What fruits mature in the dormant depths of winter?
What fruits when ripe, so deliciously plump, so wantonly juiced and sweet, offer so much edible pleasure?
Wikipedia has this dry botanical description:
Latin: ‘Diospyrus Kaki’. Diospyros is in the family Ebenaceae, The word Diospyros comes from the ancient Greek words “dios”and “pyron”. A popular etymology construed this as “divine fruit”, or as meaning “wheat of Zeus” or “God’s pear” and “Jove’s fire”.
OK, this tells me something but not what I want you, the reader, to know about my relationship to the persimmons on our land.
Known locally as…
“I wish that I could show you, when you are lonely in the darkness, the astonishing light of your own being.” ~ Hafiz
The name, Inner Ventures, describes my approach to healing, growth and my spiritual journey through life. It also reflects what drives and inspires my creative work as a craftsman, artist and writer. Some of my writing is featured under articles and poetry, along with words that inspire me from other writers and poets .
When we undertake to explore the world of our psyche or the nature of reality, we venture into an inner world of the…
A poem about boarding school by Ardhan Swatridge — October 2019
We learned so much:
How not to trust,
how not to feel
and if we did,
to hide our fear
our inner truth,
at any cost.
The rules served to
closing our hearts.
We all obeyed
except the few
who broke and went
to darker hells.
We who survived,
the lucky ones,
buried deep our pain,
which sits for years,
a weight in waiting
for that later crisis
or the drip drip drip
that wears away the stone.
We needed armour then,
to try to…
I adjust to the slow swinging pace of the camels and take in their mix of gentle grace, their unique body shapes and their massive animal presence. I stare at the beauty of the shadows we cast on the sand; the unmistakable camel silhouettes, linked in a caravan of four by their looping rope halters. I hear the intermittent rumbling of a stomach, the grinding of teeth. I notice their sexy eyelashes and delicate lips. My pubic bone grinds on the cloth saddle of my camel, as he lurches me back and forth.
Dust and sand mist the air. We…
It has taken me fifty years to reach a point in my life where I feel ready to talk openly about some of my boarding school experiences. Since my late thirties I have tried to address the most painful aspects of those years, seeking therapeutic approaches whenever my life’s challenges seemed to point to my early wounds as their source. But out of denial and a habitual stiff-upper-lip, I have kept my story close to my chest.
I have only recently opened to it enough to accept the levels of trauma and shame that I have been carrying from my…