8.04, 15 July 2018
To stay vertical, or folded when sitting, I need the hug of my yellow bathrobe. Amazing how I feel like a little lost animal, naked, thrown out of its nest. And eyes begging to stay shut. But whatever it is woke me up.
I didn’t mention Josefina’s, the costurera’s warm welcome. Her: come by any time. The parking spot right by her small door. Her quick light steps down the steep staircase, her smile, pants to be taken in? A short, too. And this flowing green-and-blue floor-length party dress to be shortened, because in life, first you ascend to new heights, later you lose an inch or two on the way. And the bust lifted! she suggests. Motherly, sisterly love and care. Laughter. You feel you’re at the home of a friend, it’s the seamstress you took stuff to many months ago. You walk out smiling and erect, like your overall length has extended upward by a couple of millimeters.
Now, in my buttery bathrobe, I feel Iow again. But according to Quantum mechanics, I’m to focus not on what is but on what I want. Bright sparkling energy.
Donna Eden’s routine, tap yourself back into alertness. Fingertips gently hammer cheeks, then thymus, and so forth all those sleepy points, till you get to the goosestep. That always makes me laugh. A happy laugh because I wonder whether it has a funny effect on me, it might have slowed thousands of boots down. Who knows.
Did a course with the Lady from Paradise on Mindvalley Academy. The warmest most cheerful person ever, love and laughter just spill from her. She developed her Energy Medicine by fighting to save her own life when doctors had given up on her. So much wonderful stuff out there on the internet for the taking. And doing. Not up to the goose step, but sitting quietly, watching golden breath flowing in and out, in and out. Hands folded, except when I take a sip of hot lemon juice.
Ego doesn’t give a shit about writing. Ego wants to sleep and screams murder. Supposedly a good sign.
Of course, I was up half the night, trying to talk to four of my Quantum Co-creation pals who were meeting in California in the flesh for the very first time and wanted to have facetime with me, too, over skype. I got up, put on a bright T-shirt, combed my hair, put on lipstick, and some ISDIN anti-sun mix to look acceptable. But I got the PST and my CUT or whatever mixed up—and who alerted me to that but my wonderful husband– and the girls couldn’t set up their skype. Another time.
They say when you dismantle the ego by imposing a new habit, it reacts by informing you that you’re about to die. Report received. Yawning feels good, stretching body borders.
And oh, the reward for thinking, feeling, breathing golden light! I forgot one last event that happened yesterday. Went to the beach to swim just about as the sun slowly set, palm canopy cutouts in pink sky. As I walk out of the water waves splash against my buttocks and lower back, I see half a dozen seagulls slowly, gracefully sailing by, I admire their slow, wide-winged ease. I stand on the beach, toweling myself off, and these seagulls land on the sand right in front of me, and parade along the water’s rim, deliberately, pointlessly, because they don’t pick at anything edible, there isn’t anything there. They look at me, a small procession heads turned toward me, and then fly off.
Back by the car, I take of my wet suit and wriggle into my frog-green cotton shift, sit down on the driver’s seat, shower my feet with sun-warm water from a six-liter plastic bottle to wash off the sand. Get myself properly placed behind the wheel and put the key in the ignition – dead. Battery icon flashes yellow, other icons flash red. Try, retry, the stutter of a promising rumble, then silence. Saturday night, 9 pm on the darkening beach. Guess I’ll leave the car and walk home.
A young man sticks a friendly face through the window. Asks: would you like me to start her for you? Relieved, I nod, get up, offer him the driver’s seat, elevated with an added brown square cushion since his 1999 Ibiza, just like I, has lost a couple inches of height. “I’m a mechanic,” says the slim, young man, in his mid-twenties maybe, dark-haired, with funny, symmetrical patches of white hair in both his black eyebrows, as he puts the key in the ignition and expertly gets the engine running. “I worked five years in Germany for Mercedes; your car has a defect, in there,” he points to the dashboard. “You need to get that computer-adjusted.” “Where do you work?” I ask. “I’m on vacation with my Dad, here, this is his car—” he points to a fat, black Mercedes parked close by. “Can you tell me the technical term for the defect?” I ask, “I could tell our mechanic in the village.” He shakes his head, repeats his “five years in Germany with Mercedes”, like a sacred mantra, adds: “You’ll be okay. The engine won’t give out on you.”
What a relief not to have to walk home on flip flops in the dark! Face hub’s justified criticism that he can’t let me drive alone to the beach since I clearly don’t know how to start a car.
Thank you so much! I glow with delight. We speak in Spanish, but he’s slightly darker-hued, maybe from Morocco, an Arab. “Angels sent you!” I proclaim. “They always help the pure in heart,” he says, and is gone. When I’ve turned the car around, I see his slim silhouette; he’s casting a last watchful eye on car and driver.
Enough blogging. Practical life wants my attention. Someone has had the runs. I need to change and wash the sheets. No problem. I love doing the laundry.
8.04, 15 July 2018