The Magic of Words

It’s only words………
“Once upon a time, there was a noetic young boffin called Jcak Fruit, who fell in love with a bobby-dazzler called Molly Coddle. And espoused her. It was a fervid, fecund union; full of sweet, sapid moments that fructified into three beautiful, pinguid little Fruits; a girl Passion and two boys Kiwi and Bread.
And Moll, being a Lucy Stoner, wouldn’t mess with her miss, and even though she had become a Missus, continued to be Miss Molly Coddle. Which was a good thing because Molly, being a winsome (and lose-some, when she was dieting) wench, was constantly being cuddled and coddled by her uxorious Jack.
One fine gloaming, the Fruits went a-roaming, Jack all gussied up in his best philibeg and molly looking quite splendiferous in her new guttated, virid samfoo. Soon, they reached a bustling bistro where they shared a syllabub and a hautboy charlotte.
And as the sun sank wearily into the pulchtridinous purple eiderdown of a sky, stealing the nitid aurum from Molly’s hair, Jack felt his spritzig philter the cockles of his cardiacus, getting him into quite a tizwas as he thought how frabjous it would be to canoodle his dolly at this very moment, but what a caboodle there would be if he did.
Soon……..”
Words. I love them. People think that working with words is a craft. Penmanship they call it. Like enbroidery or petit point. Just a matter of arranging colours and threads in the most pleasing patterns and sequences. But it doesn’t quite work like that. Because words are living things, wilful creatures of whimsy.So you don’t craft words, you grow them. Sow your thoughts actually, finding that nice patch of soil where the little green shoots can stretch and reach the sun’s good morning kiss, watering them with patience and every now and then, helping out with that tricky bit of flowering or fighting off the odd bout of blight. Then, you just wait. Because how exactly the mango will swell with golden flesh or how sunnily the sunflower will smile isn’t going to be in your control. And oh yes, I almost forgot. For a bumper crop, you will have to give then your heart. And if you do, they’ll burst forth in riotous bloom like happy little children. And take over the page, your book and your life. Sometimes as angelic little genies, slaves to your every command, your every wish. Shaping a phrase, carving a line even before you have finished thinking it, with such breathtaking speed and beauty that you will be besotted, bewitched and infatuated into wishing yourself a life where you do nothing but live, breath and eat words.
And sometimes they will turn into stubborn, cantankerous little devils, staring at you with unblinking, defiant eyes; lower lip stuck out in tremulous mutiny. Then, you will have no choice but to let them run amok in chaotic, clamorous gibberish all over the place till something will snap inside your head and you scream, “Shut up!”
They will. And skulk away in sullen silence into the furthermost corners of your brain, refusing to come out or talk, leaving you flogging a few exhausted smudges and blots up and down a worn-out, weary piece of paper. Then, after a while, after you’ve atoned and begged for forgiveness; after you’ve wheedled and whinged in ingratiating coos; after you’ve almost sold your soul to them, they’ll saunter out. First throwing a cursory tantrum to guage how total the rout and then, when certain that you’ve totally repented your churlish, boorish behavior, they’ll relent. And tumble out in an exultant, noisy flood; chattering and giggling, eyes gleaming with excitement as they flit from this thought to that, plucking the choicest phrase which they’ll then arrange on themselves like so many iridescent jewels and then parade up and down the page, showing off their gorgeous little selves for all the world to see. Beautiful, maddening, fascinating words.
(Did you know that the word “pizzazz”, meaning a combination of flamboyance, panache and vigour is an onomatopoeic coinage by that famous American fashion editor, Diana Vreeland? Onomatopoeic? Ah, now that’s a whole new can of words………….)
“…………….the noctilucent moon rose, yawned delicately and wrapped the starry night around her naked, nacrine (nacreous) shoulders. And as Jack began to titinnabulate a soft cavatina on his glockenspiel, a horrisonant ululation lacerated the sable darkness…….”

Pain

George Eliot said Pain is no evil unless it conquers us.

And we allow pain to conquer us all the time.
I learn this everyday in my yoga practice.
As I explore my way into an asana, pain visits.
Sometimes like a searing meteor across my consciousness.
Sometimes like a red-hot throbbing hotspot, i don't know where.
And if i allow it, pain is greedy, gobbling up everything - me, my brain, my thoughts even my consciousness. Till the horizons of my mind are stained with pain.
And if i allow it, pain is a noisy rolling shutter, slamming down on me,
Nervous, jittery, terrified,
ThatI may figure out...
That pain is only a mirage, an illusion.
Look at it through the gaze of your breath
Soft and slow and steady like the rhythm of the sea
Now and calm and here...
Then the pain dissolves, melts, evaporates
Like a thought....
Till
In the distance
I can see
Me
Beautiful me
Powerful me
Limitless me
Standing with one foot gently resting on the chest of pain
Lying vanquished at my feet

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