Softly focusing on the sunlight dappling the tannin waters of the Noosa River sent my brain into Zen-like serenity. Balancing on five feet of fiberglass on the fine line between air and water, I rose up above the languid chocolate waters on a carbon mast with an underwater wing. I carved into a 3rd dimension, floating in nature, just above the water, the very place where heaven meets its reflection.
The hypnotic chocolate waters swell beyond the sandy banks into the mangrove roots and stands of eucalyptus. Foiling here feels like the feathery span of the fish eagle swirling towards the flash of silvery bream.
A guru of mine once said, "Life is a wave and your attitude the board." So I'm going to try and ride my swell positively, hear the music (probably "The Doors") feel confident in my foiling abilities and successfully balance air and water.
A long time back, I floated on a Lake of Flames, a place where fire and water came together in perfect equilibrium in the dense heat of the tropical jungle. At night the waters reflect a Lake of Stars and when dawn breaks a glittering mantle of fire. Fire and water in breathtaking harmony.
Lately, I feel like my elements are out of balance. The last cold kick of winter has drawn a chilly dousing of rain and the damp is aching in my joints, it's got me longing for the heat. My inner fire needs to find a way back to the balanced synchronicity of the Lake of Flames but do I need to return to Malawi to do that?
Malawi lies deep in the warm heart of Africa and it's freshwater lake covers over one third of the country. The waters are so vast, violent gales occasionally lash it into a Lake of Storms. Livingstone "discovered" it for the National Geographical Society back when only the coastline of Africa was charted. Those early European explorers followed unknown rivers upstream, hacking their way through jungles in search of warm Savannah winds. Many stayed forever, beguiled by a lion's echo floating on a drum beat. It was their stories of adventure that had first drawn me to the Lake of Flames, perhaps my aching joints are just the African Sangoma witch doctor calling my bones back into balance.
Hwange
Surely there are other ways to counterweight my energies? Although I must confess, I'm still struggling to embrace my inner heat when I'm running with the yoga dogs. Balancing in up dog, down dog, lizard dog, fire hydrant dog, it all gets my temperature rising and when class ends I collapse from hot dog to dead dog onto my mat. Coincidentally, I just found out that the original yoga mats were made from tiger skins for their energetic powers. Before I stuff that 5000 year old yoga genie back in the bottle I have to ask, "What does that do to my dog Om when the Cat is the Mat?"
In Ayervedic medicine too much Pitta (fire) can make your joints ache. But how do I fight fire? With more fire? Or water? Or do I really need a Lake of Flames for a little of both? Could it be my chakras are out of whack? The yellow Manipura Chakra at the navel corresponds with the fire element. Blockages can lead to digestive issues and rheumatic diseases. But what do I know? I've been having issues with my Tapas for a while. Instead perhaps I should channel the Gods for inspiration? Surt is the fiery volcanic giant from Iceland's Norse Mythogology, Vulcan is the Roman God of fire and metalworking and Hephaestus, the Greek God of fire and forge. Hephaestus (btw the only ugly God) created Cupid's arrows and Achille's armor in his man cave while he was married to Aphrodite, goddess of beauty, love and eternal youth. I guess I can see some sort of cosmic balance in that. What about Tarot? The cards use the suit of wands (clubs) to represent the unpredictable energy of the Fire Element. It can help or destroy. It is inspiration, creativity and original thought and also impulsiveness and lack of direction.
So maybe I should firmly root my feet onto the earth and simply look up to the stars for the answer? Astrologically speaking I'm a fire sign and to balance that element I need to be peaceful and calm and recognize a more passive approach to life. That's all well and good, but when I'm standing on the crust of a gigantic ball of lava hurtling through the infinity of space, my agoraphobic tendencies burn way out of control. Feng Shui suggests I balance a lack of fire by placing wood in my south corner, it fuels the weak fire and gently reduces the water energy. Perhaps I should just move my wooden lady carving from Malawi over to the table and hand things over to her for a while. Maybe I won't have to hack my way back through the jungle like those early explorers to sail upon a lake reflecting the burning beauty of the sun. Perhaps I just have to be more aware about balancing the elements from my inner space to outer space.
Somehow the clouds floating above the river seemed different,high up and fluffy - the way a kid draws clouds. The soft winter breeze gently ruffled my hair as Greg and I strolled leisurely beside the Noosa River with our family friend, Billy, visiting from Calfornia.
Staring out over the iridescent blue water, the ripples bounced crystal rainbows onto my face. I smiled warmly at the peach glow of Jetty 17 and the helpful face of the owner Matt. Suddenly California dreaming became a reality when our quiet walk turned into a party barge for 12. A spontaneous decision to rent a BBQ pontoon for a few days of river cruising was exactly my kind of Dumb Blonde Adventure.
The Greek philosopher Heraclitus said that,
“No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it's not the same river and he's not the same man.”
Did that mean that everything around me was always changing including me? Could it be true that absolutely nothing ever stays the same? This was a lot to be grappling with as we cast off from the jetty and headed up the river.
I guess if you have to think about change there is no better place than on board a boat. Lulled into quiet contemplation by the whispering stands of eucalyptus on either side of the river bank, I pondered the difficulties in quantifying change over the long term. Perhaps it is best measured by the slow shadow of time passing over a much-loved face.
During a lifetime of friendship, my two skippers have been a barometer for each other. While the world around their connection changed, their bond to each other and their mutual enjoyment of the water remained the same. "There is nothing - absolutely nothing - half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats." The Wind in the Willows.
Regardless of what kind of vessel they are floating in, the same old sailing stories surface along with the shonky boats they've owned together over the years. Their dodgy yacht deliveries across the high seas hailed back to a time when handheld sextants got you from A to B and GPS was code for "Got plenty snacks."
Their story of seasickness off Morro Bay, California resurfaces as often as their descriptions of the tinned Dinty Moore Beef Stew vomit. While the boats have definitely changed for the better, the seafaring memories remain constant in their minds. Luckily for me, the quality of provisions on board has also improved drastically, these days the boys are tucking into Wagu steaks.
Heading upstream towards Makepeace Island, I realized that the river embodied the secrets of life. It bubbles up from the source with a spirit of divine discontentand a never ending momentum downstream. In infancy the water is but a small creek, then, like a person, the river grows in size and deepens. Like life, the river's rapids swirl and bring the twists and turns of change. The river always seems to know where it's going. But where was I headed? Merely further into Middle Age?
Turning the boat around, we flowed back towards the river mouth. And all the while the river chattered on, "a babbling procession of the best stories in the world, sent from the heart of the earth to be told at last to the insatiable sea." The Wind in the Willows.
Just as the river merged into the ocean and met its end our day of "River Life" was also drawing to a close. Philosophically, I had to agree it was impossible to step twice in the same river because it's always in a perpetual state of liquid evolution. And seeing the passage of time over all of our faces surely proved that no one ever stays the same - boats come and go but wrinkles come and grow. Yet, I wanted to believe that some things, like the essence of who we are, old friendships and cherished memories, can remain constant in our ever changing world.
What the heck is a Pod Blog I hear you cry? Don't worry, you haven't missed out on the latest offering from Google - it's a blog about a pod, a dream pod to be exact.
Eager for an adventure into the unknown, I decided to become a "floater". Before you assume I'm headed for a bad outcome in a criminal investigation, you need to know I won't be floating "face down" but "face up" in a completely dark, soundproof float tank filled with water and Epsom salts. I was booked to float in a dream pod for an hour.
I had no clue if this was going to be a dream boat experience or a claustrophobic, sensory deprivation nightmare. My mind cast back to the old movie "Cocoon" where a bunch of elderly Florida pensioners swim in a pool infused with an Alien life force and are miraculously cured of their ailments. Was I going to be rejuvenated by energy from outer space?
Restricted Environmental Stimulation Therapy, REST, is based on the premise that most of the brain's workload is processing the external stimulation of gravity, temperature, touch, light and sound to the senses, muscles and nervous system. Floating weightless in silent, dark meditation achieves complete sensory relaxation. Free from all distractions, the body can focus on repairing and renewing the mind and body. In the 1950's, Physician and Neuroscientist John Lilly developed sensory deprivation float tanks in his research into altered consciousness. He also experimented with dolphin communication and psychedelic drugs.
Yikes! Did this mean I was going to float high with cetaceans? Surely the pod wasn't going to fit all that in there even if I was naked? Luckily, all my questions were answered by the neat iPad presentation I listened to at check in. The smiling face of Sarah proffered extra towels from behind the reception desk. She reassured me that it was indeed like floating in space. But would I be rejuvenated?
Our family friend and fellow psychonaut, embarking on the voyage into an altered state of consciousness with me, was dispatched to POD 1.
All the futuristic movies I'd ever seen about suspended animation space travel and cryogenics played out in my head as Sarah guided me towards Noosa Float's POD 2.
With a furtive sideways glance, I noticed a third door along the corridor and was too frighted to ask if that was where the sci-fi characters were being frozen, but it turns out that it's actually an aromatherapy massage room.
After a final in-flight emergency button briefing from Sarah, I closed the door and found myself alone with a huge glowing clam shell and the internal chatter of my anxieties. While showering, I reassured myself with the knowledge that tests have shown floating increases endorphins (the hormones that increase happiness, confidence and well-being) while simultaneously reducing stressful neurological-chemicals like cortisol and adrenaline. At the very worst the Epsom salts would soothe away any aches and pains.
After checking my silicon earplugs were tightly in place the countdown began, I was about to float into Space! Channeling Amelia Earhart, I summoned all my mental moxie, clicked out the lights and slid into the silky blackness. It all felt so pleasant, warm, floaty and very relaxing on the body. My proprioception (how you feel your body in space) was completely off but what did that matter? I was deliciously buoyant. Sometime after the celestial music faded, my mind went exactly to where it shouldn't. The frame by frame playback of a CSI scene where a hostage victim is buried alive and scratches frantically on the coffin roof. While my body was suspended in tranquility, my mind had decided to push the big red vulnerability button deep in my psyche. I gritted my teeth in response and ignored the desire to touch the ceiling of my pod. Instead, I negotiated with myself for a compromise - I would touch the side of the pod with my toe. I just had to check I hadn't accidentally slipped down a sensory deprivation black hole. Not to worry, something else came along to think about. It was a sound, almost like packing tape being pulled off a roll and sealing the clamshell shut forever. I gave myself another toe touch to try and get a better grip. How long had I been in here anyway? My mind jumped out of the pod, down the hall to reception and into the wide world that lay beyond my inky floating space. In a desperate attempt to avoid introspection, I braved the Epsom Salts, opened my eyes and compared the darkness - eyes shut - eyes open - there was no difference! There was the noise again! I convinced myself it had to be the state of the art filtration system settling down. Then slowly it dawned on me it was my own digestive tract creating the gurgling. And that's when I really heard it - my heartbeat. The breathing, the double beat, my body simply being. It's always there, how had I not heard the deafening drum before? Perhaps this wasn't sensory deprivation at all, perhaps this was sensory enhancement because I was able to tune into my heartbeat and breathing. It was then that I acknowledged I was ready to sail into my soul and see what was there. But like asteroid belts and fiery comets, my thoughts invaded my space until finally my brainwaves altered and I drifted into a curious questioning place where my mind went back, back to the womb. A state of being that all 8 billion of us have experienced, yet not one single one of us can remember it. Lilly (the inventor of the tank) described the float as an "inperience". A fitting description of the experience as my thoughts bobbed around without co-ordinates in my "innerverse". Reassured by the sounds of my breathing and heartbeats my body softened further or was it my mind? The naked blackness embraced me and my identity dissolved into the saline abyss. Time became meaningless as I entered a meditative space in the vacuity of the pod.
Brainwaves are really just the nerves communicating with electrical and chemical signals. Awake we use Beta waves. The more relaxed the brain becomes, the lower and more healing frequency brainwaves of Alpha and Theta are produced until Delta waves occur during sleep. Alpha and Theta frequencies can increase creative thinking and accelerated learning. It's also believed that a deeply relaxed mind activates the latent abilities of the subconscious. I'm not too sure what talents are lying undiscovered in the dark recesses of my head but the salty vacuum was certainly showing me a powerful pathway back to myself. A sound like a drop of water falling in the silence broke my trance. Then, the celestial music drifted into my ears signaling my time was up. As my life force tried to emerge from the cocoon, it seemed I had devolved into a sea slug - far too relaxed and jelly-like to be efficiently showering and heading into the lounge for rose hip tea. Checking in the mirror, my clear eyes and shining face reflected back an idea that perhaps this was something I should do again? Just like the Florida pensioners, I did indeed feel a euphoric rejuvenation. As I carried the serenity with me throughout the day, I comprehended that I had indeed been on an adventure - one of acceptance and appreciation, a journey to my inner space.
Once upon a time, on my never ending nomadic search for balance, I lived in a Rainbow Nation.These days, however, I think it's time to re-examine my meaning of balance because going from one hair extreme to another just isn't cutting it anymore.
Buddha, Padang Padang
Yes, I need something that will balance and unify my body, mind and soul once and for all? Maybe it's finally time to take a serious adventure into this Yoga thingy?
Just one quick question - to maintain balance and achieve my optimum Chi, do I actually have to go to yoga or could I just drink beer in yoga pants? I mean c'mon, what could be more Zen than empty calories?
People have asked, "What kind of yoga do you practice?" I make sure to let them know I'm not locked into any one kind of yoga. No siree, I do leisure center yoga, beach yoga, stand up paddle board yoga and even once did Cruise Ship Yoga.
Of course, that's not quite the answer they're looking for but what does that matter? I'm channeling Shakti, the ultimate feminine power of the universe! There wasn't even a little shake of Shakti in my TRX classes at the Montecito YMCA in California. TRX, total body resistance was designed by a Navy Seal and is pumped full of Yang male energy.So now I've got the Yin and the Yang sorted out, surely I should start feeling more balanced? Unfortunately my Kundalini, my coiled serpent of energy within, still needs an alarm clock to kick it's slithery ass into action and get me to my lesson on time.
Naturally, on arrival to any kind of exercise class the first consideration is, "Am I wearing the right gear?" There's only one thing worse than turning up and feeling like a complete kook and that's turning up and looking like one. The safest option is always black on black with black flip-flops. Although this backfired on me when the class ended and several pairs of the aforementioned black flip flops were waiting patiently for their soles at the door. On the way out in the dim light, without my glasses, I accidentally swopped out my rather worn pair of Target thongs for a stunning pair of Havanas with a single diamond bling. No! Truly! It was an accident.
In Hawaii, they say: "you no leave wid bedda slippa dan you come wid." It certainly did seem particularly bad form, especially on the back of only two lessons so I rushed back the next morning to confess my heinous crime. Although, more recently I've really been trying hard to move away from the "all black Ninja look". Luckily, after a sweep through the second hand clothing shops, I've managed to secure a lovely pair of animal print leggings. But, I'm still not game to wear them because I think they make me look like mutton dressed as lamb? Besides, I'd hate to offend the vegan who is practicing one mat back who'd be forced to view my meaty derriere whilst I master "down dog". Luckily there are no mirrors for me to see that my "down dog" looks more like nervous prairie dog.
Clothing anxieties aside, the next piece of paraphernalia you have to worry about is the mat. Currently, mine seems to be shedding little plastic waffly bits. Every time I unroll it, I'm caught in a turquoise blizzard which I surreptitiously sweep under said turquoise mat. I'm still new to this, do I really want to invest over a hundred dollars in a piece of exercise equipment that won't even double as a towel rack? Maybe I'll just return to K Mart and look for a new brown $4 mat so at least my synthetic snowflakes will blend into the wooden studio floor?
Yoga is like horizontal rock climbing crossed with ballet. The sort of thing that makes you think, "Ya, sure, no problem, of course I can stand on one leg and bend over, I can do that." Well, guess what buckwheat? It ain't so easy squeezy, in fact, it's really hard and I'm squashy in all the wrong places.
Yet, I have to divulge the Yoga thing must be ticking all my boxes because it's making me believe I can balance rainbows some of the time, not just at the carwash.
Rainbow Wax at the Car Wash
Yes, I must be creating equilibrium in my life because I've been managing to make a session every day (well almost). Don't worry, it's not like I'm secretly planning to run off and join an Ashram or suddenly hand over all my charity shop treasures to the Hare Krishnas.
I just wanted to support a friend who was partaking in her very own cool Dumb Blonde Adventure to qualify as a yoga teacher in India. Ahh, the very thought conjures images of Julia Roberts cycling carefree through rice paddies on an eat, pray, love journey somewhere. So in silent encouragement, I vowed to practice one yoga class a day to send my Om mantra in her direction.
Unfortunately, my chanting turns into panting especially when my Tapas, my inner heat seems to be set a little higher than everyone else's. The other day I felt like I'd accidentally dropped into a hot yoga class. Frantically I checked around for Mr. Bikram and realized it was time to embrace my Namascray, when the crazy in me honors the crazy in you. Naturally, the heat is the only reason I would ever put on a pair of tiny biker shorts in public (yes they are Ninja black, just in case you're wondering).
Although in confession, there was a different kind of tapas I needed to worry about. The spicy Spanish sausage kind that I'd gobbled down the night before class. I anxiously wondered if a thin layer of black lycra would contain the large Harley motorbike just waiting to roar out from my duodenum. Still, it did provide extra motivation to "find my core" - I was so tense Dr. Kegel would have a hard time squeezing one out. Instead of leaving the class with my Ananda, my bliss illuminating my face with a Bhakti, devout glow, I looked like I'd gone eight rounds in a Sumo Ninja wrestling competition.
Hollister Ranch, California
Sometimes I wear a watch, yet another faux pas. I know it's not cool in these circles but I can't help it. I need it as a mind control just to be sure how much longer the panting will go on for. It's not like I would actually have the yogi cojones to leave early, I'd just hide my silent tantrum in child's pose. To be fair or even dare I say balanced, there is plenty of upside to yoga. The fitness, the flexibility, there's always bliss music playing and the teachers have floating hypnotic voices like velvet wrapped steel. They seduce me to touch my toes, reach a little further, breath a little deeper. I saw a part of my leg the other day that I haven't visited with in years. These yoga whisperers give wings to your bird of paradise, your crane, crow or even just a sleeping pigeon.
And sun salutations, what's not to love about that? I've always reverently embraced the sun - mostly from a beach mat. However, I've been working really hard and making some progress within the four corners of my yoga mat. Although I'm nowhere near reaching Namaslay, when you're killing it on your yoga mat.
Yoga is teaching me that nothing comes without Drishti, focus. Unfortunately, I have a wandering mind...a couple of mats over there was a girl with an amazing pair of yoga pants patterned with beautiful vines. They twisted up her legs, off the material at her midriff and escaped onto her torso as a vine tattoo. Then the leaves waved my Drishti beyond the four walls and I marveled at the setting sun through the floor to ceiling windows. Silhouettes of rainbow lorikeets flickered amongst the tall stands of Eucalyptus, their chatter serenaded by a cicada chorus in full voice. Swaying around in tree pose surrounded with fluttering Twilight was surely nirvana in itself?
I think I glimpsed the balance of nature.
Finally, as the hard yoga minutes draw to a close the Universe rewards you with meditation time in Shavasana or Yogasm, the feeling of bliss when you're done. Lying flat on your back making snoring noises is a pose completely not available in rock climbing or ballet! So, yes I am feeling a greater union with Yoga. Although I have to admit, it has taken me a little longer to hit publish on this blog entry as I wondered what a yoga post would do to my cyberspace karma? I didn't want Lord Shiva to smite me down with his three-pronged trishula. Come to think of it perhaps that is what those twinges are in my left hip. No, I think what I was waiting for was a little guru inspiration to help balance my thoughts with my body. And now everything is in alignment.
I did some yoga for my friend now I'm doing some more for me.
I didn't go to India but I have been on an adventure. Not just a yoga journey but a journey to understand all you need is a little humor and a few inspirational moments to keep balancing rainbows.
Namaste, the acknowledgment of the soul in one by the soul of another.
I was stressing! How could I channel the poet J. Magee and "slip the surly bonds of earth," to dance "the skies on laughter-silvered wings" when my childhood aviator ambitions had crashed along with a faulty cardboard winged flight off the garden shed roof? I was definitely going to need a pilot.
With over 25,000 flying hours and a "day job" piloting 777’s, Ross had earned his wings with an encyclopedic Air Force career flying airplanes just like this one. His passion to spiral in the vast freedom of the heavens, inspired a real appreciation for the machine that was going to take us there - his T-28 Trojan, Miss Stress.
Ross's intimate knowledge of every pin and every piston instilled confidence and soothed my nerves during his pre-flight brief in the operations room.
The word Trojan is synonymous with courage but I began to question the mettle of my moxie while I gripped Ross's arm as he explained we would be pulling two and half g’s in a 1954 war plane, the same vintage as himself. Climbing up into the cockpit, I admired the nose art painting of his flaxen floozie, reclining on her Caloundra cloud. Miss Stress had asserted her dominance over Ross's other aircraft (a Wirraway, left back in the hanger) and claimed the day as hers.
After completing all the preflight checks, Ross coaxed the nine radial cylinders of the Wright R-1820 engine into life and I began vibrating with the pulsing throb of the propellor. As the smoky burn of oil curled into my nostrils, I sensed the power coiled behind the throttle. The North American Aviation T-28 was produced as a basic trainer for the U.S. Airforce and Navy. It has over 1,425 horsepower, a top speed of 345mph (555kph) and a 37,000-foot (11,278-meter) ceiling. Later versions of the T-28 were fitted with arrester hooks so they could land on aircraft carriers.
Another vintage warplane taxied past and I winged back in time, imagining all the young guns who had been trained for war in this plane - young aviators, eager to spray ammunition in aerial dogfights.
Being in a trainer plane teaches you there is so much more to flying than flaps and wings. There were levers to mix the petrol, air brakes, an altitude gauge and of course the central control stick that sat between my legs begging for the caress of a novice palm. We taxied out to the runway which wasn't exactly the neatly edged tarmac variety and Ross slid the perspex canopy into place. Encapsulated in the bubble of viewing delight, I started to feel a tad warm in my olive green flight suit. Along with the snug fit of the harness, I had a momentary flash of claustrophobia before we sped towards takeoff.
Banking steeply, suddenly the beauty of this endless euphoric turquoise space rushed into my soul and the ultimate freedom of flight took its first bite into my addictive personality.
Like a family of scattered mountain spirits, the Glass House peaks rose hard and gray from the emerald landscape. Draped in wisps of smoke from the back burning, I understood how they had reminded James Cook of the glass furnaces back home in Yorkshire, England, hence the name.
After being siphoned off to feed the thirsty houses on the canal, the wide ocean estuary snaked inland towards the mountains. How small their world appeared to me from my elevated perspective. But, my lofty thoughts of topping "the wind-swept heights with easy grace" (J Magee) were soon over.
Bribie Island and the iridescent blue of the Coral Sea had flipped to where the sky should be. My stomach floated upward as my eyes raced to keep up with the topsy-turvy scenery of a precisely executed aileron roll. It did almost seem possible to touch "the face of God" (J Magee). Although I fervently hoped I wouldn't be meeting him in just a few inverted seconds.
The wings leveled out and the heavy flight helmet stopped pushing my neck into the collar of my flight suitlike a turtle.
Was it nausea or was it a sudden wave of realization that I had been on plenty airplanes before but I hadn’t really been flying at all? I’d just been shuffling onto commercialized oversized tin cans with wings, more worried about securing overhead locker space than actually feeling the power of flight. There was no call button for another bread roll on this flight. Miss Stress had indeed become my mistress and she was demanding a physical price for every barrel roll, every wingover. Right there under that dome of perspex, I realized there was a whole other dimension to life that it had taken me 46 years to discover. I had spent all that time on earth living in a 2-dimensional plane. This world was 3D and took me to the edge of everything, including my physical limits and I was very grateful Ross had kindly zipped a sick bag and handkerchief into the leg pocket of my jumpsuit. Yet, I was mortified that even the thought of barfing in his beautiful plane had entered my dizzy brain.
All too soon it was time to return to the chains of gravity and taxi back to where we had begun. Ross slid the canopy back and the wind carried cool relief to my clammy brow.
With fading adrenalin, I sickly wondered how on earth I'd plucked up the Trojan courage to do this? Perhaps I'd been happy to hurtle into the sunlit adventure like Amelia Earhart in the belief that the "fun of it is worth the price." Or perhaps a different mistress had seduced me. I would do well to remember that this beguiling iron-bellied beauty had trained men to deliver bombs, rockets and bullets.
Wandering back through the museum, the ghosts of wars long forgotten swirled around with my nausea. I remembered the men like those in my family: Henry, Reuben and many other pilots past and I appreciated the windswept frontiers they had flown. Naturally I also thanked the present pilot for his friendship, the gift of flight and for my safe return to terra firma.
Oh and of course I had to remember to thank Greg for capturing those green moments in blue heaven!
