Defiant Wisdom

Category: Chronicle

A timeline of truth. Every entry, in date order—dreams, memories, moments, and meaning. Track the unfolding, the patterns, the pivots. This is the whole thread, stitched one day at a time.

  • Misogyny at the Water Park

    Misogyny at the Water Park

    The Dream

    The water park—
    a woman sliding with joy,
    wild and fearless.
    A guy started,
    “Excuse me, you need to—”
    Before he finished, she shot back:
    “Your words have misogynist intent.”
    Then she yeeted herself
    down the slide,
    super fast.
    I followed.

    As we rose from the water,
    I asked,
    “If I said or felt the same as him,
    would you say my misogyny is
    internalised?”
    “Yes…” she replied.

    —

    I was waiting in a queue;
    a woman cut in front.
    She had the audacity to whine
    my umbrella had sprayed her.
    When we arrived at the desk,
    I said,
    loudly:
    “Actually, I’m next —
    this woman jumped in front
    and now has the cheek to complain.”
    The attendant said nothing.
    Both she and I —
    we were told to wait.

    The attendant said,
    “Get your shoes and socks on —
    we’re going to abseil.”

    We were ecstatic.

    —

    I met with a friend.
    They were telling me
    about their new partner,
    but still obsessed with their ex.
    “Let me know
    when you want to face
    the hard truth.”

    She was silent.
    No one ever wants hard truth,
    I thought.
    But I do.
    It’s where the honey is,
    right at the centre
    of the bee hive.

    The Meaning

    woman
    Policed for being free and having fun,
    this woman lives her life out loud and refuses to conform to cultural expectations.
    I’m not leading — I’m following —
    while also questioning my own internalised boundaries.

    attacking from the victim position
    Here we have the abuser playing the victim —
    and me calling it out.
    And what do we both get?
    Silence. Stagnation. The waiting room of consequence.
    Polite society doesn’t want truth—it wants compliance.
    Even when you’re right, you’re a problem

    descent
    Now we’re invited into a structured descent,
    a contrast to the earlier one of chaotic abandon.
    The fact that both the perpetrator and I — the victim —
    have been invited suggests this:
    the woman is a part of me.
    A part that has played (or can play)
    into the DARVO dynamic:
    Deny, Attack, Reverse Victim and Offender.
    I see all of these women as aspects of myself.

    the truth
    I’m waiting for my friend to open space for growth, she blinks, she doesn’t want to hear it but I know this is where healing and growth resides.

    What Lingers…

    What if joy didn’t need internal policing to be permitted?

    What if truth-telling wasn’t punished, but welcomed as a catalyst for change?

    Marginalia

    I’m on holiday and I’ve just written Baked In. This is my subconscious exploring the themes I confronted in there only a few days prior.

  • What I Carry Isn’t All Mine

    What I Carry Isn’t All Mine

    I’m listening.
    Anxious, attentive—
    others’ inner lives
    burrow into
    my marrow.

    Am I cursed with
    eyes for the unspoken
    and a vulture’s
    sense for moods,
    yet I fail once again
    to be understood?

    The rage I carry
    isn’t all mine after all,
    but the burden
    of those left behind—
    unexpressed
    and remorseful.

    I’ll bloodlet from
    the wounds
    your soul wants to hide.
    I’ll set free the poison
    you bury underneath.

    I prefer truth
    over comfort.
    It hurts—
    I know.
    But it’s what I do.

    In dreams,
    I return—
    to spirit,
    to bones.

    I come home.
    I remember.

    I chose this time:
    to set down the things
    that don’t belong to me—
    to us.

    Things that don’t want to,
    and shouldn’t,
    carry on.

    Marginalia

    I wrote this after I’d uploaded my natal chart into AI and had started digging into what the chart had to say about me. This piece of writing makes me cringe more than anything I’ve written to date. I think it’s because of how sometimes I can ask such pointed questions, often without thinking about how I’ll impact the other person. Bloodletting someone’s inner world without permission isn’t something to be proud of. Also, it’s a bit melodramatic, which isn’t unlike me (The picture tracks!). I’ve considered taking the poem down but I feel it’s probably my turn to feel exposed for a change!

  • Appearance Isn’t Identity

    Appearance Isn’t Identity

    The Dream

    A clan of mystics
    and various spiritual misfits.
    They said I should choose
    my witch name.
    I told her,
    “I’m not a witch,
    and I push back on that term.
    It’s nothing but misogyny.”

    Thinking of my name—
    what name
    would best express
    me becoming
    who I am?

    Their names
    sounded like Pokémon characters,
    their attire,
    like fantasy avatars.

    But I’m just me,
    I thought.

    —

    On the phone,
    someone offered to pay
    for me to stay at home and study.
    I never responded,
    my partner was standing next to me.
    When I started to speak,
    the person hung up.

    —

    My mother sat down.
    Frail.
    I looked down upon her.
    She should have been tall
    and strong—
    but her mother-line
    had starved her
    of who she was meant
    to become.

    Then it dawned on me:
    maybe the woman
    she thought was her mother
    wasn’t her mother
    after all?

    The Meaning

    the group
    I want to belong but to something real not projected.
    I’m me, that’s enough.

    phone call
    Scared of fully embracing an opportunity.
    I’m afraid to offend or alienate my partner.
    A lost chance if not seized when offered.

    mother
    The maternal line stripped of power and truth.
    What if the whole foundation was fiction?

    What Lingers…

    What if belonging didn’t need a costume or the right label to count?

    What if naming only heals when it honours what was erased, not what was performed?

    Marginalia

    This dream can be taken literally, but for me it feels inseparable from my ancestry and my mother’s ability to pass as white — how that meant acceptance in ways that wouldn’t have been possible otherwise. I’m not about to negate for one hot minute how that speaks, not just to colour but to gender also. I wish it wasn’t so.

    In my dream, I ask: Aren’t I enough?
    Can’t I just be enough as I am—
    without the aesthetic trappings,
    without the cost of approval?

    I talk more about my maternal ancestry in It Began with a Name.

  • My Breast and the Boy

    My Breast and the Boy

    The Dream

    My right breast—
    full and spraying milk.
    But the left—
    barren.
    I was trying
    desperately
    to get it to flow.

    —

    On the bus—
    a boy,
    about twenty,
    with severe learning
    difficulties.
    He was chewing
    a plastic penis toy.

    I was horrified.

    His parents said
    he had loads.
    He loved them.

    My partner spoke about the boy
    and touched his face.
    I chided him:
    “He’s a human being.
    You wouldn’t treat anyone else like that.
    Talk to him—
    not about him.”

    The Meaning

    breasts
    Apparently, the right side of the body is the side that gives, nurtures, expresses, and releases.
    I’m giving in abundance, maybe too much, without boundaries.
    The left breast, the side of receiving, is dry — not producing.
    There’s an imbalance: too much outflow, not enough return. I’m desperate to balance it out.

    disabled boy
    This is about what families normalise. How love and denial can become entangled. I’m disturbed—not by him, but by how easily his pain is dismissed as “preference.”
    He’s not a curiosity.
    He’s a person.

    partner
    I chastise him.
    Even in the dream, I’m holding a boundary.
    This is a human being — he deserves dignity, not pity or performative empathy.
    Talk to him, not about him.

    What Lingers…

    What if over-giving is just grief in disguise, trying to fill what won’t flow back?

    What if calling something love is just denial, when it refuses to witness what’s too difficult to hold?

    Marginalia

    In waking life, I’m on holiday, enjoying my family and our time together. I’m also in the middle of pursuing an NHS assessment for neurodiversity. This dream spits back everything I’ve been wrestling with—rendered absurd, to shock and confront. It revisits the feelings explored in Pedalling While They Take the Bus, Walking Away with the Door Still Open, and Sunsets and Nervous Men. In those dreams, I moved through an arc that ended with protecting my peace by walking away from holding space. Here, the fear returns—but as with the herb school arc which completed with Flawed but Trying, it doesn’t get easier. The work is entering a harder terrain.

  • Flawed but Trying

    Flawed but Trying

    The Dream

    Herb school
    I was with my son.
    He was upset —
    someone had excluded him.

    I found the woman
    nestled with her daughter.
    I struck her,
    and threatened her:
    “If she does that again,
    she’ll never forget it.”

    “How do you think he feels?
    How would you feel
    if I did that to yours?
    The world’s shit enough
    without this too.”

    She apologised,
    thanked me.

    I shouted to her
    in the distance:
    “How I do things
    isn’t always great —
    but I’m trying
    to do
    the right thing.”

    The Meaning

    hitting the woman
    My instinct to protect is clean.
    But my execution? Messy.
    I acted from truth, but with force. And I know it.

    I don’t defend
    I confess
    I make a commitment

    I showed up flawed, and still chose protection over politeness.

    What Lingers…

    What if doing the right thing doesn’t always look good?

    What if protection costs clarity—but still matters more than politeness?

    Marginalia

    This is the last in a series of dreams set in my new learning environment, which I begin in a few weeks. What’s surprising is that this dream is the most raw and confronting in the series.

    In Incense Blocks & Period Costumes, I weigh old ways against new.
    In Fireweed and Bunny Munro, I’m lost but eager to learn.
    In Competence vs. Compassion, profiled by my tutors, I revisit old wounds.
    In I Was Late, Afterall, I abandon my own needs for accountability.

    Here, I’m left to acknowledge my shadow as I lash out in defence of my son. My dream shows me: I am a flawed human.
    I will always be.
    Just like everyone else.

    The belief that we stand above animal instinct is revealed as a fragile illusion.

  • I Was Late, After All

    I Was Late, After All

    The Dream

    Late for herb school.
    Distracted —
    flirting with someone.

    When I arrive,
    they’re in the middle of a demonstration.

    I think,
    I’ll never remember this.
    I’m a kinaesthetic learner.

    I consider asking
    if I can do the practical demo,
    but think better of it…
    I was late, after all.

    The Meaning

    consequences
    I make myself small in the name of accountability—
    but it’s not growth. It’s self-abandonment.
    No one else said I couldn’t participate.
    I decided that on their behalf.

    What Lingers…

    What if accountability becomes self-abandonment when need is mistaken for indulgence?

    What if exclusion is sometimes internalised?

    Marginalia

    I’m waiting to begin a new herbal medicine course. This dream circles the theme of lateness—a fear that’s followed me as I step into a new path, midlife. It’s the fourth in a series of dreams set in this new landscape.

    In Incense Blocks & Period Costumes, I weigh old ways against new.
    In Fireweed and Bunny Munro, I’m lost but eager to learn.
    In Competence vs. Compassion, profiled by my tutors, I revisit old wounds.
    In Flawed but Trying, I’m exposed in my messiness as a human while defending my son.

    The series shows me what I’m processing beneath the surface—not as a tidy narrative arc, but as dreams do: replaying and reshaping old struggles until they edge further out of shadows.

  • The Attic, the Shite, and the Kettle

    The Attic, the Shite, and the Kettle

    The Dream

    Trying to get into the attic—
    but the room was upside down.
    I had to squeeze in under the sagging ceiling,
    but it scraped my back,
    and I was naked.

    When I came downstairs,
    the party had started.
    The house was a mess.
    The floor was covered in shite.

    I shouted at everyone:
    “Get out!”

    —

    I wanted to boil the kettle,
    but something was wrong.
    I traced the cord back
    to the plug in the wall—
    it was behind the cabinet.

    I dragged the cabinet away from the wall,
    furious.

    —

    I noticed people had bought me presents—
    lots of plants,
    and terracotta pots.

    I could feel the rough unglazed clay
    through the wrapping paper.

    The Meaning

    attic
    A higher space containing insight and memory.
    Accessing that part of me is disorienting and painful.
    I’m trying to rise, but the structure won’t let me.

    party
    Everything’s already in motion.
    I didn’t set the tone, but I’m left to clean it.
    No more tolerating the shit other people drag in.

    kettle
    I want to restore comfort, warmth, nourishment.
    The power is blocked—hidden behind heavy furniture.
    It’s labour to get to the source. And I’m furious.

    gifts
    Amidst the wreck there are signs of care.
    Practical, earthy, rooted things.
    The clay is rough—unglazed.
    This is growth that comes with grit.

    What Lingers…

    What if access to insight requires discomfort?

    What if grounded growth comes wrapped in grit, not ease?

    Marginalia

    This dream belongs to a theme of unearthing secrets and facing what’s uncomfortable, echoing The Body in the Greenhouse and The House That Contains Everything. But here, there’s a pivot: before, I stood alone in the work. Now, there are signs—and with them, an acceptance of nurture from others. In waking life, I’m on holiday, enjoying life with my family.

  • Ansuz, Laguz and Rahu

    Ansuz, Laguz and Rahu

    The Dream

    Camping.
    A muddy field,
    I lay out two picnic blankets.

    I watch—
    an immaculately dressed woman
    lays her blanket
    on the ground.

    I wonder:
    Will she get muddy?

    I turn around.
    My partner has rolled
    onto one of the blankets,
    stood up,
    ran backwards,
    and then forwards
    onto the other—
    he leaves a trail
    of footprints.

    I wake myself up,
    shouting at him.

    —

    A girl sets up a stall.
    We’re at a public event.
    She’s young.
    I admire her bravery.

    I finger through her trinkets—
    children’s toys…
    I used to sell those
    in a past life.

    —

    On a bus,
    I help a boy—
    he’d been injured.

    I’m also a child now.

    I recount how I’d fancied him
    for years—
    he’s never noticed me.

    My friend wants to speak
    with him and his friend,
    but I have no interest
    in chasing his affections now.

    —

    When I finally wake,
    I have two symbols in my mind.

    I scribble them down
    and put the photo into OpenAI
    for it to find them:

    Ansuz and Rahu—
    or in Western tradition,
    The North Node.

    But Ansuz has a third prong,
    which AI suggests is perhaps a bindrune.
    On its own, the other rune is Laguz.

    The Meaning

    muddy blankets
    I’m trying to create space in a mess.
    I wake, shouting.
    This is about space being violated.
    I’m protecting boundaries
    while others clumsily crash on.

    woman
    I wonder if she’ll get muddy—
    but really, I’m looking to her to find out:
    How does she stay clean?
    This is the part of me that wants
    to move through mess
    without absorbing it.

    girl
    I see my past self in her,
    but from a place of gentle recognition,
    not regret.
    She’s starting something
    I once survived.

    boy
    I’m helping someone who never saw me,
    who I used to long for.
    Now?
    I’m not chasing.
    I’ve grown past the need to be chosen.

    The Symbols

    Ansuz: inspiration, transmission, divine voice.
    Laguz: water, emotions, intuition, depth, flow.
    Rahu/North Node: soul’s destiny, karmic direction.

    Together? A holy triad.
    I’m being told—clearly, cosmically:
    Listen.

    This is not random.
    Your path, your emotions, your dreams—
    they are one system.

    Stop second-guessing.
    The messages are coming through.
    And they’re meant for you.

    What Lingers…

    What if messages aren’t metaphor,
    but a map—pointing to what’s already known deep down?

    What if growth isn’t about staying clean,
    but learning how to move through mud with meaning?

    Marginalia

    In waking life, I was trying to understand how my ancestral, dream, and herbal work connected. I didn’t have a clear map or plan—just a hunch, and then this dream, among others like The Room Behind the Wallpaper, and The House That Contains Everything, kept nudging me forward. However unusual it seemed, I went with it, trusting it would all make sense in time.

  • Baked In

    Baked In

    Toned, tanned, and virile.
    I shouldn’t be curious—
    but I am.

    His beau,
    a beauty,
    at least ten years
    his senior—
    this I know.

    Their proximity,
    aflame.
    A new relationship,
    I’m sure.

    Her teen daughter,
    an apparition—
    disinterested,
    yet she endures.

    I’m supposed
    to lament her—
    this, my culture demands.

    But instead
    I salute her defiance,
    while my baked-in hypocrisy
    scalds.

    Will I ever
    scrape my pan clean?
    My eyes sting
    with its fetid stench.

    Meanwhile, I wonder—
    is he well-behaved?
    Does he allow forgiveness
    for millennia
    of harm?

    Subconsciously,
    she mirrors
    my position
    in her chair.

    The cords of sisterhood—
    engineered to be,
    and to remain,
    threadbare.

    My guilty interest wraps
    around their air like fog.

    Why shouldn’t she enjoy
    the last of her bodily wealth,
    as the sunset of
    my own populative use
    draws to its final ebb?

    To her, a toast—
    and to all those women
    who courageously scalpel
    themselves into being,

    a life
    the present hasn’t yet woven
    and the past
    viciously disallowed.

  • Amphitrite Rides the Hippocamp

    Amphitrite Rides the Hippocamp

    Amphitrite rides the hippocamp.
    Her face—
    emotionless.
    Her spirit—
    silent and still.

    She is well-versed in battle.
    Her sea-beaten face shows
    she has slept with happiness,
    as she has worn sorrow.

    Her hippocamp moves
    between her thighs
    with purpose.
    His intent is smooth
    beneath the water.

    He carries his maiden
    with loyal
    and tender care.

    She grasps, gingerly,
    to his back.
    It’s been a while.

    Is it uncertainty,
    or is it inexperience?
    I cannot tell—

    as the two
    octogenarians
    glide softly across
    the hotel pool.