Soul Speaking

Intuition tells you something. If you listen. While harbouring guilt over maybe what is right, often we overlook it.

Sometimes goodness comes our way and feels too good to be true. Yet there’s no stepping out of bounds.

I imagine shackles of truthfulness in actions. But too many times needless emotional baggage staggers the path ahead.

Tempted by fate, I still jump in with two feet. Yet the carpet moves. Backwards. Yielding the familiar pain and sorrow.

If my soul were to talk what would it say? If my brain would listen to my intuition would it be my soul speaking?

Poll Results - Have You Been To Africa?

I outlined some pretty blunt poll options when I posted this question. I was curious.

Have you been to Africa?

Yes

No

Sure would like to go.

No desire to go to Africa

Of everyone who participated one answer dominated:

Sure would like to go.

As I'm a New Media Journalist, this kind of response has me smiling. 

I plan to blog everyday and spread stories of hope and inspiration, later producing an e-book. Which would be an opportunity for those who may never get a chance to go to see, feel and learn more about what is shaping this country in Africa today. Maybe I'll call it Uganda Wishes For The World.
In the meantime, a new poll question has been posted. I hope you'll participate.

As always, thank you for reading.

Sincerely,

Jane Victoria King

To view my earlier ramblings on the subject go to Uganda Bound or Fear of Africa or for fun Dressing Up for Uganda.

A Meditation

Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick… I hear the timer and decide it should be shoved under a pillow. I do that then think, what if I don’t hear it go off in 20 minutes? I take the chance.
It’s been a while since I sat cross-legged with my butt against a pillow and my palms facing up. Thumb and third finger together sloped on the knees. I settle. Doing my best to clear my thoughts. It takes time.

Before long I’m revolving images of black, purple, some green. My conscious creeps in. I have to slam the door. I’m after stillness. The zen perhaps.

I try to focus on my breathing. I invite love. I ask for a white light to cleanse my soul. All of a sudden I’m enveloped with a quiet. Slowly my head tilts back. I can’t stop it. I let it be. I take another deep breath. I continue.

It could have been moments. I’m not sure. I am charged with a blue ray up and down my body. I feel lifted.

The egg timer rattles a ding. Although suffocated I hear it. My eyes open.

I see different.

I see clearly.

I See Purple

To be brutally honest I’ve had my heart shattered twice.  Only time heals the wounded souls.  I know that now.

While in the throws of it, a healing hands master asked me to close my eyes and look up.

“What colour do you see she asked?”

All I saw was black. Of course. My entire life was dark. Like a black cloud hanging over me. I’d fallen into an abyss. Was there any hope of getting out?

If I knew then what I know now maybe it wouldn’t of taken so long. Forgiveness, forgiveness, forgiveness. Acceptance, acceptance, acceptance, acceptance. Love, love, love, love and more love. That’s all it took.

Our mind twists our hearts. Which really controls us? The heart or the mind?

I eventually make way for the cleansing of my soul. Meditating clarity. Freshness. Like clean air. Transparent water. A mirror of light flushes through me. I close my eyes again.

Now I see purple. 

Dad Says

No use being mopey. Doesn’t get you far. I often think what dad went through on a daily basis. Without a complaint.

The stroke struck unexpectedly when he was 44 years-old. It left him paralyzed on his left side. Unable to speak. The speech returned over time but the mobility never did. He carried on.

Friday nights were social. The gents would drop round for a glass or two. Shoot the shit. Filled with jokes. Lots of lively laughter.

When it came to family, Saturday’s were so called the “Saturburger.” It was lunch somewhere with a burger - a round table. Anecdotes of dad pour through my head. Pitty the poor waitresses who had to serve him. 

“Would you like white or whole wheat sir?” The answer a sober, “Yes please.” Just to piss them off. The British sense of humour was seldom understood.

Not sure of the entire origin of the The Cheshire Cat but it seemed it was something he lived by. Mum framed it and gave it to all of us along with a few close friends. Dad was from Cheshire, England.

The Cheshire Cat

When this you see, remember me

And bear me in your mind.

Let all the World, say what they will.

Speak of me as you find.

It’s always in view. Wherever I’ve gone. Today as I grunted bent over backwards varnishing a boat one of his often repeated one-liners popped into my head:

Do what you like, but like what you do.

Okay, dad. Time to switch paths and take maybe a sharp left.

The Power Moon

Some fisherman have been heard to say that following the full moon throughout the warm months, expect a rise in winds within a week afterwards - maybe a southeaster. Typically it happens.

I shed my day’s lows to stare up in awe. Although round there breaths a power. A trance. To gawk. No words. I see peace and wellness. It draws me in. I can not leave. 

You wonder what is. Where spoken truths may lie. No danger there. Illumination.

The void between the earth and the sky exits darkness. I cry out to touch. Yet the distance shapes the illusion. Again it pulls me in - like the sea to the shore. 

The full moon. 

The power moon.

The Universe Dictates

When things come easy go with it. Eventually what you want and put out there will gel, like butter. Smooth. It will all come together.

My pal the Holistic Sailor nailed it. Resistance with what is won’t get you anywhere. Go where you’re guided. Where the Universe tells you.

Subliminal messaging. Timing. The planets line up. Or is it your heart? What you think, speak, feel, motion.

I connect with a young and talented camera-man who I worked with years ago. We linked up on Facebook. So we meet-up. It works out for today. I’m booked to attend the Social Media Club evening. We go together.

Tangled webs of coincidences ensue. Over and over again. The Universe spoke.

The Universe dictates.

Is Reality Real?

Depends which way you look at it. The question was repeated during the rest stop on the Sunday bike ride. I overheard Mark speaking about it. He'd heard a scientist discuss it on BBC.

Assume your reality is real. Is it the same as your neighbours? What makes reality? The world around you or the way you think? Suppose it’s different for everyone. Depending how we were raised. Where we were raised.

I search reality and read comments on Twitter and Facebook that say "Back to reality." Assume that is the end of a holiday and back to reality means back to work and paying the bills.

Be nice if reality didn’t have anything to do with money. 

Guess it wouldn’t be real then would it? 

Art in Nature

A master of harmony. Mother nature creates the sky, the land and the sea. We exist. Our footprints wash through the sand. Balanced with air. The essence of our being.
I walk a path of joy. Eyes open. The colour palette exudes shades of imagination. If you look you'll see. All around us there is art. Art in nature.

Poll Results

Since the blog template update I snagged the Poll Gadget and posted this question: Do you read a newspaper?

According to those who participated, the answer that dominated was... I read the real thing. Paper and ink=dirty hands!

I was curious. Seems my time as of late has been scarce to ponder over the print with say a cup of java. It's off for a ride or to work in the morning with it folded up under the arm. The intention exists for some quiet time in the day to not rush though it. Doesn't seem to happen. 

When they pile up I'll skim through. Not the same as reading on the day of. So I'm thinking, should I cancel the paper and become a computer scanner of headlines?

Pass It On

Sharing is good. Helping others - also good. Giving to those in need – great.

It happened that I was driving home with a bag of organic carrots beside me. It was a half hour commute home so I munched along the way, until I came upon an intersection. There stood a Gen Y’er (pretty sure) with a sign asking for money: Broke Need Money for Food.

My carrots had been passed onto me from a pal who left the country for a week. I leaned out the window and handed them over.

I watched him walk back to his pack and place them beside it. As I drove by he tipped his hat to me. It wasn’t money, it was food. It wasn’t mine originally. I was just passing it on.

Goodbye Sad Tomorrow Glad

In a hole today. Somewhat suffocating. Dug down deep. Didn’t help that when I stuck my head back up all I felt were tears. Don’t want to say why. Other then that useless, helpless feeling overwhelmed me. Sitting still my mind wonders. Curled up in the embryo position eases up the numbness.

Let the mind wonder. To what? No where to go. Hope slipped around the corner.

At home is peaceful. Refreshing. Alive. A neighbour strolls by. Stops to speak. I invite dinner. The tummy tumbles. Caves into gracious delights. Heartening. I leave to walk. Alone with the dog.

The evening whispers by. Darkness falls. The temperature drops. Goodbye sad. Tomorrow I’ll be glad.

To Love

There’s no template in my life for love.  A witness of solidarity. To love thyself. I sacrifice the past to selfless love and motherhood – oh and two failed marriages.

Had to rush out to see Eat Pray Love. The book took me a while. I did read to the end. It brought out the mirror. I could see myself there. A woman’s journey away from love - to love.

My boat rocks me back and forth. The Beat 94.5 FM on the radio. The dog in bed, fed, watered and soon asleep. I’m tired but I need to process where the movie took me.

I long for love. Yet, I claim my home isn’t receptive to it. I don’t have a v-birth with a double bed. There’s a mast in the middle.

Friends joke with me. I once posted my profile to Plenty of Fish with the headline, Have boat need balls.

Supposedly love surrounds. Passion hangs in the balance. It’s been eleven years since I’ve known it intimately. Somewhere it’s been said  ‘All good things come to those who wait.’

Well, I’m still waiting. Patiently.
To love.

Dressing Up for Uganda

Wasn’t allowed to wear pants in elementary school, until I reached the seventh grade. Then it was ok to wear the long ones only because I was heading to the barn for the weekend to ride my horse.

Mum was a stickler. Dad wore a suit and tie everyday. He had a suit rack beside his bed even.

Fairly certain the reason I don’t own many dresses or skirts today is because I had to during childhood. Not that I don’t like dressing up. Somehow with my lifestyle, I never found it practical or comfortable. Especially when riding a bike or walking fast.

Tonight I had some face to faces with some of the great folk who have been to the Mengo Hospital in Uganda where I’m going in November. This lovely lady sat next to me during the slide slow. She comfortably suggested some advice for clothing options during my six week stay. I’m sitting in my black and white checkered Bermuda length shorts with a black BC Bike Race t-shirt on and flip-flops. 

First off she says, “Take lots of skirts, dresses and t-shirts. At least two nighties because sometimes there’s a lot of moisture in the air and things take longer then a day to dry.”
No problem except for the skirts and dresses part. I racked my brain for what lived in my small locker. One dress suitable for that temperature, not likely for the daytime. No skirts.

Since I lost all the weight (30 pounds) I haven’t bothered to stock up. She sensed my stunned look. Then illustrated the look of the Ugandan women in the wards, the people you’ll see everyday. No matter where they came from, they dressed up.

I pondered my next visit to Chez VV (aka Value Village). Skirts and dresses. Skirts and dresses. Skirts and dresses. Doesn’t seem practical. Apparently the Bermudas are acceptable only when you’re going out.

The Perfect Day

“Never stop dreaming.”

That’s what mum said to me this morning as she exited the boat after a late brunch. Dreams are made of magic I’ve always surmised to myself, and help lead you on through life.

The alarm sounded off at 5:45 a.m. Snooze got smacked three times then I was up. I loaded my gear for a road ride into the truck along with the dog and the gym bag with running shoes.

Off to meet my fave workout partner for a road ride and a run. Early rise to beat the heat.

It’s us and the wildlife at that time. A buck here, a rabbit there. Taking in the birds, the roosters and the fresh air CC commented “Aren’t we lucky to live here!”

Without question. We got an hour ride of hills in and plucked ourselves off the bikes and onto running mode. Once our legs warmed up we challenged a hill into some single track trails and around the lake path. Heart rate was up a bit and we kept pace. All the while I’m thinking, would I be doing this if it wasn’t for my pal CC?

Back in transition I was treated to the smoothie of my life. Blueberries, pineapple, banana and whatever else. My stomach and taste buds sang the morning!

I was sent home with a coffee and cookies. I’d scheduled a meet-up with friends T and R at the RV park next to me at 9 a.m.

There’s certain folk you meet on the path of life that lay a foundation of thoughts that trickle into your subconscious. T and R are special to me. Both have had their own unique health challenges. But resonate with a love for life and helping those around them.

We talked about R’s recent surgery and post recovery. Two months rather then the predicted six. Scars to prove it. A smile, chin up and astute in skin colour, energy and posture. I attributed that to the love and care from T along with the winning attitude for the speedy recovery.

Health topped our conversation this morning. CC and I had already had a conversation on our ride about complainers. Some people like to. There's no magic pill for good health. T's formula is as follows:

• positive attitude
• stay active
• eat right
• give your body what it needs to be healthy

“Most people want the most out of life. To live until they die,” she said adding, “I love life.”

There was only an hour for catch up so I rode their RV back to my home gate. As we hugged goodbye T’s parting words were, “Live life to it’s fullest.”

All this made for a perfect day.

Money Rules

We’re born with nothing. When we die, we leave with nothing. How did the in-between get so muddled?

There’s this huge necessity for acquiring things and stuff. A car. A house with all that goes in it. The need for a vacation. Saving for retirement. Which adds up to financial pressure.

In the morning before I leave the boat I rub the Buddha’s belly. To remind myself to come back to the now and to put a smile on my face. Grateful for my health, my family and my friends. That’s what counts.

I grow tired listening to people complain about not having enough. Especially money.

Then I hear tales of survival in poverty pockets around the world. A woman who had to go to work so she could feed her children and tied her children to a tree because she didn’t have anyone to look after them.

Why does money rule? 

Old School New School

For sure when I was 18 years-old I didn’t know what I wanted to do. A girlfriend from school who was sent away to study in Switzerland spoke with me on the phone one day.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

I remember replying with something to the affect of “Not much.”

“Well, if you’ve got the money why don’t you come to Europe?”
Two summers in a row I was fortunate to work for the Provincial Parks Branch. I’d saved the money. Even with my horse, I kept up part-time jobs and left the money in the bank.

When the idea crossed my temple, my only thought was “Why not? I’ll try anything once!”
Back then you could buy a Eurail Pass and a Youth Hostel membership pretty cheap. I did all that. Got on a plane and landed in Europe. Alone. Yes. Was I scared? Not really. But Europe was bigger then I imagined and getting around no easy feat.

I managed England, Ireland, France, Belgium, Holland, Austria, Switzerland, Italy and finally Greece. Where I ran out of money and had to work. Slept on beaches. Celebrated my 19^th birthday on a Greek Island called Paros.

Now that my only child has graduated and turned 18, I keep telling him “You need to get out of dodge.”

I suggested he come to Uganda with me in November. School or Africa, take your pick.

There’s hesitation in the decision so far. Six weeks without a Blackberry pretty much. He’s talking to me while he’s having at least three different Blackberry Messenger conversations with his friends.

Without the Blackberry, what’s left? Face to face communication. Direct eye contact. Verbal dialogue.

Is that what they call Old School?

SARK and I

Did a conference call tonight with SARK and others. Love technology today. We actually had an opportunity to break off into groups and do mini-workshop type vignettes all via this system called MaestroConference. Very cool.

As I’ve committed to attending SARK’s workshop at Hollyhock on Cortes Island in September, I reckoned this to be a good precursor for what to expect.

Three part harmony, developing a self-support system that is sustainable to me, a Transformational Change Sheet part of SARK’s Solution Station – I swallowed it all whole!

In my mini-workshop was Florida, Massachusetts and me Canada. We were all invited to share permission slips for each other’s Change Sheets by sounding the first thing intuitively that came to mind.

Long ago I read a book by SARK, Succulent Wild Woman. In the fall I picked up from the library, Juicy Pens Thirsty Paper. Both gratifying with inspirational tidbits that I carry with me every day.

We live to learn, to grow. Yet empowering ourselves to do to be all we want to be takes support. I’ve lit this candle.

When I called out my Choose to Transform sentence it resonated; Change my source of income from manual labour (varnishing boats) to creativity and making a difference. 
SARK’s verbal response was not to leap, but to build a bridge.
I’m washing the dishes and mulling over it all. I think about my bridge. The future. The workshop with SARK in September. My upcoming trip to Uganda in the fall.

Seems like the foundation is already there.

Tonight I breath gratitude.

Fear of Africa

Do something everyday that scares you. How often have you read that? Motivational... humm, I find that questionable. Yet too often in life we don’t take chances. We do what we know, what is safe, what is within our natural boundaries.

I’ll have a few housemates when I’m in Uganda this November/December. Two of whom I spent time with tonight. In discussing Africa, Martha turned to me early on and pointed this question:

“Is there anything you’re afraid of?” she led with promise.

Without hesitation the only answer that jumped into my head was, “The shots.”

It felt like a round table. Both Jim and Martha had already been. Jim more then once. Martha confessed before she went she was afraid of everything. Upon her return, the only scary thing she claimed from her time in Uganda was the traffic. The drivers. Jim’s salutation of a Ugandan driver was picture perfect.

He described their agility. Growing up as hunters. Stalking. Moving like a gazelle. Now put that individual behind a wheel of a car and they think they can do anything.

While poverty is rampant so is corruption. When help arrives, there’s a realization that the big picture can’t easily be fixed. 

“You can’t imagine how they keep their spirit up. Their life is a landmine,” shutters Martha. She later spoke about what we have here. “Things are so different. We have no challenges. No ability to really help create change. No adventures.”

I’m already thinking I should be taking my 18 year-old son with me.

Then Jim’s warning was sounded.
“You never go to Africa once,” he claims. “With Africa you end up getting connected. You make connections with people that add meaning to your life.”

I settle home to sit and write this and continually ponder to myself, why would anyone be afraid to go to Africa?

Conditioned Surroundings

“A place for everything and everything in its place!” he used to screech raising his walking stick in the air.

My father was a stickler for organization. If you were to draw a line around the placement of his radio, his back scratcher and his tea cup beside his bed, they were placed precisely in the same spot – day in and day out.

It’s been a while since I’ve lived in a house. A small space is home. Yet conventional tidying up need not apply. If one thing is out of place, the whole space looks a mess.

So when I cram long hours into a project on said computer – the shipshape is literally turned upside down. Dishes stay sticky. Coffee grinds sit splattered. Papers scatter. Yet, does it matter?

Clean space equals clear mind. Cluttered environment displays scattered thoughts.

Dad definitely had one up on me.

Summer Rain Inside

Split Enz put out a song about spending six months on a leaky boat. I’m coming up to seven years. Number one son cast the right shadow after the monsoon summer rain (all of one day).
“It’s been really dry.”
Wood and warmth. Like kindling. Cracks open up. It dries out. Wouldn’t want to light a match. Although, not necessarily so with a wooden boat in salt water. Must keep fresh water out. Salt water prevents rot. Fresh water rots boat. Rot is bad. Don’t want rot.
I have a friend who owned a wooden boat. She laboured over her with love. Till one day the rot became too much. It had reached her stem. Kinda an important part structurally of the boat. Called it quits. Put her love up for sale and sold her. Haven’t had a chance to ask her yet if she’s ever looked back.
Like a house, there’s a certain amount of maintenance that needs to happen each year. With boats though, if the roof leaks, it isn’t always that simple to fix. Pretty easy to put a few buckets out though!
So I carry on.

Mind Bends

Radical indifferences. Sublime characters. Games people play. Choices.
Perceived innocence. Conceptual charm. Altered states. Gambling with reality.
We are deployed prisoners of the real word. Captured morals. Reinstated by laws. Be it others points of view. Daring to imagine. Frightened by mystique.
What if all we know is not what is? We live here or there.
If the world ended tomorrow what would really matter today?

Beyond Family

It bereaves me to understand certain situations in life where an individual can abandon their family members for their own self-indulgence. A shocking display of ego with total ignorance for compassion.
In absolute horror I relived my own disturbance in life. An out-of-balance with the weight heavy in the heart. The burden carried second by second, minute by minute, hour by hour – day by day in the head. No shaking it.
Supposedly time heals everything. Yet in these instances time rattles on like a poisonous snake reaching out for its prey.
Silence may be golden, yet the heart beats hard and the throat catches it while the drums ring on in the ears. Ever cried that hard? It hurts.
My pain and misery spread. Lapping the shores of life. Stealing joy and mitigating sorrow. When will it end?
Acceptance quells the numbness. But will it stitch up the wounds? I know what I can do. It’s all I can do. Be there for my family member. Listen. Talk. Be. Help may come to be beyond family if time doesn’t rekindle this broken heart.

Language is Art

You can also say art is language. Be it writing poetry or novels.
What if we didn’t have art? What if there were no more words? Could we speak? Could we text?
Is what I am writing now, been written before? Perhaps I’ve taken other people’s words or writings and regurgitated them through my subconscious.
Where is originality in today’s world when there has been so many others before us? How can we create something new that hasn’t been said before?
My thinking translates the answers ten-fold. We’re all individuals, we’re all unique and whatever juxtaposed notions maybe we’ve heard before chances are, they’ve been ejected from our uniqueness in our form which means our spoken or written word is our own language in art.

Connecting Hope

One thing I have learned. The intention of communication is not always received the way it is planned. This holds true for friendships, family, relationships, rapport with co-workers and so on.
When I spoke to a friend from high school tonight regarding teenage boys and their meanderings, I said to her how important I felt it was to communicate. All be it difficult at times. Especially if the parent’s side comes with care and concern (worry) leaving out the friendship iota for support.
Perception is one thing. Intention is another. So how can you fix a line of communication that is broken?
Had another pal the other day tell me that dinner with dad ended in a bit of a spat. That the family rule was never to sleep on ill feelings. Clean the slate and move on. She made that happen by taking a time out and heading back for a verbal chin wag to clear things up.
Back to the teenagers. Fortunately for me, I’ve always worn my feelings on my sleeve and spoken my mind, true to my word to my dear son. He gets it and I appreciate the healthy connection we have.
But for other parents, their talk may fall on deaf ears. I suggested to my friend, sharing your experiences with your son may create value in your discussions. And hopefully connect some hope that not all of what mum speaks is doom and gloom. She really is human too.

Speak Solitude

The oars dipped in the water and the ocean gracefully moved by. The stir of the movement like a breath in and out. As I rowed on I noticed a man perched on the bow of his multi-hull. Alone. I thought to myself – solitude.
The inlet is quiet except for the purple martins and the odd drip of the ocean from my oar. The regal silence moved my thoughts.
How often do we slow down, sit down and shut down? I know I have written that sentence before. Guilty of the deception of time for the must do this and have to do that. There is in life a necessity for stillness.
I ponder on in my own silence reflecting on the moment. Can there be such a thing? A life of solitude? Then a seagull swoops by. The air floats along. The sea surrounds. Majestic trees envelope the scene. The tranquility of the peacefulness speaks to me.
I arrive home at my boat and express my own solitude. Moments of nothingness but for the sounds that surround me.

Swinging Around

Been a while since I’ve declared a holiday and taken my boat out to hang out. Super cool to have visitors coming by. Even though I have to pick them up in the dinghy. All seem to be up for a meal on the transom with the barbecue.
Till dark. Then there is the mass exit. Although Catherine and Glenn stayed well past the Butchart Gardens fireworks last night and trundled home with their flashlights. The stroll up the trail from Tod Inlet isn’t long. But it is dark.
Loved Catherine’s text message “We are almost home. Boogie men didn’t get us…!”
Had to chuckle when my son and his buddy decided to bolt at dusk tonight. Eat and run before it got dark dark! No worries.
I’ve had a pleasant steady stream of happiness throughout the last two days. Great people. Fabulous food. Fresh air and sun.
Did a trail run through Gowland Tod this afternoon and down to Butchart Gardens. Very peaceful. The meadows are full of pink sweet peas. The aroma is almost summer. The winds have been chilly in the afternoon. Didn’t stop me from napping on the aft deck before dinner.
That’s what holidays are for!