|Posted by Tia Price on April 11, 2015 at 3:45 PM||comments (0)|
It not that first touch, with skin on skin.
They tell you this first time round. ‘Oh that first touch. The first time you hold your baby’. That love, its like nothing else.
No, not for me, when the midwife placed that wriggling wet and smushed up creature on my flattening tummy. His head all lopsided from that vacuum skull cap and me, cut and bleeding forty hours in. I didn’t feel it then.
Too tired, too drugged out, too spent and awaiting the extra birth of after birth. All I thought was ‘Hello little one, you must be cold’. I felt only concern for this little thing that stared at me so bewildered and probably frightened after such a journey. So numb from so much sudden stimulation and I the same. I didn’t feel it then.
But I feel it everyday now.
When he had his first few showers and lay giggling on his tummy in the bath playing with the plastic fish, his beautiful little face scrunched up in concentration.
When he fought a paper bag to rip it.
When he stood up in toddler group, on our second visit, shortly after the sweet Polish lady enquired is he walking yet, and ran across the room.
Its when my son first started, a little later than anticipated, saying ‘Hello Mama. Hello Daddy’. His lovely high little voice emphasizing my importance to him with a simple greeting.
Its when he leans his little face forward for the goodnight kiss before scuttling off to bed with daddy trying to repeat ‘I love you’ back at me.
Its when he gets so frustrated with his duplo because the little plastic man has come away from the round little pegs again and he demands my help.
Its when he cuddles up in a blanket that he calls ‘nanky’, says ‘soft’ and makes a satisfied ‘ahhhh’ sound as he snuggles down.
When he recognizes toys from TV in shops and surprises me. When he recognizes that he was given one, but he wants two and blows my mind that he can comprehend numbers. At only two.
He can spot a balloon a hundred yards away, where even the shop assistants don’t know they exist. And damnit, he wants it.
He’s the kid that eats the paste and licks the radiator. That opens the fire door and obsesses over the toilets in nursery.
When he wakes from his nap and mooches into the living room on tippy toe his hair a white blond birds nest. He can run and run and you mustn’t overtake or he’ll have a tantrum. He doesn’t walk, he runs.
The fact that when the other kids at toddler group don’t share, he doesn’t understand and he comes to me for a hug. Then when he goes back he gives them a toy, because he does share.
Its his ability to remember something from a year ago that I thought he must’ve forgotten, but no, he’s smart.
Its everything he does.
My blonder than blond blue eyed perfect toothed mischief maker.
My child of the corn or Hitler youth ideal.
The little boy that so many said has been here before.
The creature that swam in my roomy womb, that I love with every single bit of my heart.
He’s Newton, and he’s awesome.
|Posted by Tia Price on May 3, 2014 at 10:25 AM||comments (0)|
If she had a different story, I wonder what it'd be.
When I am washing her, brushing her teeth and choosing her clothes I think often on what life she would've had. When i administer the medication and change her pads, I'm giving her a parallel version of herself with ideals.
I give her another story sometimes because I think she would have liked it.
I see her, past growing up in glorious Sussex, daughter of the Vicar and off at University, perhaps because that was my favourite time of youth. Unfettered and unrestricted by the parents she has.
Disability or not, a control freak is what it is.
I see her running down side streets in Cambridge, because she had the smarts and money to go.
Her hair is long and not this uniform short which we do not put product into.( I wonder if people think it a waste.) It is long and styled and the waves that unashamedly coil around her head now are given time and love, they are stroked and touched by lovers.
In this story, she has many.
They are all young and brilliant, and she, though shy and coy, is feisty and gives with all of herself, the seduction is all from her side. She gives no power away.
Her body is more comfortable, and less of what it is now. She doesn't need meds, or help.
She still stands most of the time, but it is usually at a counter, eating cheese on crackers and reading.
She drinks a little and loves to dance, forever in some different bar with some different music. Smoky jazz, dirty grind or happy house it doesn't matter, because her loves are to sing and to dance. And she will be there for hours, unbothered if she has no companion because the melodic beat will be there.
On her walks through the fens, when study time has given way to summertime stroll, she runs ahead of her particular beau and she climbs a tree, carefully and gracefully climbing through the branches and laughing to herself. Her own joke, and the boys wish they could reach her, get in, be allowed to bask in her. To understand her and this mysterious beautiful unreachable quality.
Every Sunday she and her housemates have agreed is a night to discuss philosophy with wine and cheese, and they do, with marijuana and music. She talks about what she thinks, who she loves, what worlds she imagines. They listen, and they join in and she is part of something, she is wondered about. She is loved.
She reclines in the wicker chair and wonders what other life she could have lead, where she wasn't this person, where she had less, could do less and others had to do everything for her. She wonders, and she smiles, and she curls up with her brilliant boyfriend who nibbles her ear, both neatly slotted beneath the angora blanket. He asks what shes thinking and she just smiles as she drifts in and out of love.
Her world is content, and it is hers, and she makes it happen.
But that's an entirely different story.
|Posted by Tia Price on January 13, 2014 at 2:15 PM||comments (0)|
I had a lovely moment.
Taking out the bins, I had this lovely feeling flutter through me. As I walked, in the dark in slobby too large trousers and a scruffy jumper I felt the clothing on me.
I know this may sound odd, but really, how often do you stop and really feel the material that's covering your skin, and really notice the texture?
I felt the jumper as it kept me warm, I felt the soft fluffy fibres as they clung to my skin. I noticed the billowing sweatpants as the cocooned me in cotton. It felt so good, and warm and lovely and made me inwardly hug myself and lead me to think of all the good stuff around me and before me.
Then thinking of new clean sheets and the smell of fabric conditioner. To see my little boy scuttle and roll across me on fresh linen and hugging him to me breathing it in, breathing him in. The smell of my boyfriends neck and the feel of that lovely warm hug of arm around waist or shoulder or arm. The feel of my loves. The smell of clean linen.
Most contented feeling.
Thanking inwardly for the simple sensation of soft material on skin and all the blessings outside of it.
|Posted by Tia Price on October 29, 2013 at 3:10 PM||comments (0)|
In truth, I am so damn tired.
Now, it may seem a terribly easy thing, reading cards for people for a few hours and then tootling on home.
i suppose, for me, it is quite. When I'm in flow, it's great, when my energy is up and I feel good it just flows and it is really, quite easy. I just say what I see and let the info flood through.
i am however also a mother, and I love looking after my little one, do not mistake me.
But, presently, if I take a moment and just sit, have a momentary reprieve from the movement which at the moment seems quite rapid in my life.... I space out. Eyes glassy, and body utterly fatigued.
I am tired right now.
i really really, just want to curl up in a hot salt, crystal and Lush product filled bath, let it all drift off. Perhaps stare vacantly at a corner of the tile and just 'be'.
I would have my little one tucked up in bed or with family for the night. Have my boyfriend asleep in the other room, recharging himself. And then just pad through to the living room, all towelled up, and lay... Let the relaxation, true deep relaxation, sift into me, flood me and 'be'.
Just be without the need to cook, clean, sterilise, massage, coerce, listen, tidy, change, protect, worry, counsel, guide, coddle, love, give, see, feel. Without any of these things.
Just, maybe listen to a bird tweeting. Or the leaves rustling. Or my own rhythmic breathing. Or the sound of quiet, because that in itself is still a sound.
Just be, clean and cleansed curled up on the sofa, or in bed and smell the fresh bedding or blankie and be.
Once done then I'll write, and paint, and love and give and listen and see. Then I will sing and change and pet and feed. Ill be capable of doing anything again! I'll do it all with a genuine deep etched smile on my face.
|Posted by Tia Price on October 26, 2013 at 5:00 PM||comments (0)|
I remember when a shop in town opened up. At the time I was a smoker of the magic herb and found myself drawn to this new and wonderful shop that housed all the ritualistic paraphernalia that a 'smoker' would use.
I became instantly friendly with the owners, Maggie and Ken.
Ken specifically I had something of a kinship with and found myself telling him that I read tarot cards.
At the time I considered myself something of a novice though I had been reading and working with it for about five years. Not very long I thought and at no point did I think I was ready to charge people to read their cards.
Ken and I spoke about it and how I had found due to my previous penchant for marijuanna that I had opened up and experienced more, he told me his experience was the reverse.
He had smoked it and after years of being in tune with spirit, seeing and enjoying meditation etc, he closed down. Could no longer see.
The herb had blinded him. We talked at length about marijuana, legal highs, their penchant for swinging and other things. He was a Capricorn and referred to himself as a 'horny old goat'.
He encouraged me to advertise my readings in his shop, and I remember printing out on my computer paper business cards with my details. Retrospectively it would have looked so unprofessional, but still he took them and happily displayed them for free.
He also advised me when I said I charged only five pounds ( and felt guilty of that) to charge at least fifteen. Saying that I had to show I believed in my skill and abilities. I had to charge enough to prove I believed I was what I said I was.
I only had a few readings as a result of advertising there, and sadly in time the shop closed.
But... In meeting Ken he forced me to believe in myself and to charge accordingly, to advertise at all and to go for it.
I would bump into Ken and his wife intermittently over the years, and was saddened when I would see him and be told that he had cancer of the lung but was fighting it. The grounded nature of Ken meant that he believed but fought to survive. They were always having lattes and smoking, even in remission Ken was a smoker.
Recently, I went into a shop just to look around and saw Maggie working behind the till.
For some reason I thought it odd as she seemed very singular, something in me also told me that my question would be met with a certain answer.
I enquired as to Ken and she said ' oh, didn't you know? He died'. I gave my condolences and was genuinely sorry for his passing. But instantly I saw him in my minds eye, wearing a brown leather coat and looking quite happy. All just saying he was a. Ok.
Today, in the middle of my session reading cards and pondering why I might resist the mediumship side of psychic work, I saw him in my minds eye again.
I thought how grateful I am that I met him and that he encouraged and spurred me on to advertise and just go for it. To believe in my abilities and readings.
And now, here I sit, in the middle of a Halloween Festivel, booked for other events and regularly giving readings and charging a modest amount for my services. Teaching and encouraging others through workshops, to follow their gifts and believe in themselves. To live from their spirit and give the world themselves through their various abilities.
Thanks to you Ken.
I hope you're resting well in your heavenward den of eniquity.
|Posted by Tia Price on October 24, 2013 at 3:55 AM||comments (0)|
There's this old man I see, not all that often but sometimes, at the garage.
This is when I do my little pop in to grab some milk or something as we only live up the road.
I find him compelling. Something of an enigma.
He looks like a fisherman, someone who went to sea and then on return found a little hole to nest in with his memories. And his stuff.
A massive beard and sweat pants pulled up in that characteristic way, simply to maintain some modesty. Stained and you can feel the other customers wrinkling their noses and trying not to make eye contact. Not wondering at all who he is, what he did, just judging that smelly irritated looking man,
Now I'm not a hoarder really. I do have a tendency to collect too much stuff and have too much in my house, but I can cull when necessary.
He's on the go, obviously, as he's passing through the garage, but I've never seen a hoarder use their car for the same purpose as a house.
His car is filled with junk, filled to them brim, save the drivers seat which has been expertly 'dug out'. It's a big car! A Volvo of some sort. Battered and crammed.
Empty milk cartons, newspapers, and stuff. So many milk cartons, well a man needs his milk I guess.
Surrounding him filling the back window, the passenger side, the boot undoubtedly. Every spare centimetre. Evidently the need for a companion for a long drive has never fazed him and he's clearly never needed to pick up any kids from school.
If he were to crash it's not the impact you would worry about, but the avalanche of old junk and dirty detritus that would fall upon and surely smother him.
There's also the risk of fire, if that thing were to blow the molten plastic would be the first to get him.
It makes me wonder what he has in his home?
A deep sea mine? Or just more newspapers? A nautical brass suit of steam punk glory? Or just more milk cartons? A mummified cat collection? Or many identical pairs of sweat pants?
Whenever I see him I smile inwardly because he makes me curious. He's naturally oblivious, carrying out his daily duties in whatever obsessive compulsive- or not- routine that he lives by.
But I feel glee whenever I see him.
Thank you sea faring hoarder, because you brighten my day with curiosity.
|Posted by Tia Price on October 23, 2013 at 4:25 AM||comments (0)|
Since the birth of my son, my lovely button nosed puffy cheeked cutie pie, I have toyed with the notion of giving up.
Yes, I know, it was fleeting. Don't worry I haven't given up on the team yet.
I always considered myself a lifer, still do actually.
Even during my pregnancy I'm not proud to admit, it didn't shake me to quit. (As it goes the size he was its probably good I did! God knows if I could've pushed anything bigger out, it was dicey.)
I had images of a see through glass dome where my bump was and there, nestled in a swirling foggy little enclosure was my baby.
Left me cold.
I loved my growing bump, and I love my little boy, but I love smoking too.
So many of my smoker friends quit whilst pregnant, a lot because their bodies rejected it, mine didn't.
So I didn't.
I saw the scorn.
I recognised that tut when people saw this lumpy fronted lady puffing away, but hey what can I say? I like smoking.
And part of me is reacting against all the pressure shoved down our throats, when I want to quit I will, if I ever do, but no other person is going to be the one to make that happen.
My mother turned to me- a lady who smoked throughout her pregnancy and only gave up later- and said 'I'm not one to talk but maybe now is the time to consider giving up, you want to be there for the little man'. Well, yes. I do,
And looking at him now I want to be there every second, I don't want him to grow up, but I can't wait for it.
A strange ambivalence that I think stays with you throughout parenthood.
This morning, what prompted this thought process and urged me to type it out was this.
We have a playpen, a godsend playpen in which I can place my ever mobile bundle who can crawl so early. He is safe in this enclosure as long as I think of it as his den and not a cage. When I overuse it, it is a cage. Strangely I've taken to doing orangutan noises at him which makes him chuckle, but I'm on the outside of the cage?
Anyhow, he was peeping at me through the bars and grinning as he's want to do, poking out his tongue - a new thing- and I scooted to the kitchen for my second cigarette of the morn. When I came out, he was staring at me, he had moved to the other side of the pen to wait for me. To watch the door, to await my return.Then he gave me one of his lovely wide smiles.
This caused a little combustion in my heart.
I thought then, that for those three minutes ( I have become master of the speed fag) he was waiting there for me. Wondering maybe where the warm cuddley creature thing that feeds and dresses and comforts him went. Why she's returned smelling strongly. What was she doing and why did she have to disappear. What was so important.
And that's it isn't it?
What is so important that it takes three minutes away from a finite amount of time with my son?
What is it that causes me to feel the need to chug a rust coloured weed to feel sated and normal each day?
Why do I need to leave the room, in work, at home, out and about and fill my lungs with this misty fogger and possible cause of death?
And I can feel the possibility of it as the cause of my death. I can feel the ageing process these days because of smoking. I can hear the crack and whistle in the eaves of my villi. I can feel its long terms affects.
Still then, why do it?
I could go into all the trivial and all the deeper psychological reasons for it.
Ultimately, I think I just realised, nothing is that much more important than this precious time with my little boy.
Still, one more wont hurt....?
|Posted by Tia Price on October 14, 2013 at 8:35 AM||comments (0)|
Whilst watching a film the other night, curled up in an empty cinema with my boyfriend, being scared every other moment, there was a line that i had not realised was so poignant until this morning it came back to me.
A character turns to another because the main fellow has been possessed, and says: 'he wants what you have.....life.'
If you could take a moment to think on that.
To imagine and look in from an outside view, of someone who is deceased and unable to do or change anything, perhaps just watch as life goes on. How people can affect the world, make it better, make it worse, move objects, breathe, make love and eat. Water a plant, take a walk and smell the air, feel the day, hold a hand. Make a difference and leave a mark.All those things we can do, because we have bodies to fill, to move and alter. Voices loud enough to be heard by another in a room.
We can change things, we can sing and dance and laugh and other people can do it with us, or watch us and appreciate us and we know that they do, because they are meaty and alive. The corpus form that assures you,' I'm here, what shall we do?'.
So why do we squander it so?
Why do we waste our time feeling sorry for ourselves, getting angry, ruining beautiful moments and throwing poison at others, those we love? Or hurting ourselves by creating toxic situation instead of loving and laughing. Why do we waste that time we have because, well, we don't have all that long as this person, as this body, at this exact moment of - for me- 31.
There is another film, ' Constantine' where the Archangel Gabriel played by the terrifyingly androgynous Thilda Swinton is explaining why she is bringing such hideousness to the earth plane. To quote: Gabriel: You're handed this precious gift, right? Each one of you granted redemption from the Creator – murderers, rapists, molesters – all of you just have to repent, and God takes you into His bosom. In all the worlds and all the universe, no other creature can masuch a boast, save man. It's not fair.
Gabriel: If sweet, sweet God loves you so, then I will make you worthy of His love. But it's only in the face of horror that you truly find your nobler selves – and you can be so noble. So … I will bring you pain. I will bring you horror.'
You do not have to be religious or spiritual in any way to accept this idea. That we have a precious gift, 'life' and in some way we squander it and through the adversity of tragedies we become noble, good.
Life is a precious gift, whether you view it from an atheist standpoint where there is nothing more than stardust, atoms and dark matter whirling about in chaotic oblivion to create by mistake. Even in that viewpoint, that is even more reason to live and make and do and even if you don't leave a memory that is great and grand, still you could say - to the darkness where you no longer exist- that you lived and you loved every minute.
And even to those who do follow a creed, sitting back and preaching or judging or wasting time thinking up negative things, doesn't help anyone or make your life beautiful. And we are here to do that. Live, happy, joy filled lovely lives.
We are here to enjoy every precious second that ticks by. Our lovely meat sacks that allow us the ability to change and alter in this physical reality have a finite point where they will cease to function for us and where they go to the earth to fertilise ( if we wouldn't store them in coffins that denies the earth our nutrients). I believe we live on and take on different forms and states and have been and will be different people, but, but.... I will not be Tia in those other lives.
I will only be Tia for this short life span, and I like myself a lot. I love the skills and abilities I have. I love my hair and this body and my friends and my baby and my life and my partner, as me now, here. I like this time line and the trees and the smell of the changing seasons. i like my cards and my third eye and my art and my writing and performing. All of which i have and do now, as me Tia.
Next life, i may not.
So why would I waste anymore time up in my head not helping, not serving, not creating or being happy when there is so much out there to see and do and create with and contribute to?
If we could all just see it from the eyes of those who can no longer be who they were in that life, who are stuck with a refusal to move into the light and let go. If we could feel what it would feel like to no longer be the person they were having not left much behind, not leaving enough loving memories, or friends or achievements. To have lived and then ' blip!' Just gone.... I think we would live differently and make as many seconds in as many days count for something. Even if just for ourselves to know we lived to our hearts and our spirits and the beats of our own different drums and refused to blame or excuse through fear.
To just live happily and be who we are and let go of all that 'stuff' because it doesn't matter. None of that matters.
Ultimately, only life does.
|Posted by Tia Price on May 28, 2013 at 11:15 AM||comments (0)|
There are so many different types of love.
That goes for mother and daughter, father and son in law, best friends, land lady and regular, pets and owners.
It goes on.
Then theres the different love in each relationship. Their effect, what you learn, the depth you feel.
Then theres the different love you feel in one relationship.
Each different part unfurling like something new and marvellous, in the evolution of a partnership. As a layer falls away and you feel a little deeper, a little different, each time remembering how you felt before and how much you feel now.
There are so many stages to our relationship and so many different types of love therein. The beginning, heightened and coloured by my circumstances and yours and the haphazard chaos of new beginnings. The feeling of freedom and new friends, new life and you as the wonderful cherry on top that i resisted so, even though id had enough forewarning that i would meet and love you so. It felt like spring and newness and resistance and natural easy love.
Then there was the time of Cornwall, which in my mind is orange and warm and feels like summer where the pavements were warm and the trees and flowers permeated the air. The seasons and my deep loss over the baby we chose not to have.
Then there was the 'mistake' and the pain that ensued, but around it, warmly coating it, reassuring it and comforting it was knowing how i had felt and how unwilling i was to lose it. I thought of Cornwall and i listened to my inside, but i refused to feel and i refused to be myself. I refused to feel my jealousy, my righteous anger, my pain. All became a little numb and everyone elses feeling seemed so much 'bigger'.
Then theres now, and now i feel all of those times and something new. I feel the dust of summer and i yearn for it. I feel spring and you and me and our newness, our easy laughter and the pain of old hurts.
Because our baby came along and i have to feel, i can't block it because i love my little one, and so the questions, the hurts and the sadness gush up and i cant and dont want to hold them back.
I want to feel my feelings and my lovely emotions that coloured around us a soundtrack of a love that i fall into like a blanket each time i feel blue. The love that paints images of beauty infront of my eyes and makes me laugh so hard i cry and honk and can't stop. The love that is so gentle and fierce and frightened and deep and endless because you're the most amazing little creature who brought me out of myself.
And then we made another creature so incredibly wonderful that i have to catch my breath and let the tears fall whilst i still believe that i am this f**king lucky and i have all this.
I have so much because what is in my heart and what i can feel and have felt.
I feel in love, in every different new stage of love, as a new layer falls away and a deeper level begins, with you.
|Posted by Tia Price on November 11, 2012 at 3:50 AM||comments (0)|
I came home, from my first day back at work, since being off to read my cards somewhat 'full time', and my partner came home just a little after me.
He came in, having sold equipment he needs in order to fulfill a deficit that had cropped up because his work had not been regular, clutching in his hand a canvas.
I had expressed great grief over not having painted in some time and missing it, but also because i had not, feeling as though i butchered the canvas and paints everytime...recently. I had been negative and mournful and entirely not my true self the last i held a paint brush and thwacked unceremonsiously at an over used board. I even cried because my skill had seemed to desert me..... questionning then if i'd had any skill anyway.
Due to my outburst, he went into town the next day and bought me a fresh canvas, with only the single command on arrival 'paint!'.
He also, knowing of my sometime gluttony and love of sweetie toothy goodness, brought me a bag of cookies, containing six doughy lumpy circular discs of unimaginable fat content. I partook and gloried and had a bath feeling so loved and so cared for.
Its incredible really, how the gift of two simple things, that show just how much he knows me and cares, left me feeling high and floaty and satisfied and which bled through to most of the next day. I laughed easier, my heart was open and i felt warm.
Two simple gifts which states 'i love you, i support you, i feed you', meant so much more because he had so little.
I love my love so much.