Skip to main content

Four hours and counting.....



I found this piece of writing just now. I had completely forgotten that I had written it. It was quickly dashed out as I sat jammed into Virgin Flight VA something or rather...on my way to Bali. 
I feel the pain in this writing, however that pain is no longer present. Something has changed. I left something behind in Bali.

Whatever it was, I washed it away at the bottom of a thunderous waterfall, scrubbed it away in a ceremonial body scrub and massage, soothed it away with the sound of the ocean and the heart of friendship, breathed it away with pranayama and many, many, asanas.

I wish to share that piece of writing with you. Un-edited, raw. For all of you who have felt this particular pain...I wanted to let you know...you can be free of it.



 So here I am. Flying high. The earth is below. Clouds below. Nothing above.

It was my choice. NO not even. I was compelled. There was no choosing. At the time of booking this trip, money was an issue. As aways. But I was always going to be here. Hurtling towards Bali in a silver tube. For the next seven days it will be yoga, yoga yoga. Fours hours each day dedicated to my yoga practice. Let me tell you it is practice, and I am miles from making perfect, miles from barely capable.

I never imagined this journey and I certainly never imagined taking it solo. It has just happened. I have no expectations. I do have concerns. No, not with travelling, not with the food, the people or any other outside influence. Of course my concerns are purely personal and as always nonsensical.

As always it’s all about my body shape and weight. Oh god I can’t tell you how sick I am of it. Lobotomy. This must be the only cure! No…

All these slim strong yoga women and me. Hot country, cool pools, waterfalls, beauty and me. Am I going to sabotage this trip like so many before by my constant obsession about my human form.

My only plan is to try and let all that shit go. Just give up on it. Hands and heart to the sky. Please release me from this self made prison!!

Maybe that is why I am here. To finally have the time and space to “deal” with this crap once and for all. Or not.

Maybe I can finally get through to my original soul. Maybe I will find the answer to the years of self persecution, self sabotage. A whole eat pray love deal. Or not.

Maybe I will just sweat and struggle and feel like shit the whole time. Maybe I will separate myself from the other yogi’s and miss out experiencing the power of woman together in retreat. That sounds ok. Or maybe I will breathe and forget about my human form…for once and just be myself. Free. Or not.
 
I guess I will just have to wait and see. Touch down in four hours and counting….

 

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Broken free

I made an angel. Created her out of clay. Painstakingly I sculpted and moulded her. I loved her. I loved her heavy wings, they way they sheltered her and protected her heart. I loved that tiny heart, the way she looked down on to it "I will always look after you" she whispered, "you are safe".  Until the day she broke.   My son rang me on my way home. His voice was shaky, apprehensive. "Something terrible has happened" he mumbled. Moving straight into mother mode, I panicked. "What is it?? Are you ok??" "I broke her...I didn't mean to... she fell...I tried to catch her...I wasn't quick enough"  Oh My god... who?, where? What the?????? "Your angel mum... she smashed!!" The poor boy. He knew I loved her, created her, protected her. But the sense of relief was instant. Just a sculpture, not a life, a girl or an animal. Just a sculpture. It wasn't long however that the realisation of what had just

Spiral Bound

I have a collection of journals. Writing Journals. I do not collect journals; however, journals seem to collect me. It’s true I do write and yes, in journals, however on closer inspection, I own a great many empty journals. Too many. The empty journals are not lying in wait, I did not purchase them knowing that in due course, I would fill their pages with beautiful prose, witty satirical observations, or heartfelt outpourings of emotion. In fact, I did not purchase them at all. The empty journals were gifts. Gifts for a writer. Carefully selected, each one. Some leather, silk and fabric bound. Some hand made with flower pressed paper pages. Recycled, reclaimed, re-purposed. From distant shores, India, England, Thailand. Leaves of possibility, tactile and tempting. I have journals with pages illustrated with moons and mermaids, clouds and clowns, pages tied with ribbons and some with jute. All empty, too beautiful to touch, to fill. When I open their pages…words fail me

North

How is it, that strolling along on our perfect peaceful path, is so much harder than trekking backwards, uphill, blindfolded and in the rain, on some random track to nowhere?? How is it, that we know exactly what to do...but do the opposite? Why do we choose to struggle, push, and deny ourselves the simple truth of who we are? When did we decide that who we really are is not enough, not valuable and is worthless.? Worth less. When I am travelling in the right direction - my direction, I am so happy! When I am happy, I am so giving, so creative, so loving. Anything and everything is possible. Everyone I meet is an opportunity for me to share my joy, my knowledge, my heart. So why is it so hard to stay there. Why do I wander into fear, distrust and such smallness. How come I can bear down, push hard, toughen up and clench my way through self destructive jobs, self created poverty and self abusive inner talk and turn away from my light, love and freedom? Shouldn't play