Jambo Mantown,

(thought I’d start with an official Kenyan greeting to set the tone)

Just another blond girl here reporting on the ups and downs of living in paradise…

This morning I must tell you a story. It’s a very special story.

Some of you know when I say the word ‘Africa’ what I am really talking about.

For the rest of you who do not have such an intimate relationship with this piece of my heart, I am overjoyed to share it with you.

I was only eighteen when the first vision came. I don’t think I had any idea it was a vision at the time. I didn’t even know what a vision was. It was a short piece of writing that streamed onto the pages of my brightly coloured fabric journal. It was the first proper ‘adult’ style journal I had owned – appropriate as I recall feeling like an adult at that point. The truth is I was terribly troubled by the confusion of adolescence, stuck in a body that appeared to own wisdom years before an actual guidance system could be developed.

I wrote words on these pages that were more significant than anything I had ever written before. I didn’t need to search for them, they just appeared from my right hand, one after the next, perfectly in order.

This journal is stored away, somewhere in a cardboard box in a dark storage unit in Canada. It is most likely ragged and dusty and seems forgotten and yet it isn’t, nor will it ever be.

In retrospect, I guess I have been writing words for a very long time…

The story was about a woman. I knew that the woman had pieces of me within her and yet I wasn’t sure that she was me as the words flowed out?

I will try my best to recall the words from the perspective of a blond girl eighteen years later.

We are in Africa.

There is a house. It is on top of a hill. There are vast plains of grass for miles on either side. The grass is dry from relentless hours of the sun’s warmth.

Animals graze in these fields. Zebras are close enough to be affected by our laughter from the deck.

The house is grand yet old. It has shared many stories, some of them joyful and some of them terrifying. Its’ history allows it to stand there with grace and wisdom. She is the most beautiful house I have ever seen.

There are gardens and crooked trees within the grounds of the home. The trees are covered with tiny lights. There are streams of white cotton gauze hung between the trees, connecting everything.

There are extra chairs on the wooden deck. There are extra seats and cushions everywhere.

Children run in between our legs with streamers trailing behind. The family spent days making these gifts for the little ones’ amusement – it certainly worked.

There are cold drinks passed around on wooden trays, from the smiling faces of people helping, not because they have to but because they can’t help but want to share. I pass out the drinks as well. A secret mixture of Gin and mint leaves and some gloriously bubbly and slightly sweet concoction. The glasses sweat and drip the minute they are in our hands. The airs’ humidity embraces us tonight. The ice cubes are delicious. Everyone is crunching them between their laughter and smiles.

There is music. Live music. Their voices enchant us. I’ve always wished I had that depth of volume and soul within my lungs and yet this gift has not been given to me and so I listen generously to every hum.

I sway my hips. We all sway our hips. None of us hesitate to move when music is offered. Why would anyone? Everyone is in white. Linen shirts and lace dresses. White, toothed flowers peak behind the ears of the ladies. We offered them upon the welcoming.

We dance. We laugh. We sing. We sway. We eat. We drink. At moments, as the sun begins her final crescendo over the cliffs to the west, I notice our eyes peering in unison towards the animals finishing their day in the fields. The wonder of this country never escapes us. The people born here appreciate her magnificence everyday just as do I.

I pause my conversation and he catches my eye. There it is. That piercing feeling of joy again. He excuses himself from his friends and makes his way through the crowd towards me. His eyes are bright and clear and his hair is speckled with grey. His shirt is untucked and opened by a few too many buttons to relief the excess heat from his beautifully tanned skin.

He is mine.

I feel comfortable and wise today. Nothing apart from the years behind me could have generated this stability within my skin. I am home now. Home in my country and home in his arms.

He kisses my cheek and places his arm around my shoulder. We dance. I nuzzle my chin into the warm spot between his neck and ear. It was designed for me. I inhale the smell of his salty just washed skin. His smell – no one else could affect me like him.

Our challenges and our pursuits have begun to calm now. The hard work is over and we both know that. We can finally rest – Here in our fields, in the sun, surrounded by the most loving community of friends, no not friends – FAMILY and of course – the earth. The earth and the animals are not separate from our story either. We have all created it together, here in Africa on the coast, on the cliffs, as the sun sets.

We could both leave today, knowing that we have fulfilled our every desires and yet we are both pretty sure we don’t have to leave quite yet.

There. That’s as best as I can recall the story I wrote eighteen years ago. Where it came from, I’m not sure, but I saw and felt every piercingly breathtaking moment before I knew I had to write it down. I recall having to call for my parents and sister that evening. I knew I had to read it to them. They listened and smiled and we all sat, them on the carpet of my bedroom floor and me under my covers, still a child, enjoying the safety within my family home.

I knew that Africa was a part of me long before that day. I knew about Mount Kilimanjaro before I was given a photographic book about it at age nine. I knew what it was like to see an elephant standing a few metres from my feet. I always knew and I always will and when I actually got to visit my home for the first time in this body four years ago, nothing was unlike that which I already knew.

The second visit only confirmed my memories. Where they come from, I’m still not sure, but they are memories.

She is calling me back again now. I think I have to go. Maybe not to stay. Maybe just not yet?

I will never forget that vision or dream or possibly the recollection of something from a time that has yet to come. Regardless, Africa – I know you. You own a massive part of my heart and it doesn’t matter where in the world I am, because a little part of me is always with you anyways.

Goodnight house on the hill with the zebras and the white gauze blowing in the wind. Your memory leaves me filled with hope and happiness.

xx

 

 

 

It’s a cozy morning isn’t it Mantown?

Just another blond girl here, reporting on the ups and downs of living in paradise…

Leaving a legacy?

Lately, I’ve been addicted to Pinterest – you know another one of those silly apps on my phone, diligently blinding me from the actual world, providing me with generous hours of sensory satisfaction like a silver spoon beside an un-touched jar of Nutella.

As a lover of beautiful things, this particular app has thankfully won my attention over its’ other big brothers whom often trigger desire and frustration (you know exactly what I’m talking about).

Pinterest is Nutella for my eyes. I figure that if I am going to continue to avoid the world by spending too many waking moments with this little rectangle of energy in my palms it might as well be inspiring?

In scanning through the multitude of colourful images, photography and quotes this one brought me to a halt:

“Please think about your legacy, because you are writing it everyday.”

My Legacy? I thought.

My God, I have forgotten to think of my life like this!

I mean – I’m sure I have at some point. With the hours of transformational personal development coaching and training I’ve humoured, I am actually one hundred percent sure I have thought of this before. I’m also one hundred percent sure I haven’t thought of it in these terms lately.

What is my legacy?

What do I want to leave behind?

I continued to scroll down past images of painted trees, beautiful beach houses, glittery stones, zebra stripes and sunsets over the ocean and then another small square popped up embracing a few unsettling words…

“The things you are passionate about are not random, they are your calling.”

I like that my phone is clever today – it’s picking up on my vulnerability and calling it to the surface.

It’s not a surprise that my mind has been driven to analyse this particular phrase. The past few months have asked me to interrogate my purpose because I am eerily aware when the sidewalk isn’t flowing beneath my feet.

Any period in my life when I am not walking towards ‘that’ which I know in my heart I must pursue, especially if it scares the crap out of me, I get sick. I’m not joking – physically I shut down.

And so while I sit here in bed coughing and sniffling, I am drawn to ask myself, yet again, “Am I living my purpose or am I caught in a bubble of sand, savasanas and soy lattes?”

This splendid question isn’t new. We can see it in each other’s eyes as we walk down the street. There is often distress beneath our clothes and smiles caused by constantly reviewing the same human dilemma…

“Am I in the right relationship? Does she love me? Does he like me? Does my job challenge my potential? Am I afraid of taking a risk and losing everything? What am I supposed to do? Did I say too much? Did I not say enough? Am I being unrealistic? I am being ungrateful? Have I forgotten what I am passionate about? Do I have enough money to follow my dreams? Am I lazy? Do I need to move to a different city? Do I need to move to a different house? I don’t know if I can trust myself? I can’t tell the difference between my intuition and my mind? Am I too late?”

They can go on and on…Excuses in the form of questions – Fantastic aren’t they?

I don’t believe they are bad or wrong or require dismissal. I think they are valid and useful and necessary. They are that which drives us forward forcing us to look at the disappointment and pain and the lack of flow when we feel it – otherwise we are truly stuck, aren’t we?

My Yoga teacher repeatedly said, “Wherever you go, there you are…”

(So true Baron!)

I don’t think we need to escape ourselves. I want to provide more time, space and softness to sit down and listen to myself.

The little blond girl who is tapping at my shoulder asking these questions shouldn’t be ignored or forgotten or told that she is just afraid. She is actually the wise one. If I give wisdom, it will save your soul. If I listen to my wisdom I can save my soul. The gift of wisdom is the best gift.

Us humans need to feel important. We want to know our place here on earth and we are all very aware of how easily opportunities can slip away. So blond girl, what are your greatest gifts and how do you want to share them now?

I’m not one hundred percent sure?

Maybe that’s ok. Maybe not knowing for a long while is ok?

I think I’ll  just sit with my sniffles and close my eyes and start to daydream about that which makes my heart skip a beat. I won’t let the excuses interrupt this time.

My very wise friend passed along a question to ask myself when stuck in this human dilemma, “When you are at home, without anywhere to be, without anything to do, what do you Google?”

Amazing! (So current)

What if I allowed myself to follow just the things that make me smile when I think about them – Nothing more, nothing less.

I’m going to give it a go:

Time.

A pen and paper.

Daydreams.

Pinterest.

Listening and feeling. (After all one can’t go without the other can it?)

I continue to scroll down past the image of a young monk in a hallway, pink flamingos, a typography template for the letter ‘Z’, a woman in a ball gown underwater, a turquoise tiled bathroom, a vintage poster from Africa, a record player, a pink wooden door against a white wall, the perfect wave, the tattoo of an owl, a black and white photograph of sneakers in the rain, a tent that looks like a watermelon, the ceiling of a Moroccan temple, a crystal chandelier, a white wolf….

These are the things I LOVE. These images are my passion. This is what I Google. This is my path. It’s right here in front of me and I already know it. I’ve just forgotten to buy a bus pass to the land where they all come together.

What I love is what I must do. I will borrow a remarkably simple question that another wise friend presented me this week. It provides guidance when our heads think they have a right to take over our hearts and cause distress:

“What would love do?”

Thank you friend. This has been the most useful guidance anyone has offered me in a long time.

…And finally another quote came up on the screen.

“Isn’t it scary to be ready to die at such a young age?”

Ultimately, answering ‘yes’ to this question is my objective. I had that moment not so long ago…The actual realization that I could leave this world today with the acknowledgement and pride that I have lived a really wonderful life. I guess there’s not so much to worry about then, is there?

The thing is though, I really still love this life and I have a lot of things that I can’t wait to do and see and share with you. I’m not done yet.

We’ll never know will we? All we can do is ask and listen…What would LOVE do?

xx

Good Morning Mantown,

Just another blond girl here, reporting on the ups and downs of living in paradise…

One evening this week I went to my sister’s for dinner.

I’m a very lucky expat blond girl as my younger sister lives a mere five-minute walk from my little home and we share our lives in paradise together with her partner and my gorgeous nephew.

This evening there was a man on the elevator as I left my sister’s apartment. I’ve met him a few times before. He smiled and asked how the baby is. He seemed genuinely interested. There was a kindness in his eyes and regret folded within the lines of his forehead.

He said, “It must be amazing to be that age. The way he must interpret the world in every moment – everything changing so quickly – so much to process!”

I nodded in agreement.

“He is adorable right now!” I said. “His personality is evolving everyday and just tonight he tried to mumble some little sounds that almost seem like words.”

“I regret it sometimes,” said the man. “I really do.”

“What?” I asked

“Not having children. You see when all of my friends were at that age and starting to settle down and have kids I was just so busy. I was gallivanting around the world for a job and prioritising the extravagance within that and so a family wasn’t even a consideration”.

I wondered if the actual circumstances suggested that he was merely a single career-orientated man without the option of a family and then he continued, “But we both regret it now sometimes…”

Aha, I thought, so he has a partner?

“Yes, we certainly think that maybe we have missed out. I do think I regret it for sure”.

And then the familiar pause and a halting thud opened the silver door releasing us from our few floors of connection.

He said, “I’m going to treat myself to an ice cream right now. Sometimes I need to do that. I avoid buying the whole tub in the grocer but then, from time to time, I just need to treat myself anyways.”

I smiled and said, “Yes, ice cream is always good isn’t it?” Both of us knowing that no amount of ice cream in the world could possibly fill a crater created by regret and the right choice not made.

He smiled again and wandered one pace ahead of me, to ease the awkward transition between the intimacy of a conversation in an elevator and the cool Autumn air outside as complete strangers.

As we neared the driveway I reached for my bicycle and started to search for the numbers on the lock. I’m not sure whether the bicycle reminded him of the time about six months ago when he found me locking this same bicycle to the front of his building? My basket was obviously loaded with Christmas presents and wine for my beloved family a few flights above.

I’m not sure if he recalled his furious attack of me daring to lock my bike to his new buildings’ gate? I’m not sure if he recalled flailing his arms repeatedly, scrunching his brow and throwing his fists in my face? I’m not sure if he recalled my response as I moved it to another location, “Merry Christmas Sir. I hope you have a wonderful holiday”. I’m not sure that he remembered?

We can never judge can we? We can never ascertain that we are sure of the goings on in another persons’ head. This man who raised his voice and threw his fists at me in disgust a mere six months ago, who shocked me with his anger and unrest, who left me refolding the altercation over and over again in sadness for days to come – This same man turned out to be a soft man, one willing to share with me a brief insight into a very intimate aspect of his life.

We never know what reality lies beneath the reactions of another human being, do we?

Tonight my memory of December 20^th unloading my bicycle, distraught by the reaction of this same man has now changed completely. I no longer feel attacked or regretful for choosing the ignorant place to secure my bike, I only feel the grief that temporarily drifted beneath this same man’s words, and now the space between us is blank again.

Maybe we will meet on another day, as I lock up my bike on a neighbouring rack, or as we exit the elevator, look up and catch the glance of each other’s eyes? Something has helped me to see beneath the surface of the man in my sister’s building and he is an honourable man and he made a choice for his life and sometimes he might be sad because of this.

I sit here today knowing that I could very well be sitting in his shoes one day. I might not, but I could be and therefore, I have no right to blame or accuse him based on a solitary response. We all have our stories. They are filled with ice cream and remorse, sometimes equal parts, sometimes with sprinkles, sometimes without even a cone.

This is life. Its’ unpredictable nature makes it the most terrifying turbulent flight we could ever survive and it is beautiful just because of this. There is always a risk and the potential for winning is eternally worth every single fall – At least that’s how I see it.

Aren’t we lucky humans?

xx

It’s another superb afternoon in Manly –

Just another blond girl here reporting on the ups and downs of living in paradise…

So now that I’ve exposed the periodic hysteria existing in the inside of a blond girls’ mind, it doesn’t seem like an easy place to live, does it?

This week I decided to shift gears. I woke up on Tuesday and said, “Enough is bloody enough!”

I believe that despite living in paradise I might struggle from the same life lessons as anyone has the potential to endure, regardless of where we are in the world . We all know this is true.

On the other hand, why I am continuing to waste so much energy, every single day over-analysing things that are out of my control?

What a massive waste of energy and time!

So I went back into my good old life-coaching tickle trunk and pulled out the ‘Gratitude Commitment’.

Each morning, when I wake up, I have to pause and reflect on five unique aspects of my life that I am thankful for.

(It’s a great exercise)

In addition to seeing the missing thankfulness, I have recognised that I have a deep-seated fear of having all the good things in my life being stripped away from me.

Now I could bore you with the details of my life, sharing the circumstances developing the limiting beliefs within my personality that generated this current out of context terror. You could peer behind the curtains of my mind and witness the incessant whispering in my ear, “Don’t get too attached to that blond girl…It will most likely be taken away.”

I could go into this story and I won’t.

The fact is, in truth, that my negative and insecure mind-speak is actually one hundred percent correct on this one.

At some point, everything will go.

Maybe, what I have considered to be a fear-based limitation has actually generated a superior ability to practice non-attachment in this life?

And here I promised I wouldn’t philosophise again, damn it! Sorry everyone…

Ultimately, the acknowledgment of having a fear of things being taken away from me has offered me the realisation that I hold onto things quite tightly.

How this shows up in my life is that I latch on to you and you and you and I latch on to things and food and my surfboards and my family and potential lovers and I can give you a five star menu of reassurance why this is one hundred percent necessary in every single situation.

This week, to compliment my Gratitude Commitment I have also decided to be of greater service to the people around me. It’s all just little things but hey, I have to start somewhere if I expect anything to change…

So I have been waking up and looking around my bedroom and saying thank you to the things that I feel very fortunate to have.

Thank you Ivy.

Thank you painting of the Lady in Purple.

Thank you wardrobe filled with beautiful clothes.

Thank you fridge stocked with avocados, dark chocolate and leftover rice.

Thank you hot water in my shower.

Thank you silly housemate cooking eggs while dancing.

Thank you bicycle with the basket and bell.

Thank you sunshine and crushed grass on the pavement.

Thank you neurotic woman decorating the neighbourhood tree with painted rocks and colourful flags.

Thank you cross walk guiding me swiftly onto the beachfront.

Thank you ocean.

I have also been walking around my life and offering things. Little things, but they are things nonetheless.

Would you like a bite of my meal?

Can I fold your laundry for you?

Let me hold the door for you?

None of the gestures are grand by any means but it’s a practice I am ready to engage with.

After a few days of this practice, I walked through the streets of my little hometown. I was falling in love all over again. Not because he has changed or committed to loving me more, but because I am opening my eyes to his beauty today and not asking him to change a thing.

I wandered out to meet my friend for dinner the other evening, sticky from the unseasonably warm evening air, sunlight already extinguished, preparing us to head inside very soon for the winter hours. I began to notice the sound of my long gypsy skirt rustling along the crooked pavement.

I looked up at the stars and inhaled deeply.

“I think that must be Orion’s Belt. Yes, that must be it. I always know Orion’s Belt.”

The sky is upside down here…just like so many other things in this isolated desert country surrounded by blue and yet it twinkles just the same as it does in the North and so I let her lights entertain me regardless of whether I can identify them by name.

My headphones were cheekily pumping uplifting tunes into my chest and fingers and toes. That’s where you feel the music, isn’t it?

The wafting Frangipani petals coated the sidewalk as I strutted along at a generous pace.

These are the moments I wait for. They are unpredictable and cannot be controlled. They come by complete surprise and depart just as quickly.

These moments can be named contentment – contentment not with any one thing but contentment with everything.

It’s not an experience that words can fairly convey. It’s a feeling. My legs become longer, my spine is perfectly straight. My blond hair trails in the wind. People around me can’t help but smile because of the size of the smile across my face. There isn’t even one thing I am thinking about. I am simply happy.

And so this charmed moment washed over me and I delighted in its presence and I strolled along, humming out of tune to the vibrations in my ears. The night went on, with laughter and friends and glasses of wine and we all drifted quietly off to sleep.

xx