The Regard of Silent Things

A couple of months after her eleventh birthday Eirini stood hiding in the hallway of their appartment, refusing to go in, crying her heart out.

They've just come back from the hairdressers.
''Please mum, no'', she had begged and pleaded with her before. 'Please not this time.''

To no avail, though. Her mum was adamant , hair must go.
''Your hair is too weak and thin'', she reasoned with her. ''If it's cropped short, it is going to get stronger and thicker in time''.
''No, you are doing it to spite me! '' Eirini cried out, watching the golden strands of her hair falling on the floor, under the hairdressers deft hands.

Sobbing like a fool, she looked at her reflection. Hair cropped close to her head. Hideous. Pathetic. Transforming her into a boy, she thought, despair dripping from her every pore. No, not even a boy, because boys were strong and big and she was pathetically scrawny . Too small for her age. Too thin. And with closely cropped hair that made her look even more pathetically thin.

She's 'been begging her mum to let her grow her hair all her childhood.
''Please mum, can I , this time? Please mum!''

But she wouldn't listen. Hair must go.

To be fair, most other schoolmate girls didn't have long hair either because it wasn't fashionable back then, but none wore them as short as her mum insisted she did. And she was eleven, a preteen. Though she looked like nine, being short and frail, she was painfully aware of how small and , well, childlike , she still looked, when most other girls have started growing taller and getting a feminine figure, And to add insult to this, that hideous hair.

Being new in a new school didst help much either. Or being a shy, introvert girl that preferred books and cats to other kids' company. Or being thought of as 'gifted' by her teachers, thus somehow excluded from the 'normal kids' club. Feeling like a weirdo , not fitting in.

And now this hair thing.
How could she face school tomorrow???
The teasing. The laughs. The agony of feeling the odd one out.

Crying didn't help much, though it lasted , intermittently, for an hour or so.. But somehow, it made her so tired , that she didnt have the energy to feel desperate or worry anymore. So she finally made for her bed and slept. Good excuse to skip dinner too.

The next day at school wasnt so bad. She kept to herself mostly, so it was ok really. Until recess, when her teacher called her over to his desk and handed her nine pages of small print , of something that looked like a speech. And it was a speech. The long speech sort , that teachers deliver for National Day celebrations at school.She looked up at him, not knowing what was expected of her.

''Read this at home'', he told her. ''You are going to deliver it next month on our national day celebrations.''
She gulped hard. Reciting a poem, was one thing. But delivering a speech? That was unheard of. And she knew she couldn't do it. Not with this hair. Not in that school, in front of 250 kids that made fun of her. Hell, she hated being the center of attention so much so ,that when it was her turn to say the morning prayers as was customary every morning before school, she pretended she was sick and stayed home. Didn't he, her favorite teacher , know that she couldn't do the public recital thing?

He seemed to respect her peculiar ways well enough in all other respects. ''90 percent of the time in my class she spends daydreaming, she lives in a world of her own'', he'd told her father who came to ask after her progress.''But when I ask her a question , she always answers as if she paid attention, so I let her be'', he added, laughing. So how could HE do this to her, he of all people??

She took the papers and left. She knew she couldnt do it. All she had to do was find a clever way out of it. But she could think of nothing. After a torturous rest of the school day, when the bell rang and everyone had left she approached the teachers desk, sheets of paper in hand

''Sir...please. I cant possibly do this recital thing. Please give it to someone else.

He looked up at her, not in the least surprised.
His eyes were kind.

''Why not, Eirini? You recite better than anyone in the school. Better even than me, I swear, he added, smiling he said, making her flush a deep red of pleasure at the compliment. ''This is a 16 minute recital, he added. I timed myself when I read it yesterday. If anyone in the school can deliver this, it's you and no one else. '' ''I picked it specifically with you in mind, '' he added, staring intently with me.

Eirini shifted uneasily in her feet. The bastard! So he knew of her fear of public speaking/reciting/whatever, but he was still making her do it!

She looked at her shoes, stuttering.
''Please...I cant...''

She wanted to tell him that she could do it because the kids were cruel and hated her. Because she was scared of being ridiculed, of being the odd one out that didst fit and having an entire school of kids grabbing the opportunity to cat whistle at her. She wanted to tell him that she felt ugly and insignificant with that horribly short cropped hair, in that pathetically thin body , with that strange mind that So a few weeks ago I asked you guys
what you'd like me to write about,
as a treat to you all for my birthday:
a confession, a secret, a personal experience?

Keeping our word is important,
makes our self-respect muscles stronger.
So here it is.
It is an experience, a confession and a personal experience, all wrapped up in one.
It's a confession, because I'm going to tell you an embarrassing thing from my past, way back into my childhood.
It's a secret, because it's about the very first time I fell in love,
which even I myself (have done my best to) forget about
And of course it's a personal experience,
because, though written in the third person, it's me alright

Enjoy

A couple of months after her eleventh birthday Eirini stood hiding in the hallway of their appartment, refusing to go in, crying her heart out.

They've just come back from the hairdressers.
''Please mum, no'', she had begged and pleaded with her before. 'Please not this time.''

To no avail, though. Her mum was adamant , hair must go.
''Your hair is too weak and thin'', she reasoned with mher. ''If it's cropped short, it is going to get stronger and thicker in time''.
''No, you are doing it to spite me! '' Eirini cried out, watching the golden strands of her hair falling on the floor, under the hairdressers deft hands.

Sobbing like a fool, she looked at her reflection. Hair cropped close to her head. Hideous. Pathetic. Transforming her into a boy, she thought, despair dripping from her every pore. No, not even a boy, because boys were strong and big and she was pathetically scrawny . Too small for her age. Too thin. And with closely cropped hair that made her look even more pathetically thin.

She's 'been begging her mum to let her grow her hair all her childhood.
''Please mum, can I , this time? Please mum!''

But she wouldnt listen. Hair must go.

To be fair, most other schoolmate girls didnt have long hair either because it wasnt fashionable back then, but none wore them as short as her mum insisted she did. And she was eleven, a preeten. Though she looked like nine, being short and frail, she was painfully aware of how small and , well, childlike , she still looked, when most other girls have started growing taller and getting a feminine figure, And to add insult to this, that hideous hair.

Being new in a new school didnt help much either. Or being a shy, introvert girl that preferred books and cats to other kids' company. Or being thought of as 'gifted' by her teachers, thus somehow excluded from the 'normal kids' club. Feeling like a weirdo , not fitting in.

And now this hair thing.
How could she face school tomorrow???
The teasing. The laughs. The agony of feeling the odd one out.

Crying didnt help much, though it lasted , intermittently, for an hour or so.. But somehow, it made her so tired , that she didnt have the energy to feel desperate or worry anymore. So she finally made for her bed and slept. Good excuse to skip dinner too.

The next day at school wasnt so bad. She kept to herself mostly, so it was ok really. Untill recess, when ther teacher called her over to his desk and handed her nine pages of small print , of something that looked like a speech. And it was a speech. The long speech sort , that teachers deliver for National Day celebrations at school.She looked up at him, not knowing what was expected of her.

''Read this at home'', he told her. ''You are going to deliver it next month on our national day celebrations.''
She gulped hard. Reciting a poem, was one thing. But delivering a speech? That was unheard of. And she knew she couldnt do it. Not with this hair. Not in that school, in front of 250 kids that made fun of her. Hell, she hated being the center of attention so much so ,that when it was her turn to say the morning prayers as was customary every morning before school, she pretended she was sick and stayed home. Didnt he, her favorite teacher , know that she couldnt do the public recital thing?

He seemed to respect her peculiar ways well enough in all other respects. ''90 pecent of the time in my class she spends daydreaming, she lives in a world of her own'', he'd told her father who came to ask after her progress.''But when I ask her a question , she always answers as if she paid attention, so I let her be'', he added, laughing. So how could HE do this to her, he of all people??

She took the papers and left. She knew she couldnt do it. All she had to do was find a clever way out of it. But she could think of nothing. After a torturous rest of the school day, when the bell rang and everyone had left she approached the teachers desk, sheets of paper in hand

''Sir...please. I cant possibly do this recital thing. Please give it to someone else.

He looked up at her, not in the least surprised.
His eyes were kind.

''Why not, Eirini? You recite better than anyone in the school. Better even than me, I swear, he added, smiling he said, making her flush a deep red of pleasure at the compliment. ''This is a 16 minute recital, he added. I timed myself when I read it yesterday. If anyone in the school can deliver this, it's you and noone else. '' ''I picked it specifically with you in mind, '' he added, staring intently at her.

Eirini shifted uneasily to her feet. The bastard! So he knew of her fear of public speaking/reciting/whatever, but he was still making her do it!

She looked at her shoes, stuttering.
''Please...I cant...''

She wanted to tell him that she couldn do it because the kids were cruel and hated her,( or so it seemed to her back then). Because she was scared of being ridiculed, of being the odd one out that didnt fit and having an entire school of kids grabbing the opportunity to cat whistle at her. She wanted to tell him that she felt ugly and insignificant with that horribly short cropped hair, in that pathetically thin body , with that strange mind that couldnt find pleasure in anything the other kids did. She wanted to tell him all those things and many more besides, but words failed her, because she was just an 11 year old girl who had no words for such painful emotions.

All she could do was flush a deep red of agony, hoping he'd understand . Hoping, also, that he wouldnt realise that she was hopelessly, desperately, romantically and puppily in love with him, him, her favorite teacher.

Oh, she was careful about it alright. When all her girl friends blurted out names of boys they liked , she dutifully offered an indifferent name of a boy, feigning adoration and coyness. But it was him she harboured romantic thoughts for. When he spoke- he had a nice , deep voice-she'd block out the meaning of the boring things he taught and just concentrate on the music of his voice. Of the rhythm of his speech. And that made lessons more bearable, less boring. He kept telling her she was special. He kept telling her, ''one day you re going to be a writer, Eirini. Mark my words, because I very rarely get these things wrong''.

She stood there, crimson red, begging silently''please dont make me do this,''.

He was silent. He was wise enough not to offer banalities like ''I know you are scared, but you need to get over your fear of public speaking. I'm doing this on purpose, to make you overcome your fears. You'll thank me for this one day''. He said no such things. Instead, he remained silent for a while, picking his words carefully.

''Eirini..look at me, now, LOOK at me!''

She looked up, expecting a lecture.

Instead, he leaned closer to her over from his desk
( and by God, to this day, though I have almost forgotten his face, I still remember the look in his eyes, to this day...)
and peered straight into her eyes and said:

''You think the other children dont like you much, and maybe that 's true, or maybe it isnt. Doesnt matter. What matters is that you have a gift with words. And when you express yourself..

''That's only in writing!'' she protested.
''I may have a gift of expressing myself in writing, but not when I'm..''

''No'', he interrupted. ''Doesn't make any difference. Speaking or writing, when you express yourself, other people listen. They will always listen. And you better get used to it''.
''You promise me to remember this?''

She nodded in agreement, stunned at receiving such a compliment, because he used them sparingly.

''Now, when you are up there , reciting this thing, pretend you are reciting it for someone you like. Just for them. Pretend nobody else is there, just them, ok? Maybe you're reciting it just to that cat of yours you wrote in your essay about the other day? ''he added, smiling.
(''You'', she cried silently in her head, ''I'll pretend it's just you listening to me...'')

''Oh, and before you go, promise me one last thing.
A favour. I need a favor from you.''

''Anything, sir'', she promised fervently.

''When you write your first book'', he grinned at her, ''promise to write a special dedication to me, your teacher , who told you so''.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
We both left the classroom grinning.

On that day, I knew what I wanted to be when I g

This is what hell is all about

The devil is not this horrible, deformed creature you think he is.

The devil is your logic disguised as rational thinking.
Trying to make you a servant of your logic, instead of the other way round, instead of you keeping your logic as a handy servant.

Trying to keep you in places, things, people, situations where your heart is empty and dead and safe in mediocrity , where your spirit is withering but your physical and rational self is thriving. That's where devil is and that's where your soul is dead. In your safe , flat logic.

God is where your heart is singing, even if by everyone's standards you 're there in the lowest of the lows. When logic starts shouting, you cant hear the singing of your soul. And you wither. And die inside. This is hell. And it all starts by paying heed more to the shouting than the singing.And then all kinds of physical and mental torture afflict your body ( disease, depression) trying to tell you that you're in your hell. That you forgot the singing. That you 've been whoring yourself to your rational mind and betrayed your heart's true calling.

Forget about safe.

Go where your feet tremble with joy and fear instead

This is what hell is all about

The devil is not this horrible, deformed creature you think he is.

The devil is your logic disguised as rational thinking.
Trying to make you a servant of your logic, instead of the other way round, instead of you keeping your logic as a handy servant.

Trying to keep you in places, things, people, situations where your heart is empty and dead and safe in mediocrity , where your spirit is withering but your physical and rational self is thriving. That's where devil is and that's where your soul is dead. In your safe , flat logic.

God is where your heart is singing, even if by everyone's standards you 're there in the lowest of the lows. When logic starts shouting, you cant hear the singing of your soul. And you wither. And die inside. This is hell. And it all starts by paying heed more to the shouting than the singing.And then all kinds of physical and mental torture afflict your body ( disease, depression) trying to tell you that you're in your hell. That you forgot the singing. That you 've been whoring yourself to your rational mind and betrayed your heart's true calling.

Forget about safe.

Go where your feet tremble with joy and fear instead

I am a woman who loves too much and I wear this proudly, as a badge of honour

I am a woman who loves too much.
And I wear this proudly, as a badge of honour.

When I give , I don't just give my all. I give of my flesh and blood, until I am depleted and run out of the last droplets of love. I am a heavy weight lover, or a marathon runner of love, if you will.

Recklessly adoring and vulnerable to the point of bleeding to emotional death–my heart is displayed wide open, for I not only trust love in the abstract, but I trust the one I love in action, deeming them worthy of my love specifically because they were chosen to be loved by me, not because they are either worthy or unworthy of it.

I lay my heart in front of their feet and even give them a sword to pierce it through, knowing fully well that sooner or later they will.

When I walk into a room, the love overflowing from my heart radiates out of me like a technicolor sun. Cats, dogs and little girls are drawn to me like iron shavings to a magnet, because the warmth of that love, the love of a woman that loves too much, soothes their insides. I walk wearing my love potential like a regal mantle, sweeping behind my back and men on the street compliment me on my looks, having no idea that it is the strength of that love that compels them.

My loving too much is my presence and my signature.

It is present when I pamper the one I love in bed, or when I sacrifice my last euro to feed a stray kitty.

I navigate through life posing for selfies or having lessons or writing blog posts, laying my soul bare ,purely because my heart tells me so.

I am dripping in love, weathered from the blows that life on the vulnerable side delivers to me all the time, weak and strong at the same time in the beauty of that love.

I am not afraid to tell you I love too much and am proud of it because I have done the work to be at home in that love.

I do not shrink to accommodate the love that is given to me ( which, since I am a marathon runner of love in action and most people are couch potatoes in comparison, is rarely up to par) , but burn bright to remind them by example, what is there to be afraid of?

I cherish each scar on my heart, each wound, each betrayed trust, each inch of my mercy. I walk with my head held high because I know only love can heal us all.

I show this world my tears and my laughter, unashamed.

I know better than to try and fix or heal the ones that cannot or wont love me back. I know that by healing my self worth and strengthening my love potential, I heal this world.

I am a woman who loves too much
and I wear this proudly, as a badge of honour.

I love fearlessly and sweetly and ferociously with all the might I can, for what good is living if we are not loving?

I am here to love and love I will.

I can taste bullshit from a mile away since I am freer and truer by choice and that gives me stronger insight into inauthenticity.
But I still choose to trust. With all my heart.

I do not keep my love in a cage that requires a transaction of any sort to be free.

I care and dare and hurt and love through my life.

I am a woman that loves too much — you will feel me when I walk into your life or your space

The Hypnotic Power Of Breasts

Magnetic. Hypnotic. Fascinating.

All breasts are beautiful.

Not metaphorically. But truthfully.

Why?
Because a woman's breasts are her feelings and emotions made visible. A young girl's breasts are beautiful in the sense she is like an emotionally unopened bud that has a lot to give. An older woman's breasts are beautiful too in a different way, because she is a warrior of giving emotional support throughout her life and that shows visibly. A woman who has breastfed her babies has another kind of appealing softness about her breasts, the softness and sweetness of nurturing through her body. Whatever shape or size of your boobs is just right. Because your feelings are always beautiful and breasts are your feelings made visible. There will always be someone who will appreciate those feelings (and boobs). Please don't think you need artificial stuff to make them pretty. Fake is ugly, especially in feelings. And, like I said, your breasts are your feelings made visible.

Breasts are totally hot – just not in the way people usually talk about.A woman’s breasts will synchronize with her baby to become the perfect temperature for it. She does it for her lover too, if she is in love with him/her. Think for a second of when you hugged your mother as a child, or when your child hugs you… where is the head? That’s right, laying on the chest, on the breasts. Soothing. comforting, transmitting love. It is intangible, but no less real. This is how mothers transmit the nurturing, loving energy to their children even when they are not breastfeeding. This is how women transmit loving energy to their lovers as well, through their breasts. (By the way, this is how a man gives loving energy too, but his breasts are flat, so he transmits to his lover a sense of sturdy stability, of reliability and strength, as opposed to the woman's nurturing ).

Mother’s milk is completely unique and not possible to replicate (despite what you may have heard from the formula companies). It actually changes minute by minute, day to day, to provide exactly the right nourishment and immunities that a baby needs as determined by the breast through receiving information from the baby’s saliva on the areola. I breastfed all four of my children. I am so glad I did. But many mothers can’t, or don’t. What I want to talk about is the invisible aspect that is rarely talked about that every mother, whether she breastfeeds or not can give with her breasts: her feminine, nurturing energy.

A man sucking his partner’s breast, is remembering the feeling of suckling at his mother’s breast. Hormones of pleasure inundate his body in sheer ecstacy, feeling deep peace and pleasure in his own body and profound connection to their woman. At the same time, since breasts are connected to the womb, a woman is inundated with pleasure hormones as well and orgasmic sensations. This is the power of the breast. If you no longer have your own breasts, don't worry. The energy crenter -your heart- is still there, so you retain intact your powers to excite and nurture and soothe .

Your breasts are miraculous,
not just for what they look like,
but for what they are and for what they do.

Love them.
Be proud of them

They are your feelings and heart made visible

With nurturing Love
Eirini