days of Michael Jackson and Paula Abdul, you saw those stars in the mirror when you looked at the huge hair, recognized their passion as your own. When you realized you had drawn a scary kind of attention to you it was too late. But I also remember you liking that feisty hair, thinking it was beautiful. When the word “ugly” was thrown at you from every part of the miniature world of the school yard and even your friends suggested you’d change, reality started swinging around on its axis. You started accepting that you must be hideous, since everyone said so.

To me, everything about you is beautiful. That you got into the musty smelling school bus every day, walking the ail until you found a place to sit, keeping your core intact, making it your job to one day feel alive, although you couldn’t do it at the time. Freezing everything inside so it could one day be thawed out and grown. Getting the faith you needed from books to just keep going and not stop.

Kiddo, you won. You survived. I wish I could show you what the future has in store for you or protect you from believing, even for a second, that you are alone.

 

Views of Cruelty

Mother, 2002, oil pastels 21x29cm by Marie D. Tiger
Mother, 2002, oil pastels 21x29cm by Marie D. Tiger

Cruel you call me
Callous
You wish I and my family will die
That’s a mother
I hear that you are in pain
My obsession is to help you

Except it never really helped you
and it sure did hurt me
I will have to shield my compassion
With gossamer made of steel
Because drama or not, I am what is
standing between your poison
and my children

The buck stops here
Abuse swirls down in spirals
from generation to generation
I have promised not to heap that abuse
on my own kids
So I sit here in my morning café

Holding tight in the midst of intensity
invite the feelings in
invite the sensations in
invite the pain in

I can’t heal you
But I sure can heal myself.

Messenger

You can kill
You may kill
But you will die.
No matter what.

You can destroy
The one who’s
Telling the truth
Or burn all the books
But truth will still be there.
No matter what.

You can try
To get rid of
Anyone you’re afraid of
But what Goes Around
Comes Around
We will all.
Live forever.
No matter what.