Leanne Margaret

Music warmed my heart from birth Born half-sized, and boxed. I heard it play, maybe a nurse And to its beat I rocked. It held me earthed until the time Someone came to claim me. Soothed to sleep by song and rhyme I rocked out where they laid me. Quickened by the radio I learnt to dance alone. Moving in staccato I felt myself at home. Music was a blanket Dancing was a hug. When I could make a racket It made my heart thud. I danced with belly dancers Then I learnt to teach. I leapt all night with ravers The goals I set were reached. Dancing was my joy The beating of my heart. My soul’s ecstatic toy My vocation and my art. But now I halt – with trepidation Aches, and grabs, and bites. Patella, in disintegration A new knee-cap in sight. The dancer flops upon the edge Of cavernous despair. In the next life , is her pledge While writer holds her by her hair. Change is how things come to be It breaks us into parts. And in my soul I’ve always known The word would be my art. My restless, pacing

I must pause a moment, from editing my memoir, to reflect on the art of memoir itself. I'm in the fourth year of active focus on my memoir. But of course, fragments of it have existed for many more years than that. I wrote, had professionally edited, and self-published, my first two books in the space of five years; yet the third book has dawdled. At times, I didn't touch it for months. I wonder why it's dragged its feet so much? When I ponder this question, I find myself looking at the self-reflection aspect of memoir. Not just that; it's the articulation of self into an organised line. For that to occur, a clear concept of self must be attained.  My sense of self was fragmented by trauma; which means that in order to finish the memoir, I needed to heal.  Coupled with that, for eight years, my home life was plagued with triggers that stole countless writing days from me. During this time I was also teaching dance, which – although it funded my writing education – was m

Could this be the first rays of motivating light warming my typing hands? Is it over yet? The loss of belief; the feeling I may never write again; avoidance, even repulsion towards the idea of sitting at my computer; closing the study door so I don't have to look at my computer. Is it over yet? I think so. My feet are resting on a new footrest, given to me by my daughter for my fiftieth birthday. The office chair is wrapping around me like the hug of an old friend. The computer, asleep for weeks, came instantly to life—as if time had stood still.  But time doesn't stand still, and as my fiftieth year of living this life begins, it feels like I should hurry up a bit. Although it's normal for Capricorns to peak late, I still don't feel as though I have time to waste. I have so many book ideas, and books take years to write! So rest doesn't always sit well with me. I know it's inevitable. My first book was all about understanding human energy and its cycles. Creat

New energy is permeating my life, bringing some surprising changes. I'm not exactly sure how long I've been in survival-mode, but I don't think I'm in it any more. Dare I say, I'm in thriving-mode? Twenty days short of my fiftieth birthday, and I'm finally living the life I've always hoped for—the writing life.  I didn't realise how much I would have to let go, which is why it's taken me so long. I tried to juggle family life, with work life, with dancing life, with tarot life, with writing life. Simply put, I tried to have it all. Isn't that what women are supposed to do? Eventually, when my nerves and knees were shot, I surrendered. I closed two websites, essentially two businesses and focussed entirely on my writing goals.  The first thing I noticed was the relief of not having to manage three business platforms. It was like having three hungry kids to feed. The second thing I noticed was the clarity of mind upon waking each morning, knowing I

Life has shifted vibration this year. Most major shifts of my life are marked by a) moving house, and b) the appearance of a new colour on the palette of my home. During my years as a dance teacher, red was the dominant colour in my life. Its energy, vitality and grounding essence infused my life with strength and physical focus.  But the alchemy of time and moving house transformed my spirit, leaving me over-stimulated by my environment. I needed to be infused with finer vibrations. So I subdued the energy of my home by stripping back the colour, eliminating things that shouted too loudly, replacing them with softer hues; accessorising with blues. There are mystical reasons why a writer can benefit from being surrounded by the blue vibration. The human communication centres or throat chakra, known as Dimension Five in my books , resonate at the same frequency as the colour of sky-blue. Our third-eye chakra, known as Dimension Six in my books, resonates with the colour indigo. So vario

So far this month, I've been wallowing in my new nest. My mind has been consumed with hanging pictures and sticky hooks, assembling flatpack chairs, and cleaning the old dirt caked on by the previous owner of my new home.  Any physical efforts have been hampered by a knee twanging case of tendonitis. I want to be charging through edits on my memoir, but it seems most of my energy is being burned up by the physical dimensions of my life: body, space, nest, nutrition, rest. Like the house of Dorothy, mine has spun through the air, flattening the wicked witch I had become at my previous home, leaving me feeling like Glinda the good witch is still alive and shining within me. It's hard to have a happy mind in an unhappy home. I've been in my new home for nine weeks, and I catch myself having a little giggle from time to time about my luck.  My psych would say it wasn't luck but good choices. To help me manifest the right home I also maintained a five-year ritual of spell-cr

Life still feels fresh and new, as I settle into my new home. Physically, it was an agonising move. I'm still feeling the effects six weeks later. I've had to moderate my energy to a lethargic pace, which isn't easy when I'm excited about a new home and wanting to get everything unboxed and nailed up.  Being high-strung is pretty normal for me, which is why I need dance in my life; but at its extreme, high-strung becomes tendonitis. When it gets bad enough, enough gentle stretching can be aggravating. So for the last week I've been sitting around with a heat pack trying to limit my steps. I went for my first walk in six days today, and my knee was dicey after fifteen minutes. So I'm back in my chair with a heat pack for the rest of the day. This might sound like a delicious Saturday afternoon, but for me it's not easy.  My model of multidimensional consciousness shows us that when basic dimensions of consciousness like the physical and emotional dimensions