Two more writing exercises during my time at Esalen Institute

Photo - sunset at Esalen Institute, Big Sur, September, 2017.

In day three of the workshop, we were asked to write about:

What is sacred?

I spent three years in a boarding school and every Sunday during that time we went to church. The principal would come and inspect us in the main hall before our leaving on the school buses for the Presbyterian City Church. Shoes polished, check - hat, gloves, pantyhose...if there were scuffs on our shoes or a run in the pantyhose, we were promptly ordered to return to our rooms and rectify the misdemeanor. 

I found solace in the church, a place where I could just sit and be and feel at home. Our bony teenage butts on those hard, wooden pews - sitting obediently among the student brethren and other church goers, idly playing with the ribbon that marked a page in the Bible, or flipping through the hymn book and mouthing the words of a verse. 

There was a sense of being taken care of in the church - something greater had your back. I developed that feeling very early on and it continued after boarding school, when I was living with my parents again and would accompany my mother to church most Sundays - something her breast cancer diagnosis had prompted on. The ritual of church fostered a special connection with my mother, something I continued to have with her until she died, and her funeral held in that same church we'd been attending for five years together. 

After university I took off for Europe, as a 21 year old backpacker, and whenever I felt homesick or lonely, I would call into a church and just sit. There were some astronomically beautiful churches in Europe and I especially remember one in Bruges in Brussels where I sat and prayed for my mother. Great wooden paneling, intricate stone carving, gleaming lead-lighted windows depicting all the great religious motifs. 

Two years ago, I was in Rome and received an email from my cousin that my uncle had unexpectedly passed. He was a beloved fellow, jovial, and wily as a young buck. A farmer his whole life, he had some fantastic stories about time on the land. I responded to my cousin that I was in Rome, but it a most suitable place - the holy city - to be on discovering this sad news. Later that evening, I found a quaint little church just down the road from where I was staying, and said a prayer for my uncle - wishing him Godspeed for his journey on. 

Another writing exercise was to talk to...

Your heart's deepest yearning

Whenever I'm feeling alone, and that 'woe is me' feeling of despair has crept in, I will sometimes look to the times when I've felt pure contentment (or close to it). Most people think having a partner is what's going to make them happiest, but so far, I've experienced better times single. Truest to my heart is when I am on my own.

Having said this, I am never quite on my own during these times - and the desires that drive that yearning - is for connection. It's a bonus when understanding is also thrown in. Some form of contact with another living person, animal or thing - can turn into a nourishment that uplifts the soul, or keeps it steady and stabilized, saving oneself from the perils of despair.

I've found that in a community of day-to-day interactions. The morning visit to the local cafe, exchanging small talk and general observations with the barista; seeing my yoga teacher, and her acknowledgement by way of a nod, that she's glad I "showed up" to class. Doing the weekly rounds of poking my head into my colleagues offices at work to check in and see how I can help.

I also yearn for new experiences and like a butterfly that has broken from its cocoon, it's in this environment - foreign and new - when I lose myself from that conditioned trap of self. Away from routine, my senses become keenly acute and it is in navigating these circumstances that I sate a yearning to be free and content and thrilling. 

Writing workshop at Esalen Institute

Photo - the Esalen Institute, Big Sur - September, 2017

I took off for the long weekend (Labor Day in the U.S) to the Esalen Institute in Big Sur (google it for those who do not know it) and undertook a 2.5 day writing intensive with Mark Matousek (Google him too : )). 

As follows some of the works I penned (and the whole group did this) each with a time limit of around 35 minutes for writing. 

Today in a writing workshop at a world renowned health "new age" retreat centre called Esalen, Mark Matousek, the teacher, asked us to write about our conception. 

Why we were born?

It's interesting that today (September 3) is father's day in Australia. 

I believe I came into this world because my father urged my mother to have another child. From my understanding, and these things are too often vague (because parents don't usually talk about how or why their child was born) my mother was happy with just one child, my brother, and perhaps happy is not the right word, I think she thought her maternal duty was done with one. 

But for some reason my father wanted me. I say for some reason because my mother was the one who did the heavy lifting when it came to parenting. We were a traditional family in that sense - dad the provider, mum the homemaker. I know also that after I was born, my father didn't stop there. He wanted a third child.  Dad had told me much later, in a humorous kind of way, that he would have liked to know which sex was the dominant. I would have loved another brother or sister, but alas, it wasn't to be. 

As it turned out that way, so too did it transpire that my brother is very much like my mother, and I am like my father. We all adored our mother, but I would say if one were to align my brother and I, alongside our parents for a "who's alike?" character assessment, people would draw that conclusion.

 - another of the exercises was to write about "the mother's gaze" and how that has come to shape who you are -

The Mother's Gaze

What did I learn from my mother's face about love?  And how I was seen or not seen.

When my mother died, my father included the poetry line: "the maiden smiled, her eyes overflowing with laughter" in the newspaper's death notice. This line had been said of her several times when she was younger. 

My mother had a soft face, her skin was supple and she had a beautiful smile. She wore a bit of a mask though, she was a great actress. I copied a lot of that - to this day. Someone would call for her on the telephone (she was not a well person she had breast cancer for 10 years until it claimed her life at 52 years old) and she'd furiously wave at my father - "no, I don't want to speak to them"...and yet, dad would pass her the phone. He was very much of the belief that if someone had taken the time to call, the least we could do, was speak to them. 

Mum would take the receiver and instantly transform her voice into one of gaiety for the receiver's end. Very few acquaintances or friends knew the side of my mother that shooed my father away. I saw it often as she was comfortable around us. In thinking about it, I have definitely replicated her two faces. 

The romantic men in my life have struggled with me on that level. They think they're getting one Caroline, the charming and friendly one, and then another side emerges. A side that isn't always nice and chipper. Mum was triumphant in amping up her personality for others. Almost like Gloria Swanson from Sunset Boulevard "I'm ready for my close up."  

The other thing I would mention, about my mother's face and its influence on how I felt loved, was during the time very close to the end of her life when I was visiting her in hospital. The calcium in her bones was breaking down and too much calcium in the bloodstream can, I understand medically, cause dementia.

As I walked into the hospital room she looked at me with a confused almost blank look on her face. I think for the blink of an eye, she didn't know who I was. But then her reaction to my hug and kiss - was how it had been several times before, when she did have her wits about her, at home. Mum was not welcoming of my affection or embrace. She pushed me away time and again, and on this day in the hospital, she gave me a terrified look of "get away."  

This event, and the others leading up, have had a huge impact on my impressions of my mother's love. 

Photo - view from Esalen Institute outdoor dining area. Big Sur, September, 2017.

A long intermission

My goodness, it's been almost a year since I last blogged. That's astounding to me given I have kept this blog up to date pretty regularly across the years. I guess the main reason for my big wide stall pertains to a general level of happiness with the status quo, and no nagging requirement to share my musings with the cyber community or as cathartic exercise - and probably more to the point - that in a career of public relations - it involves a lot of reading and writing. So it's not uncommon to run out of puff at the end of a work day and then pursue extra-curricular writing - such as personal blog maintenance.

But here I am - posting again, just to acknowledge and say - that I haven't disappeared. I'm still here...and there will be more. Still where, one wonders? The child of the universe has a lot of land she can traverse. Well, right now, Hollywood, Los Angeles. Yes, isn't that special? Special indeed for an Aussie girl who grew up on Hollywood film.

So that's enough for now - even though I could tell you that I visited Marilyn Monroe's grave the other week and happened upon other famous people buried there too, such as Truman Capote, Dean Martin, Billy Wilder, and Farah Fawcett...and that to broaden my community here in LA and make some new friends - I have enrolled in a comedy improv eight-week class organised by the well-known to industry peeps, Upright Citizen's Brigade. 

And that one of my favourite things to do when I'm feeling down, bored or blue, is to youtube "crocodiles in Africa" and stumble on the majestic mash of those fabulous dinosaur reptiles battling it out in nature's cycle of life (visit this one for true awe-inspiring wonder https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LU8DDYz68kM) or that reading this article a friend posted on her facebook feed made me remember my own experience of losing my mum and it made me cry: http://www.theage.com.au/entertainment/brian-nankervis-pays-tribute-to-his-mum-20170509-gw0s46

Yes, there's lots of that sort of stuff that I could share - the daily LIFE stuff - that makes up the day-to-day and keeps you feeling human and joy.

It's near summer here in LA. The sun is out and it's warm. And I've recently discovered a cool coffee place around the corner from me where I can drink an almond latte and listen to people talk about screenplays and directing films, as well was recommended, and since been to a delicious deli-restaurant & fine wine shop/institution (Greenblatts on Sunset Boulevard) where the servers treated me well and were nice to me.

Those things make me smile. 

Death

I’ve experienced a thousand metaphoric deaths. Death to the ego, death to control, death to youth, death to what we want in our life but can’t have, death to delusion, death to people you don’t hang out with anymore – or, places you used to go.

I don’t dwell on the subject, but it comes up every so often.

A friend of mine lost her life partner last year to cancer and she posted the following on facebook last week:

It fascinates me how many people express what they know about what happens after you die. I like the musings and the various ideas, but no, you don't know, you just don't.

Even those that have been dead and revived, still do not 'know'.

No amount of book reading, meditation, or journeys to India can give you this information set in stone.

Yes to investigating it ~ no to pretending we know it all. 

Concocted wisdom is so unattractive; a fool's paradise.

‪#‎generalobservation ‪#‎notaboutanyoneortheirbeliefs ‪#‎nofilter

It’s been a while since my last blog entry and I’m bringing it to life again with a post about death. 

We all die – but what is it to die, really?

In terms of the afterlife, I've had a few ghostly encounters: 

·        My mother died on the 25 July, 20 years ago. When my father and I entered her hospital room to see her after she had died (my brother and a nurse were already in the room), I felt a va boom, va boom, va boom energy – contracting, expanding, contracting, expanding – the whole room seemed full with her spirit.

·        On 30 July (my birthday) and five days after her death, my cousin and I were laying in my bed, both of us awake, though each of us presumed the other sleeping. A dark aura came together in the shape of a person from across the room. The va boom, va boom, va boom energy returned. The blackened metaphysical figure hovered for a while, then dispersed. The next morning my cousin and I were making my bed. She said tentatively: “Your mother came back last night.” “I know,” I said. "You felt it too?”

·        A few years after mum’s death, Dad and I were renovating our family home. We wanted to make it the best version it could be in honour of her. Soon after we launched our renovations, Dad met his now wife. He would stay over at her house which meant I was often alone in our home. The builders had knocked down back walls which left security vulnerable. A thrifty robber would have found his way in. 

I was in the front bedroom with my two dogs, asleep. An energy came over the room which triggered me to wake. Besides the bed, crouching on the floor – in a position that signaled fear that I’d catch him - was a young man, about 20, with brown tousled hair, wearing a red flannelet shirt. I was stunned to paralysis. I tried to talk or scream. I couldn’t. Instead his eyes met mine in a flash of shock – me at seeing him, and he at being discovered by me. Finally I was able to muster some semblance of a voice: “Get the fuck out,” I said. “Get the fuck out,” my voice meek but mouthing the words. I thought he was going to get up and run. But right before my eyes he dissipated into thin air. I threw my head to the other side of my pillow and closed my eyes tightly. “Holy fuck, I’ve just seen a ghost. Holy fuck, I’ve seen a ghost."

·        About three years before mum died, our family spent Christmas at my Aunt Sue’s country home. My three cousins often had stories to tell about ghosts lurking up around the farm house. They were all used to it. Phenomena. The same cousin who would be with me on my birthday those years later was attuned to the spirit world. We all believed she must be a ‘fresh spirit’. So it goes, a fresh spirit is a new soul to the world, no past lives - and as a result, she’s especially tapped in. That day our family had been up to my maternal grandfather (Bert's) grave site. I never knew him. Mum was 21 when her father died, and her youngest sister, Helen – only seven. There were four sisters in all. Jennifer (my mum), Sue, Lucy, and Helen.

Later that night – around 11pm – Sophie (the fresh spirit cousin), Lucy, Helen, and I, sat at a Ouji board that my cousins had long ago etched into the kitchen table. We intended to channel Bert. We’d been at the board, fingers on the glass, and obligatory candles, for over two hours trying to conjure up ghosts – hopefully Bert, but anyone would do. Suddenly he came in. “Is that you Bert?” Sophie asked. The glass quivered. “John Robert Field, is that you?” The glass wavered for a bit – all our forefingers pressed firmly on its overturned base. Definitively the glass moved to “Yes.” And so we went on – did you know we were at your grave site today? “Yes.”

Who are your daughters? The glass would find the letters on the board to spell J-E-N and then S-U-E. Instead of spelling the other daughters' names, the glass instead led us to Lucy, her person, – stopped for a bit - and then off to position in front of Helen. Sophie began to ask more questions. But Bert didn’t move. More questions. Still staying put in front of Helen. We began to sob. Was this Bert reclaiming lost time with his youngest daughter Helen? The daughter he had only known for seven years? It felt like it. 

Lucy asked: “Will Jen be alright Dad?" Jen, of course being my mother – who was as it turned out to die less than three years later. Bert didn’t want to answer. He hovered between yes and no. A wave of devastation flooded the pit of my stomach. The session wrapped as Bert tired and we could sense the energy wane. It was time for us to let him go.

There are probably other accounts – but those four examples are the most profound I’ve experienced. I dated a doctor who worked night shifts in the ICU department at several Sydney hospitals. He said he’d be asleep in the bed assigned to doctors on night shift, and in his dream – he would be walking down the wards and see people walking past him. He’d be woken sharply by the nurses calling his pager. “Doctor – we need you in room [XX] to certify a death.” Nirmal would head to the room – see the deceased patient and recognize them as one of the people from his dream.

In closing, I’ll share some wise words written from Bishop Koshin Ogui, a Buddhist teacher, who gave sage advice to a troubled young man thinking he’d be better off dead. 

“It’s a certainty that at some point you will die. So there’s no need to rush. When your time comes, you can die then. But since you’ve been blessed in this life with a human form, why don’t you try living a while longer?”

Photo: Mum. 

Harassed in Old Town Istanbul

Not every man is a creep, but the ones who are, spoil it for the others.

First of all, like my time in India, I'd been warned. Twice.

My friend's mother cautioned her that it may not be wise for me, a tall, blonde, Western woman, to travel alone in Istanbul. "Have you ever been to a Muslim country?" my friend asked. "Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia" I replied. "India."

Not the same, she quickly dismissed.

The other warning came from a friend who has friends who have married Turkish men. It did not go well, she said, and both women are now divorced. Do not have a holiday romance with a Turkish man being the moral of the story.

Cairo Time is one of my favorite films. It's with American actress, Patricia Clarkson, and is a visual and soulful feast that starts with a woman traveling to Egypt to meet her husband. He is working for the UN but is delayed from his post, which leaves Patricia largely alone for days unto herself.

Her husband has a local business acquaintance who takes Patricia under his wing, and while this man is very likable and the ultimate gentleman, others, we come to learn, are not.

One such scene demonstrating this is when Patricia's character walks out onto a city street. She is quickly seen and followed by several men.

This has happened to me in Old Town Istanbul (a highly touristic part) three times in four days. That's not counting the constant: "Hello lady" "Where are you from?" "Can I tell you something..." that I endure from the touts the moment I walk out of my hotel door.

Yes, on three consecutive days, I've had a different man follow me, arrive at my side, and start a conversation...and then, what?  They keep at it for a few more go's until thankfully, seem to accept defeat.

These incidents harken back to the time I went swimming in Gokana, India, when I needed to keep swimming further out to avoid the packs of Indian men wanting to grope me underwater.  I'd read about this, and that local Indian men are not great swimmers, so the idea is to swim out to get ahead
and away from them. Unnerving it was.

Back to Istanbul.

I wanted to like this place, I'd heard great things, and friends rave.

The thing is though that I travel as much for the interactions I have with the local people as I do for a place, and this city is tarnished. It's branded with a collective of men who are sleaze buckets and honestly, probably know no better. Or at least, that's the impression.

I loved India - even with its gritty layers - I still loved it. Unfortunately though, India in its dark corners, has a problem with how it treats women. What impressed me however was that news reports do not shy away from this dirty truth. And the local women are right on it (scroll back to posts of mine in 2013 to see my writing on it).

I don't feel that from the Turkish women. I don't feel the resistance...but what do I know? I can't understand Turkish so I can not read the news, nor have I spoken to any Turkish women about it, if
much at all. Language and culture is a barrier and working Turkish women in the tourist parts are scarce.

But it does seem evident in this city, that it is a man's entity, and even when called to prayer five times daily, many are not practicing the virtues of the Qur'an.

Picture: Patricia Clarkson in a scene from Cairo Time.

Istanbul!

Turkish delight

Fresh pomegranate juice!

Halva!

Call to prayer!

Turkish disdain

Leering men!

Intrusive touts!

Traffic!

A stressful morning

I've been part of a Buddhist meditation group for the past few Wednesdays in San Francisco and there's not much more that can test the technique than arriving on a stressful situation.

Travelling solo comes with many perks but it also has its challenges. Much as anything I guess in the sense travelling with a friend or partner can at times be equally lonely and stressful.

I'm not entirely sure why I do it but I regularly throw myself into testing situations. Call it in the vein of personal growth and keeping things fresh.

This morning I was due to catch a 10am ferry to the island Hydra. I was staying at an airbnb in Athens and little did I know but as I left the keys in the apartment to 'check out' I unwittingly locked myself in the building. Unbeknownst to me, the downstairs door leading outside, had been locked and needed a key - the key I had just locked inside the apartment.

I frantically worked this door thinking a good push could unlock it but, no. In less than an hour my ferry would depart and I knew I would likely miss it. The following half an hour was spent sweating from the heat and stress and trying to calm my hurried mind so I could work out what to do. I had already knocked on the two other apartments in the building to no avail and in the end I used a combination of iPad and phone to source contact details and call my airbnb hosts. After a 15 minute wait someone they had rallied by phone came to my rescue. Phew. I was out.

I did miss the 10am ferry and had to wait an additional four hours for the next one at port. I whiled away this dead time reading up on the Australian liberal party's leadership contest at a cafe tucking into a healthy omelette and traditional Greek coffee. A much appreciated respite after an isolating start.

This is the thing about travelling, and especially to countries where English is the second language, if spoken at all. It can do its darnest to test your mettle and the side that reveals itself to you in these circumstances speaks volumes.

During the days, I stroll the streets alone and pass organised tour groups, mostly older people, probably retirees - mindlessly trudging behind their tour guide in numb submission. That's not me, I note, but I know why the sheep do it. Having to report and accord for yourself 24/7 in uncharted territories is not for the thin-skinned.

One thing the meditation and its teachings have taught me, is to breathe through it which helps still the mind and creates the space to think rationally.

I made it to port and was pleasantly surprised to learn that I was able to book the 2pm ferry at no extra charge. Things were taking a turn for the better. That is, until I stepped in shit.


Photo: made it to stunning Hydra - the view from my window.