just what my heart needed
arrived home this afternoon weary, exhausted. too much to do, too many decisions, too too too. until i saw the package from germany placed on my front porch. and i knew, this was exactly what my heart needed. i waited until the right moment, and sat, and touched the linen cover, let my eyes drink it in. and opened.
i had been anticipating this *stunning* book by ubertalented stylist/photographer/traveller pia jane bijkerk for months after having discovered her blog. not available yet on US amazon. after searching around for the past three weeks since it was released in australia, i finally found one, i think from amazon germany. MINE! i jumped on it with my credit card.
tonight my heart will wander, with pia's, to france and holland. and then further on, my heart will continue to wander. mine heart.
i love me
february = red = hearts = romance = jewels = flowers = cupid = chocolates = valentines = LOVE. it's everywhere. in stores, on tv, in magazines. i found tiny heart confetti spilled on the sidewalk today.
we all -- the collective consciousness of human beings all over the planet -- love LOVE. we love being LOVED. of course!
and those of us who have done any personal work know that no matter how much love comes toward us from the outside, if we don't have love for ourselves on the inside, then no amount of love from the outside can fill us up or ever make us truly happy.
all around me, i see dear people having meltdowns when something on the outside triggers their lack of love on the inside, the lack of love for one's SELF. i think many, if not most, of us humans need to love ourselves more and better.
in a chapter about self-respect in his book "the power of intention," wayne dyer suggests many ways to love the self. the one that got to me was his statement:
affirm to yourself and all others that you meet, I belong!
i can be quite self-conscious in social settings, so i'm going to practice that one.
for me, taking good care of myself is a great act of self love ... hot baths before bed, and going to bed early for that matter. and silencing the inner critic. and bringing to light and loving even the dark and shameful parts of myself.
i'd love to hear how you love yourself in real-world, practical, every day ways. don't be shy. it's something we all need more of ... chime in, in the name of love!
all this SELF love is imperative so we can share that expression with the world. so we can BE LOVE. and BEAM LOVE!
monday memories / RTW trip: in to africa
while i have my around-the-world photos out from their usual home in the garage, i think i’ll continue telling some more stories from that adventure. after the last post about india ...
**note: most of these photos were scanned from contact sheets, thus the low quality.
we flew to nairobi, our luggage arriving splayed open on the conveyor belts, along with many other bags arriving in similar shape. curt was missing a few items, but we were glad to see our bags. many fellow travellers' bags didn't arrive at all. an airport luggage worker, either in bombay or nairobi, jimmied open the zippers on our bags and rummaged around. both places are filled with desperate people. still, we have a feeling it happened in nairobi ...
curt and ngugi
we were there visiting curt's friend ngugi in ngong (pronounced "gogi" and "gong") outside nairobi. ngugi lived in curt's neighborhood in portland from age 10 to age 20, and they grew up playing together. at 20, ngugi had an apartment, a car, a job, a girlfriend, a bank account, and was going to college. he decided to make a trip back to kenya to visit his dying father. had all the necessary visas and paperwork. he took two suitcases, one with his clothes, and one filled with gifts for his family. at the end of his visit, he went to the airport all ready to head back to portland, and was denied transit. as in, the airport officials denied his visa, which had been fine a month prior when he had departed portland. ngugi later learned that while he was overseas, president reagan had changed the law. ngugi was not allowed to return to the US.
ngong
what? curt's family and all the neighbors worked on ngugi's behalf to help him return to portland, to his LIFE. but they were unsuccessful. and unable to send his things. ngugi had one suitcase to his name.
with nowhere else to go, ngugi first built himself a mud hut in a shanty town. then eventually he married, moved in to a compound and had two beautiful children. ironically, he worked sporadically as a photographer of passport pictures. 10 years later, he was still bitter about how he was treated by the united states government. yeah, i get it.
ngong
curt and i stayed with ngugi, his wife mama-ciku (once a kenyan woman has a child, she takes the name of her first born preceded by "mama") and their children ciku and jack in their two-room home for a few days until we were able to find lodging. we rented an unfurnished house -- a mansion compared to ngugi's place -- with an eastern (aka: squat), but porcelain and flushing, toilet. at ngugi's place, the shared toilet facilities were not porcelain, not flushing, and ... how can i say it ... the worst i've encountered ... anywhere, ever.
ciku (left) and jack and neighbor (right)
our house was clean and simple. we borrowed a single bed and a propane burner, and lived there for two months. but we only had running water for the first few days. from then on, we had to join in the queues of people with our five-gallon buckets. we had to boil our water for drinking, we used one-liter bottles for bathing and for flushing the toilet.
mama-ciku and neighbor girl
we did take ngugi's family on a low-budget/high-adventure safari (the post which started this whole series of our trip around the world).
and we did visit ngugi's family farm one weekend. they even killed a goat in our honor (i was a vegetarian at the time. horrible.)
ciku and jack on family farm
and curt and ngugi got to spend a lot of time together. they had 10 years to catch up on. but two months was a long time for me. ngong was a poor african town with not much happening, no opportunity for the locals, people having to walk far for water. lots of people hanging around not working because there just wasn't any work. it was depressing, hopeless.
one night we visited ngugi's brother who was living in his old mud hut in the shanty town. we were drinking beer. two local policemen paid us a visit, and from what i could gather, demanded beer. they stayed and drank it, loosened their uniforms, disheveled. they had guns. it was very scary.
i also made a collage out of newspaper stories and headlines while i was there. horrific stories about people hacking each other up with machetes. police raping women with coke bottles. astounding brutality.
mombasa
we also visited mombasa on the ocean. curt got really, really sick. more sick than when we were stranded in that nepali village.
i literally just found my travel journal out in the garage. here's an excerpt from that time:
mombasa was a bust, we are nonplussed and both got bacterial dysentary. curt was so sick and with such a high fever (i'm glad we had no thermometer!) and chills, i thought he might even have malaria. but after several hours of his suffering and my nursing, his fever broke. he was still not well enough to take the bus back to nairobi, so i exchanged our tickets for tomorrow and got more medicine from the nice indian pharmacist.
mombasa
and i have to say, africa -- or maybe it was just travelling in general -- was taking its toll on me.
the morning we were going to the family farm, curt and i took our usual path to ngugi's, but the monsoons had started and it was pouring. i stepped in mud down to my ankles and basically had a meltdown. we got to ngugi's and i wouldn't stop crying. the children were concerned. curt laughed at me. i was not a happy camper. it was kind of funny that a little mud would warrant such an explosive reaction, but i just had had it up to here (karate chop in the air over my head).
view of ngong hills from the karen blixen museum
to escape our heartbreaking surroundings, we snuck away -- somewhat guiltily -- and rode the insanely dangerous matatou (minibus) from ngong halfway to nairobi ... to karen. ah, karen. karen was the wealthy suburb where many europeans had plantations and farms. karen blixen (also known as isak dinesan, "out of africa"author) had her farm there, which had become a museum and which i visited often. and there was a great restaurant with a safe salad bar, candlelight and cold beer! curt tried game meats. i soaked up the sparkling clean ambiance. heaven.
another journal entry:
curt and i really do get along well, we have had nothing but time on our hands and have managed to keep ourselves and each other entertained -- thank god we both like gin rummy. he really is a pleasure to live with ...
exotic plant at karen blixen museum
i'm embarrassed to say that i needed to get away to karen. but i really did. i just did. it was peaceful, subdued, beautiful.
in spite of the hardships, in spite of my heart breaking over and over witnessing so much hopelessness, i did find beauty in the landscapes, the majestic animals, and the courageous people who live and laugh, day in and day out, with such rawness of LIFE. and what a treasure for curt and ngugi to have had that time together.
~~~~~
lessons learned: important friendships are worth any hardship.
+++++
while we were travelling, we didn't really have any extra money or things we could give to ngugi and his family. but when we got home, it felt good to send ngugi some extra camera gear i had. and curt still sends money.
in kenya, i became a huge karen blixen fan. read her "letters from africa, 1914-1931." when i returned home, i found this wonderful book "longing for darkness: kamante's tales from out of africa" by photographer peter beard. he collected stories and drawings by blixen's servant kamante, the hero in blixen's "out of africa."
portrait of kamante in the karen blixen museum
today i fall into time ...
fall back. yes. i gleefully turned back my clocks today.
many bemoan the early darkness of the time change. me? i don't care about tomorrow. i don't even care about later.
because the day we turn the clocks back, whether in october or november, is one of the best days of the year.
why?
because i have an extra hour TODAY!
this is the day when time feels completely different. having one extra hour feels like eons. the day expands. time slows. there is time for e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g today.
meditation. yoga. skip to the store for gluten-free waffle mix. throw in some berries and bananas, and a feast is had. with sunday paper. walk the dog between rain showers. back to the store for firewood. make a fire, snuggle under the throw, make a few calls. make tea, and sit. reading. savoring the last of my book (i always save the end of a good book for the perfect time and place, knowing this is the last time i will be with these people in their world).
the day goes on and on ... i absolutely love today. i savor the space of time, lapping it up, breathing it out, relishing its flavor, its generosity, its gift. mmmmmmmmmmm ...
ps - what are you doing with your extra hour today?
the power of one
i'll let mr. courtenay into my bed any night of the week. his stories grab me and take me away, straight into another place and time, and straight into another person's heart and mind.
while living in australia many years ago, i discovered australian author bryce courtenay. back then, i was reading "april fool's day," a gripping true story about the author's son, a hemophiliac, who died young from medically acquired AIDS. heartbreaking and truly uplifting.
now i'm reading "the power of one" ... 1940s south africa. a wise boy who knows racism isn't right. who thinks grown ups can be stupid and silly. who has one name, and one focus, one life purpose.
i'm about 3/4 of the way through. this little boy has seen so much, endured so much, and is so lovable. he attracts other lovable characters. and knows firsthand about the horrific ways human beings can be toward one another. and the power one small person can render. riveting.
just now i'm researching bryce courtenay. amazing. i didn't know until just this minute:
courtenay's very first book, "the power of one," became the largest-selling book by a living australian author within australia! and he wrote it in 1996 at age 55! (it was made into a movie, as well.)
and apparently, much of "the power of one" is based on his own life story. what a life!
he's written a slew of other books, and i know i'll be reading on ... and inviting mr. courtenay back to my bed anytime he wants.
listen up! less yang. more yin.
i cried on my yoga mat today.
first day of 30 days of yoga with marianne elliot. starting a home yoga practice. even though i signed up for a monthly membership at the local studio (they were having a deal on memberships … not much of a “deal” when you’re paying but not going). maybe this home practice will be the thing for me. i probably wouldn’t have let myself cry in a class full of people … or maybe i would have. i’m all for crying, have no problem with it. crying is just a release of energy, right?
so yeah, i cried. at the end of the almost hour-long practice. in savasana. first thing in the morning.
lying on my mat, i could hear from deep inside my body -- or my inner voice, or my soul – actually being grateful, saying: finally! you’re doing something for me! taking care of me. paying attention to me and to what I need.
sure, exercise has been spotty-at-best, of late. but it wasn’t just about moving my body. it was deeper than that.
little tears at first, welling up. i listened to my little voice, alongside marianne’s lovely, soothing, new-zealand-accented voice.
upon marianne's suggestion and wanting to take even more care of my Self, i placed a pillow under my knees and drew my (much neglected) meditation blanket over my body. savasana. full stop. total relax. that’s when the tears spilled over my eye sockets and down the side of my face. not sobbing, just tears flowing for a bit. my trusty four-legged companion daisey came over to lick my eyes … she hasn’t learned how to bring kleenex yet.
that little voice inside is so hard for me to hear most of the time.
this time, i even talked to her. please help me to hear you better. please speak to me more loudly! please help me learn how to take better care of you. please please please.
i’m pretty rotten at relaxing. i wrote to my friend manny the other day that i’ve always wanted to be a bon vivant (bonne vivante?). good at -- what elizabeth gilbert readily pointed out in eat pray love – that italianesque ease of “dolce far niente." the sweetness of doing nothing. but in reality, i’m no good at it. i relax the four days of thanksgiving. and when i’m sick in bed (so i don’t mind at all when i get sick, which is rarely). i have the constitution of a bull.
but this getting older thing requires gentleness. not bullishness. less yang. more yin.
i had a notecard by renée locks on my refrigerator for the longest time before the annual january fridge door cleanse. it read, “what people really need is a good listening to.” listened to. seen. heard. and i really try my best to do that for other people. have been acknowledged for being a good listener.
may i now translate this for myself: what i really need is a good listening to. by me.
hello hillary, can you hear me?