Are You The Sun Or The Moon In Your Relationship? INFJ Style

Are You The Sun Or The Moon In Your Relationship? INFJ Style

All working relationships require one party who takes up the position of sun, the other of moon. These two functions serve as the ebb and flow within a long-term shared relationship dynamic.

The yin: the anchor and prime source of stability to the relationship during the calm swells, thunderous storms and all moments in between. To an overlooker peering up to the sky, the moon offers the only direction and reference amongst the vastness of black unknowing. The moon is the introspection and calm, the reflection and procedure. The dark.

The yang: the harborer of action and familiarity, spreading the light and warmth to the world. The sun provides the light, allowing for one to see. The winds that flutter cherry blossoms and assists birds in gliding high is also a product of the sun. Offering the world with energy to grow into a stronger, more dependable and supportive version of itself. The light.

Relationships can be thought of as intercontinental ocean voyages. Regardless of the particular boat, the size of your sails or whether you are Christopher Columbus or not, without the sun there is no wind. A force that can redirect itself or cease to blow at any moment. The moon within the relationship uses their knowledge of sailing to put the sun’s wind to best use.

Relationships in time, build up high like skyscrapers in the Manhattan skyline. Simply put, without the moon, these buildings would succumb due to poor foundations. Essential design elements would not be accounted for, the structure would not be lightening resistant nor earthquake proof without the moon’s canny. The sun within the relationship can build the skyscraper of their dreams, bringing vision to reality, with the methodology supplied by the moon.

Simply put, people who emanate the sun’s energy produce or source the cards of life from themselves, for themselves and those they love. While those who ground themselves in the moon’s energy, patiently glue new components from the outside world into their lives

Each can stockpile or hoard their ever expanding stash of cards or glue separately. But only after forming union, can they creatively construct and upgrade a house of cards together, that when super-glued will not fall down like the rest.

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100 word flash fiction. INFJ Style

100 word flash fiction. INFJ Style

My thighs and backside ached. Sitting in that chair helped with the lower back though. I had sat monitoring the cities pulse for hours. Sip of tea now, sip of tea then. My cocoon.

She walked in. She was tired but didn’t show it. Our four pupils met, communicating in ways that defied spoken tongue. Her cocoon and cup alongside mine.

Her hand in my hair and smell in my nose. The thigh and backside tingles were replaced by ones received from my head. She turned with a simper. Her eyes whispering ‘steep another teapot for us and come fuck me, please?’

A poem addressed to myself

A poem addressed to myself

Time passes, moments that could have been spent with you are lost.

Building sandcastles on the beach, so high.

Laughing as sand blows into our lunchtime sandwiches, so gritty.

 

Dynamic dreams, opening the door onto a world that is closed.

Waiting for the signposts, so intuitive.

Reality dissolving inside a cup of watery subjectivity, so inviting.

 

Utterly isolated, waiting for what is meant to come to come.

Aching for newness, companionship, love, so eager.

Satisfied and comfortable without however, all too independent.

Living in other peoples insecurities: INFJ Style

Living in other peoples insecurities: INFJ Style

The boundary where someone finishes and the INFJ begins is often all too misconstrued, blurred. In the mind of the INFJ that is. From an INFJs perspective that is.

Ever wonder why INFJs are some of the best listeners? We absorb the stances that those we share our lives with take, both defensively and offensively. We hold these stances temporarily, putting our feet in the warm, hopefully not sweaty, shoes of those around us. I gravitate toward people that wear Converse for that reason. Walking around in soemone else’s functional, trendy and comfortable Chuck Taylors for quite some time isn’t too much to ask for, is it?

A problem, a conundrum of epic proportions starts here.

I wear Chuck Taylors. See they are often not only the choice of shoe that those closest to me sport but also the shoe I wear habitually. And I am guilty far too often, of wondering just who’s shoes are on my feet. ‘Are these mine or yours?’, my right brain asks my left.

In friendships, in family and in most occurrences with intimate relationships, the boundary between myself and those that matter has dissolved. The drawbridge is down, the crocodiles in their moat have been fed and the knights in the castle are on lunch break, swords in a pile, leaning against the wall on the far side of the mess hall. Whatever walks across that drawbridge becomes my problem, and not only a problem, a big problem.

I still have a ways to go. I still have a ways to go to understanding people, people’s natures, my own vulnerability.

My castle is strong, my fortress is sturdy. After all this time, I will say it feels cold, it feels hard, devoid of any softness. The battles that I have invited in have torn the place to ribbons overtime. The knights I have lost within my own hallways have dripped off the walls, ponding in places only dust should gather.

Its about time this INFJ cleans up. Buries the bodies, scrubs the floors, mans the towers with lookouts and readies the swords in sheath. Always, this castles drawbridge will remain down, for those who have the depth of personality and bravery to walk inches away from snapping crocodilian jaws. Those who value me. Those who are willing to put their value on the line to understand me and the sacrifice of mine.

A queen will come by one cold afternoon requiring respite, walking within, encapsulated. She will envision my hallways filled with her art, kitchen filled with her favorite ingredients, wardrobe filled with her clothing. She will sit down to share a cup of tea, transfixed with the view, transfixed with the land it overlooks. We will share.

Sharing starts with a cup of tea.

 

 

A sun soaked Saturday morning

A sun soaked Saturday morning

On bed, eyes shut.

Warmth delivering tingles to my face and arms.

Clear white light shining through closed eyelids.

 

Open the window.

The birds outside sing for me, communicating.

Their chirps and tweets offer a complimentary twist to the already soothing melody heard from the lounge.

Ada from The National, ‘What a song, what a sound!’

 

I think of you.

I think of you next to me.

You are at work.

The significance of a haircut

The significance of a haircut

As a natural neon colored advertising sign, one of those flashing in a sea of neon lights, up in the reaches overlooking metropolitan Japanese and South Korean streets, your hair advertises, compels, encourages or repels. My hair has always served my life with opportunity and complexity you see, a lavish bush I would call it. The type of hairstyle that would have come accompanied with a strategically placed comb, lost in endless curls, and puffed up in humid 1970’s sun.

As a young child between the ages of ten and sixteen, this fro offered me the opportunity to steal and from my parents of all people. On a fortnightly basis my mum would hear the same sentence again and again leaving my lips, ‘can i get twenty dollars, I need a trim’. Lest she didn’t hear the scissors snipping in her own bathroom while I was cut my own locks, pocketing and spending the ‘dirty cash’ on essentials all sixteen year old’s need: chocolate milk, petrol, condoms and alcohol. Around this stage of my life, the relationship between my hair and the person who lay behind the hair begun.

Simply, hair allows you to express yourself without others consent. It gives others the opportunity to judge, it encourages judgement. With long hair, I received countless compliments. Some ladies I found out quickly are drawn to curls like a bird to its nest. Young students of mine climbed up my limbs as if they were a trees branches, to simply touch this nest, if only once. To identify yourself and allow others to identify you with wacky skull fur, however requires courage and self-expression. Plenty of people will chuckle, smirk or whisper insults. These folk are the individuals that make us stronger, I thank them for their closed mindedness, I thank them for handing over an abundance of feathers to put into my courage and self-expression hat.

Now as a twenty seven year old, this relationship between myself and my hair has matured, it has matured with me, it has matured me. I recently got a haircut. Cut the sides short, while still holding onto those curls on the top that I could never let go of. I am older, I am getting older I now know. This haircut has shown me that much. My hair is getting grey, wow, grey. I am accepting my age, my life, my slow loss of youth, through this recently evolved feature I have acquired.

I like it, truly, I enjoy and feel fortunate to have greying hair. I keep smiling. To simply identify myself with this masculine, maturing symbol of awesomeness. To give others the opportunity to identify me with this masculine, maturing symbol of awesomeness. I keep smiling.

Juggling a fast paced life

Juggling a fast paced life

My dad has always told me ‘leave work at work, never bring all of that back home with you’. It is one of those things he still cannot accomplish himself.

In this age of fast paced benchmark driven labour world, the literal pinch to maintain a healthy relationship with yourself is becoming harder, more painful and never ceasing. We are holding onto everything so tightly in our lives, allowing ourselves, our relationship with our own mind and bodies to slip out of our own palms, slowly to pour out from the top.

Society makes people. People are made to juggle shit. People juggle shit. When the focus says ‘bye-bye’ and the concentration required to juggle is lost, we end up shit everywhere. The term is ‘the shit has hit the fan’. In one of these moments, it is precisely used to mean ‘the shit you have thrown up, you have dropped, squished or simply forgot about, it has landed everywhere, all over you, look at the shit in your hair.’

We are not jugglers, regardless even jugglers themselves know when to take a break, a technical time out. Some things we juggle are heavy, some may be light, but one thing is certain there are too many objects thrown up at different heights, we can’t predict which one we are to prepare ourselves for next.

The art of living a healthy lifestyle, well the understanding I am learning to slowly employ in my own is just that, an art. Letting go: to put down the shit we either no longer have to juggle, no longer have the energy to juggle at the time, or simply should not juggle. Work often falls into that second category, manipulative relationships the third category. Put all the heavy chainsaws and bowling balls down, those lighter watermelons, cellphones, pencils and mint flavored M&M’s, put them down too.

We have to make time for ourselves, we have to consciously let these go. Don’t break them, just sit them down, to be picked up again conveniently, but only when we have to.

We have to find the breathing room within ourselves, the strength to juggle our personal things effectively, first and foremost.

How can we expect to bring happiness and newness into our lives without creating space for them first? Ditch the clutter.