Good Evening Manly,

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

It appears I have been hiding for a little while. I guess that’s what happens when us blond girls start to fall in love? Days blend into nights and we have no care what time it is, what we eat for lunch, nor do we bother with commitments like writing down thoughts.

Maybe this is the difference between thinking about life and getting an opportunity to live life? Maybe the routines and beliefs about accomplishments don’t matter at all when someone has him arms around me?

So it seems…weeks after these words were strung together I find myself sitting in my bedroom, under the warmth of my furry blanket, alone again, but definitely not by myself.

What a difference a day makes?

Thank you.

About two weeks ago…

Last night, as I lay on my new man’s bed, I caught myself thinking about how slowly the evening was passing by. I was listening to the consistent flow of rain streaming onto the Corso below. I felt completely relaxed, nestled in between his flannel sheets, soaking in his scent from the pillow beneath my head. There was nowhere to go but here. I had the whole night of rest and intimate whispers ahead of me.

We sleep in each other’s arms, fingers entangled, sharing subtle murmurs from our dreams. An unexpected urge to move reminds me that his skin is grazing mine and there’s nothing else I’d rather touch. That night went on for a very long time. How long, I’m not sure? It changes every time I close my eyes.

I am grateful for the impression of infinity I was gifted last night.

And then we are greeted by dawn and alarms and sounds of machines washing the sidewalks below. The recollection of where I am reveals itself as he pulls me towards him and softly kisses my lips. I don’t want this moment to expire. Suddenly there isn’t enough. I will have to leave and so will he and there’s no way of knowing if I will ever be able to return here again?

Seamless lines threading my past and present, tying knots between the setbacks and smoothly stretching out the ecstatic wins – how does she exist within, behind and around me so artfully?

She doesn’t make any sense. She seems to move so quickly and then, when suffering erupts, she ceases to shift at all.

She is infinite and final.

She is slow and generous.

She teases me with innumerable majestic sunsets and reminds me that she can strip them all away as she captures someone’s last breath right before my eyes.

I don’t know what she has planned for me? There’s no logic binding her tactics. The senseless chaos is masked by another full moon. She tells me that it’s all a pattern and that I can follow her lead and yet how can I recall something from my history as if it were happening right now? Suddenly, another year has passed and eerily, I blow out thirty-six candles instead of twenty-eight.

She is graceful yet scrupulous. She gives me the gift of patience to process my lessons without a rush but delivers wrinkles and pain regardless of my grandest efforts. She caresses me with long nights of love where each breath lasts for hours and then trumps it with the words that I never got a chance to say. “Maybe too soon?”  she says. “Maybe too late?

If only you spoke when I told you to, but only speak when you know you should!

If only you didn’t waste so much of me. If only you chose to take me when I offered myself to you. Don’t you know that sometimes I don’t offer another chance?”

“If only…” she says, “and there’s lots of me…”

Is she tricking me? Is this paradox encouraging me to take the lead?

“But it’s not fair!” I say. “You give me the promise of space and you ask me to trust, but you might recall it tomorrow anyways.”

I beg her for more of her tantalising elixir. “Please!” I cry, “I need more. I can’t bear to run out now,” and she might not give it to me. We each only have one bottle full and the glass has opaque sides, hiding the level of liquid within. Some get a full vessel. Some get a few drops. How does she choose who gets more of this vital fluid than another?

…Then, there are those moments when I want to turn it upside down and pour the liquid out. The waiting becomes unbearable. I need an answer and I can only sit and watch the drips descend in frustration. When will it flow again? “Please!” I cry. “Please! I need you to reveal the truth faster…I can’t bear this waiting without guarantees? Be patient? But how?”

Sometimes you don’t even exist. Sometimes I stand in the middle of a crowded street and see lifetimes of history unfolding within a frozen moment that never seems to end. You reveal tales in milliseconds from the mere glance of someone’s passing stare, and I understand that none of it can be comprehended. The past and future become entangled in the crowd and I can see it all within a single moment anyways.

I think you are my wisest and most cynical friend. You tease me and remain beside me holding my hand.

How can I trust you TIME?

How do I know you are telling me the truth?

How can I absorb every delicious second when you show me love? How can I stay here and enjoy it without fear that you might steal it all away? How can I be patient and believe that I do know when and how and where? Why does tonight feel endless and slow and precious, yet tomorrow you might take my bottle and dissolve it into sand?

These exquisite moments should not be wasted. In reflection, each one could be traded later for an entire kingdom. Inhale, say thank you and soak it in. I guess that’s all I can do?

xx

 

Good Morning Mantown!

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

A few days ago I passed a pride of little girls playing as I walked barefoot along the beachfront. My surfboard was nestled under my right arm and I was enjoying the feeling of the damp winter grass between my naked toes.

I watched and thought, little girls don’t need anything to play with in the grass other than themselves and possibly a pile of dirt?

They were gathered on one side of the small mountain of exposed earth, cheering each other on…like the way we should cheer each other on as adults, but most of the time we don’t, do we? Maybe we stop the cheering for some reason because of an unrelated fear? Or maybe we make the mountain a competition and we bet on each others’ losses?

The girls took turns leaping over the dirt, trying to clear the other side without brushing their tiny feet on a granule of soil. They were laughing, clapping and innocently mimicking each other’s style.

One of the smallest girls attempted her leap and barely cleared the mountain, but she did. Her pigtails jumped for joy and everyone hailed her success.

As my rushed footsteps passed the game, I almost missed them all together. I was caught in thoughts about my first impending surf since Bali, and the gorgeous new man waiting to surf with me, but I didn’t miss them.

Something caught my attention and dragged me out of my story. I heard one of the older girls say, “Oh! But wait! Your shoes…look at your shoes!”. The smallest girl paused and looked down at her obviously brand new white lace up sneakers. “They are white…and the dirt. You can’t jump anymore. You shouldn’t be playing here with your white shoes”.

I sensed that the older girl had no intention but concern for the pending trouble the smallest girl would earn coming home with grass and dirt stained shoes. She didn’t seem to want to take the fun away from her smaller friend. She was only concerned for the penalty of having too much fun.

The little girl looked at the pile of dirt and then looked at her shoes again. She seemed confused.

It struck me as the beginning of the end of this little girls’ carefree childhood. The protection process had begun. The stigma around ‘clean is better’ was rising to the surface. Keep your things safe. Playing in the dirt is bad…and so it begins…

Are we all afraid of getting our new white shoes dirty?

Have we stopped jumping over the mountains of dirt?

I have worked hard to create a clean sparkly life. I’ve survived tribulations, like we all have, sometimes barely scraping by some of the messiest challenges. Today I feel proud that I am wearing a fresh white stainless shirt. It hasn’t been easy!

The pristine purity symbolizes my defeat against despair and that dark sticky murky stuff called confrontation, yet I know I will most likely have to get dirty again?

So I notice how firmly I want to hold onto my white shirt, the white shoes, the brand new car smell and freshly waxed exterior.

I am afraid of the dirt because that is where life’s passions, joy and connection live – these virtues aren’t white, they are a rainbow of twisted, explosive hues, quite often clashing and seemingly mismatched. Where there are sterile white surfaces there is a false sense of living. Where there are cracks and smudges and stains there are endless nights of sweaty dance moves way past my bedtime, leaps of faith out of airplanes and radical decisions made from the heart.

Life isn’t happening on my ironing board. Life is happening as I stand knee deep in a soaking wet puddle, zealously kissing someone, being splashed by passing traffic while not even noticing.

My shirt has been crisply pressed and white for a while now. I think it’s time to eat some spaghetti and not worry about a few haphazard dashes of red spoiling the canvas.

It’s time to paint the painting.

Madness exists when I long for excitement and transformation and continue to do everything within my power to keep my life exactly as it is right now.

I must take a leap of faith to experience my life to its fullest…I’ve always made decisions based on adventure and love.

In order to open my heart to a new relationship, a new job, a possible move to the other side of the world, the beginning of a business or anything that terrifies me I know what I have to do.

…I must stop, take a massive breath, start running as fast as I can and jump as high and hard as I can knowing whether I make it to the other side or not I will get very dirty.

Of one thing I am certain, everything exhilarating I desire and ask for will at some point soften and become a part of the ocean again, cleansed and cleared in the waves. Unfortunately and fortunately, the ocean does not welcome these back until every exquisitely beautiful, throbbing and messy part has been revealed and experienced.

So little by little, breath-by-breath, I’m watching my shoelaces untie and I’m leaving them here. It’s scary to walk around without shoelaces but it’s the only way to take these white shoes off isn’t it?

To grass stains and piles of dirt, may we all go outside and leap over the earth…

After all, those who don’t leap never get a chance to fly.

xx

Good Afternoon Manly,

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

Well, I made it home. A week ago AirAsia escorted me from the delicious warmth of Balinese soil to the crispy clear air of Sydney.

There’s nothing like morning light in Manly. The vivid colours of ‘beach’ pop towards me every time I come home – rose gold sand, aquamarine water accented by pine trees and the tops of little beach homes assembled together to comfortably house all of us blond girls. Manly is gorgeous and not for a second do I intend to diminish its beauty by being an ungrateful blond girl, but damn it felt cold to step outside!

The initial shock of shivering was a prelude to the tropical fever that has settled into my bones without any foreseeable desire to leave. The past seven days have left me locked in my bedroom, salivating over my little heater, chatting in boredom to my hanging plant.

Dengue Fever was the diagnosis. He is a strong one – this virus has highlighted every meagre ache I’ve had in my body to date. Sitting in physical pain for days has exhausted me to the point where I have burned through excess ‘disease’ in my head as well.

The first few days I became depressed. Every fear, insecurity and expired worry bubbled to the surface with the pain. I was overcome with night terrors, repeatedly woken by a scream coming from my own mouth.

Today the stomach messiness finally cleared and I’m feeling content but the pain, she remains!

Sometimes I observe masochistic qualities in myself. There’s something I like about this pain. It’s showing me those dark corners of my mind and body that I haven’t wanted to look at and I’m helpless so I have to lie here and watch the stories unfold. They are helpful, the revelations, they expose what I am ready to change and show me behaviours I loathe.

The time to watch nothing also reveals the things that are most important to me, like my loving flat mate delivering tea and endless hugs. The time in stillness, though painful, has allowed me to reflect on my holiday and so, for this, I am grateful…

After departing the charming island where I was provoked with irresistible happiness I find it interesting that my nature returns to lack the moment I return home.

Bali had me, once again, questioning my beliefs about success and money and needs (as she should).

I love when perspectives are upset. On my second last night we shared dinner with a local guy from Nusa Lembongan. To no surprise, like all previous experiences connecting with local friends from ‘seemingly less fortunate circumstances’; I humbly listened to his wisdom.

Our relaxed friend was proud to state that he had lived his entire life on the island (he isn’t naive – he has travelled to Australia many times). He is a thriving surf instructor and an even more successful surfer (apparently quite renowned for his skills throughout the area) and yet when asked about surfing he smiled and with a sparkle in his eye said, “I’m still learning”.

Somehow, the conversation steered towards money as one of my friends asked him if he ever gets a massage? After all, massages seem to be such a popular part of the culture (at least for us visitors). He quickly replied, “Nah. Even though they seem cheap for you, for us, with our rupiahs’ value, they are still expensive and this isn’t what we choose to spend our money on”.

I liked how very clear he was to use the word ‘choose’.

He said that he likes to make money so that he can share it with his family, with his friends, with his mother and with his neighbours. He proudly explained how his Balinese community preserves sacred ceremonies, honouring their faith and customs like that of the ‘Full Moon’ passed just a few days prior. He said, “We all work hard and stay busy so we can share with each other”.

He talked about helping his friends when there was a funeral, or a wedding by bringing food to the special ceremony. All of these important aspects of life cost money, which he openly believed, is the best way to spend it. He confirmed that his perception of what is important in life is different than ours.

He then went on to share his perspective of people, like us, living in Australia. Without a hint of judgment he said, “We watch you stress about your money and your jobs, always focused on the next job and the next house and you arrive here so very tired that you need a massage in order to rest before you go home and continue to stress about your money and your house and your job. We don’t have that same kind of stress here. We don’t worry about the same things you do. We don’t need the massages like you do.”

Simple and to the point – I loved it.

He captured a truth about the world I live in and it felt strangely relieving to hear from his perspective what so many of us cautiously hesitate to whisper beneath the sheets.

Who are we to sit back and claim that we are in some way better off than these beautiful souls on Nusa Lembongan because of the things we own? Some of us don’t even speak to members of our immediate family because of one insignificant moment from the past?

The conversation went on and we couldn’t help but agree with our new friend. He was one hundred percent right about all of it. So many people, even in Australia and Canada are fixated with aspects of life that aren’t really important when we find out someone we love is sick?

I love visiting areas of the world like this – the areas where I can easily feel sorry for others based on my own ignorant perceptions of what happiness and success is. I always, every single time, return home with the feeling that they have somehow got it figured out a little bit more than I do.

I hate when I am stuck in the belief that money can solve my problems. I told my friend one morning at the end of our trip that I was feeling very confused as I had been drawn to give a man in a very modest house some money because he looked sad and I assumed he was worse off than I.

Could I somehow make a positive difference even to ONE person? I would be grateful if someone gave me a gift for no reason, wouldn’t I? Or would I be insulted with the assumption that I needed help?

I don’t know. The question I ponder with service is the difference between a GIFT or a HAND-OUT and whether there is an actual HUMAN NEED or an ASSUMED SHORTAGE?

This circumstance felt like a gift but was I really sure? I couldn’t give it regardless as I didn’t have any money (did he take Visa?) but the question ate away at me for the rest of the trip…

Ignorance is sneaky. I can’t presume that the man living in that house is happy or starving? He might be happier than I am? My natural instincts to assess value based on materialism are engrained in me from the world I live in and I resent it. Of course maybe he is struggling and would have appreciated the money? I don’t know? I know I can’t save the world. Maybe I’m the one who needs saving?

When should we give and when does giving disempower another?

Maybe I could have talked to him and found out?

I didn’t. I walked away, left in this conundrum of questioning.

My intentions may be wholesome. I genuinely want to support others and can potentially and unconsciously insult them by mistake. Some of my choices and daily complaints disappoint me and yet I am ready to look them in the eye and start a conversation.

So I am cold and have a flu. So what? It will pass. Sure, I don’t have as much money saved as I thought I should by this age. Sure, I could own a home and a nicer car. So what? But what does that have to do with happiness and success? So I am reminded – very, very little.

What can I learn from my Balinese friend?

…How many amazing people I have right here ready to come to my rescue!

My friends are what is important, my people – the idiots (myself included) I surrounded myself with for the past few weeks who kept me laughing every single day.

My sister and Nephew dropping by with a special remedy and hugs are important to me. Chatting to my Mom and Dad in Canada is important to me. I am humbled by the fact that a devoted community surrounds me and yet the focus too often remains in what ‘I do not have’ or the ‘space’ that I need. Even service can unconsciously become about me. Instead of modestly reacting to an actual shortage on some level I act from – what can I get out of the giving?

A reality check is to ask myself, “Is this desire to give, on any level, for a personal gain or am I honestly acknowledging a need that I can graciously fill because I want to?”

At least I see it. At least the harsh pain in my lower back reminds me that a successful and humble life is not measured by the number of dollars I can give away but by my ability to provide genuine time for my people and express how much I love every single one of you and then share with you based on understanding.

So that’s it! Let’s cuddle together under a blanket for warmth. I’ll share my blanket with you – Come on in…

Connection might just be the most powerful currency…the rest, after all, is an illusion.

xx

 

 

Good Evening Nusa Lembongan,

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

I have been waking up before 6:30am every single morning of this holiday, sometimes even before 6am. I haven’t tried to do this. The birds wake me up. The faint rays of smoky sunlight wake me up. The subtle murmur of the first few motorbikes hugging the empty roads wake me up. The cold air from the air conditioner wakes me up.

For some reason, as the night goes on, my perception of the 23 degrees set on the thermostat (which began as sweet relief) convinces my body to crouch into a little ball to prevent the shivers from disturbing my rest. I’ve tried changing the temperature, but the crouched position and the sensation of cold arrives nonetheless.

This morning we chose to leave Ubud after three days of yoga, bargaining in crowded markets and wandering the vegan café-ridden streets.

The previous ten days of surfing and racing around the busy streets of Canggu and Uluwatu led us to search for rest in this hilltop town nestled between the shadows of silent volcanoes. At first I wasn’t sure about this ‘spiritually evolved community’ overflowing with eager yoga students from all corners of the world.

I wasn’t sure about the restaurants producing copious amounts of raw food, smoothies and vegetarian delights serving hundreds of picky Westerners each minute. The needs are consistently met with eagerness and obvious gratitude from the Indonesian providers while just outside the streets overflow with scrumptious local food and fresh tropical fruit for an 18^th of the cost.

Have we lost our ability and yearning to experience a culture authentically? Do we travel to other corners of the globe and cringe at the slightest discomfort or are we simply being duped?

Ubud’s obvious contradictions have led me to use the word contrived to describe some of my surroundings. Maybe I am cynical? Maybe I am observing the space through sarcastic sunglasses?

There are certainly parts of Ubud that I love – the cafes, the friends, the diverse yoga teachings, the fresh food, the busy markets and bustling streets. It’s all very confusing as these are also the things I dislike about the town as they seem to merely be there for us, the foreigners, and this makes me wonder whether Ubud’s original charm has evaporated completely?

It’s fascinating, I notice that I observe the beauty around me, or lack there of depending on my current state of mind…

Sitting in the worshipped café at the Yoga Barn, eavesdropping on the conversations of travelling seekers from all over the globe, I sense that even the seemingly conscious population is obsessed with solving the unknowns of life?

Are these seekers (myself included) trapped in a constant state of questioning, trying so very hard to remain awake and present and curious but are in reality entrapped in a suffocating state of fixing that drowns presence?

The start time of the next yoga class urges crowds of colourful, organic cotton legs past the temples, stray dogs and desperate locals. Were the surroundings even noticed? Have we allowed our end goal to desensitise ourselves from our environment?

Can I skip the self-interrogation for a few days and accommodate the tangible beauty right now by stopping and looking?

I don’t know?

I’m actually sick of looking for answers.

Maybe I’ll sit back and let the answers come to me…or wait…maybe stop needing answers all together? Wouldn’t that be a relief?!

I shall simply live and Bali will naturally seep in for my last few days in paradise.

When my mind is beautiful my body is beautiful. When my mind is crowded, lethargic and inflamed, my stomach bulges, my shoulders stiffen and stained purple crescent moons crowd my dull eyes.

The quality of food I put in my body must have some negative and positive affect on my vitality and appearance but my mind controls the way I believe others see me. I’m pretty sure they shift between watching a confident, giggling and voluptuous woman and a quiet confused plain blond girl – one who could blend into any crowd of other blond girls.

There’s nothing wrong with these shifts. I would, of course prefer to exist in the assertive skin more often than not but the shy moments when I hide in self-judgment are the ones that keep me grounded. They keep me humble and empathetic to the harsh interpretations I can place on the world depending on my state of positivity.

The way I see you right now is a result of my state of my mind. I have considered that everything I notice potentially reflects that which I acknowledge in myself.

Beauty exists not in the eyes of the interpreter but from the mind of the interpreter. How I see is how I am thinking. What I see is what I am thinking.

After a couple of days in Ubud, I saw beautiful moments and disturbing ones – they shifted as I shifted and I liked watching the movement…instead of judging the confusion I sat curiously. The flowers in between the buildings and the starving beggar reaching desperately towards my purse were both highlighted and hidden as the fluctuations of thought bounced around in my head.

This evening I rest on a tropical turquoise island. Everything here seems beautiful. My home is a small wooden beach hut less than one hundred metres from the oceans’ lips. The infinity pool jealously watches the waves a few feet from her edge. The rooster squawks again. The sun begins to set, spreading beams of magenta across the untouched sky.

There – I guess that tells you I am very happy tonight and that’s really all that matters right now anyways!

xx

Hello Bali!

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

Lucky me…Paradise has moved today. I have been accompanied by four of my favourite people on a little holiday escaping the constant holiday of Manly. This morning,we found ourselves waking up in a six bedroom luxury villa in Canggu, Bali.

Bali is a very special place. Its’ land reminds me of an unintended collaboration between Kenya and Hawaii. There is an essence like that of Hawaii – an ancient wisdom streaming through the rice paddies and the beaks of tiny birds. There are jagged rocks and the earth is fertile, abundant and green. She speaks to me when I come here. She has goddess like qualities, a powerful and all-knowing presence but she is stern in her request for self-compassion and softness.

Like Kenya, her people beam from their culture and genuine appreciation for life itself. Everyone smiles, welcoming all foreigners to stay for as long as they like. She isn’t perfect. She is fuelled by corruption, poverty and dirty roads, but these accessorise her diverse personality. The orderly chaos of the streets reminds me of Nairobi.

This morning I awoke early. The rooster was the first one up, fulfilling his duty to start the day. The air was filled with darkness…the moments of anticipation when the clock speaks of morning and the sun’s first glimmer has yet to arrive.

The second sound wafted eerily through the air – chanting from a nearby mosque. The men reverberate prayers that are so unfamiliar to a western blond girl born and raised in Canada. We hear them from time to time, but never quite understand the potency within each deep, throaty echo from a language created long before our culture arrived.

A slow and repetitive hum, a barely recognisable shift between notes – the sound mesmerises me because it speaks to something foreign and nurturing. Sometimes readings fall short when the experience of listening to a song can tell me everything there is to know.

A series of hot daylight hours pass…the light begins to transform into a calmer, more shadowy version of herself.

I peer to my left – an infinity pool nestled in between rice paddies, icing the carved building behind me. I gaze out at the wafting smoke dissipating flames from the controlled burning in the fields. Black kites hover above the paddies and terracotta tiled roofs, some of them quite high, some of them barely recognisable in the distance. I must find out the story behind these?

There are rustling palm leaves, water trickling behind the hidden wall of the pool and the infrequent, yet constant chatter of birds. There is a muffled hum of passing scooters, reminding me that my little haven is a mere hundred feet from the busyness of Balinese life. The rooster, he still squawks.

It’s hard not to feel guilty for the abundance around me. Just outside on this street are those very much less fortunate riding around in threes and fours on scooters. They are often without shoes, barely with enough food for dinner and here I lounge sleepily after an hour massage, surf and organic smoothie at a local tourist café.

Having spent time in underdeveloped areas of the world I feel fortunate to have created personal relationships with the people. I’ve listened to their stories, their challenges and their desires and from this I conclude that it’s okay to acknowledge the guilt for the abundance – these feelings are only natural; however, I would never disrespect what I have been given in this moment by pushing it away because of guilt.

I shall drink in every second of today. I will offer abundance my full presence and not for even a second indulge in my worries that exist one thousand miles away, or only in the projections of my mind. I’ve learned that not acknowledging my gifts is much worse than recalling the world’s disparities themselves.

So I say a massive thank you to this place where I have landed today.

Being in the midst of holiday mode, I am not surprised that my well-trained mind continues to desire a sense of accomplishment.

“What shall we get out of this trip?”

“What shall we do?”

“We must learn to surf big waves and practice yoga every day and make sure not to drink too much but still go out and party a little bit and get enough sleep and connect with our friends and meet new friends and see new places and read all of my books and….”

Stop please.

That’s enough mind. You can rest now. Maybe for two weeks you don’t have to do anything other than what you want to do in each moment. Maybe you just want to have fun. You won’t know what fun looks like until you are there so really, there’s nothing to worry about!

Relief.

My girlfriend lounges in a beanbag, holding an open book, not reading it but gazing into the distance, twirling her ankle in the surface of the cool pool.

Ripples migrate further and further into the centre with every twirl of her foot. The ripple effect is interesting – one seemingly tiny movement can expand and change the space beyond for considerable miles. Our happiness and our anger do this too.

This trip to Bali (I hope) will allow me the space to create a still, calm, rested and happy surface of my pool. I can then choose how I want to begin twirling my ankle – but only when I am ready! I realise every twirl has the potential to change the entire world.

Happy Ramadan from Bali

xx

Good Morning Mantown,

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

The wind is magnificent in paradise today. When energy is stagnant, nature sweeps in and forces change despite choice and perceived readiness. In moments things seem within my control. Maybe some things are within my control and yet life responds to the constant fluctuation between my resistance vs. my ability to trust, release, flow and allow.

Despite the recognition of the natural flow of life, I struggle sometimes. I have days where I feel so much and I want to be able to express in words what I am experiencing and I don’t know how? I walk into a yoga room multiple times per week and lead hundreds of people through a potentially transformational process…speaking to them from my heart and so often, the people I want to express words too aren’t there listening and when they are my words get stuck.

I sat in meditation yesterday morning and after a few minutes of busy thought I began to feel my body. I scanned along my spine to concentrate on right now and not the incessant stories in my head. With my eyes closed I recalled the space above my head. The space I often forget exists. This space reminds me that the entire world is around and underneath me.

Everyone I know in my life, everyone I have ever known in my life, as well as what I believe to be every other person I still have yet to meet exists in this abundant cosmos above.

How do I know this? I just do. I know. I don’t know why I know – this is the predicament!

Every once and a while I am blessed with a visit from someone in particular. Some days when I sit quietly I get to share a few words with my Grandmother who passed away a year ago. She has visited me quite frequently over the past few months. She is always beaming with pride and refers to me in the Belgian term for ‘little one’. (I have no idea how to spell it in Flemish?)

I have been visited recently by my three Uncles – Uncle Brian, Uncle Barry and Uncle Bill. Upon recounting these visits with a dear friend, he asked me to consider naming these visits “JUST B” – The most simple reminder to relax with what is.

When team JUST B arrives they rarely say much, usually just a word or two, usually a very essential and cheeky response to something I have asked for help with. I rarely remember to ask for help. They always provide an answer and a grin.

Fortunately this week, quite a few people surround me. Some characters long forgotten – acquaintances who I met a handful of times before they passed away, but there they are above my head speaking to me and watching. Sometimes they cheer me on.

One of these special visits was from my friend Cari. She passed away nearly two and a half years ago now. It feels like yesterday. She didn’t say anything, not like last time, but she came to me and smiled – that gorgeous, massive grin that never ceased to propel happiness into the sprits of anyone nearby. It’s interesting that later in the day Facebook told me it was her Birthday.

Sometimes I feel really alone when I forget that I am not alone at all.

Sometimes life seems overwhelming.

People have suggested I am an Empath.

What is an Empath? Well, I did some research and here is my summary based on the collective intelligence and my personal experiences…

• I feel everything
• I am extremely sensitive to energy in any form
• I know things and don’t know why I know them
• People and places can overwhelm me – I feel you and you and you and you…
• I can’t read the news because I become the news
• I know what you’re really saying beneath those words
• I (unfortunately) have been known to pick up your physical symptoms
• I suffer from frequent ailments
• I hold space for your problems (usually too much to my own detriment)
• I am a great listener
• I am always tired
• I love wine – wine gives me a break!
• I love ‘hippy healing stuff’ – the only other people who understand me!
• I am very creative and need to be close to nature
• I refuse to do anything I do not enjoy
• I need to know the WHY/HOW & WHO behind everything – Can someone please explain this?
• I am easily distracted and need stimulation
• I HATE clutter – it feels too busy and yet my personality often seems cluttered
• I make up incredible stories in my head
• I am sensitive to food and noise
• I do not like old, used things as they carry old, used energy and if it isn’t nice I can feel it
• I can sense ghosts/spirits/energy that many others cannot see
• I am the physical manifestation of a roller coaster with a very calm and grounded base

This gift of feeling is wonderful. It delivers a possibility for connection that many people could only dream of and with this gift also comes a great deal of mental anguish too.

I often struggle defining the difference between my thoughts and my feelings. My intuition has proven to be as solid as a rock and sometimes my thoughts are even stronger.

I repeatedly ask myself the question, “Is desire for something blinding me from my intuition and allowing my intellect to devise a seeming ‘feeling’ when in fact it’s not that at all”?

The only escape I have discovered is to engage with the world when I feel stuck. I need to look into your eyes and even touch you. I need you to pull me back out. I need the wind to mess up my hair even though it pisses me off and to jump in the ocean so she can clean me off. I need to sweat and run out of breath. I also need silence and rest. I need healthy food and to allow the thoughts to drain out. Sometimes I need to get really drunk and cry. I cry a lot. Crying is good.

Being an Empath is magical and it requires effort to navigate the simplest aspects of my world…

I question today whether I have a choice with this character trait – Is it me? Am I it?

My uber sensitive feelings aren’t going anywhere. I don’t mind them either. The shivers running up and down my spine multiple time per day deliciously remind me of how profound this energetic world is. Do I have a choice to turn them off? Maybe, but why would I? The days of connection are worth the cumbersome ones.

Nonetheless, if you happen to cross paths with this blond girl anytime soon, you can better understand the layers of occurrence I am witnessing with every step in this world. If you catch me on a good day, I’ll be beaming and laughing and bouncing around.

On some of those harder days, well it’s extremely obvious, I can’t hide my feelings even if I try. On these days can you please give me hug, ask me to look into your eyes, throw me in the ocean and maybe even take me dancing?!

xx

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