Coming to the Surface

Something strange has been happening. As I traipse along, fairly merrily, through the British Isles visiting some pretty cosmic hots pots, my body and my mind seem to be wigging out just a little bit.

Though I haven't talked about it, my back started to give me trouble all the way back in Italy. I have been to two massage therapists, a Chinese acupuncturist, a blind back pain specialist, that I thought was going to be a chiropractor, and a physio...which is the UK way of saying, physical therapist. I cannot find a chiropractor. But this back pain, which really lives at the base of my neck seems to have a mind of it's own, sometimes responding brilliantly to therapy and calming down for a few days, other times it rages on, and then, quite unexpectedly it will just up and vanish for a few days or hours. Nothing that I do, or don't do, appears to make much difference to this neck strain's behavior.

That was the first thing. Later my body started having what you might call a rash...unseen, but felt, at the base of my spine. This little rash comes and goes, causing no distress, but making me aware that something is making it's way to the surface.

The most unnerving thing of all started happening while I was in Cornwall, after I had been to the Tor in Glastonbury. I haven't talked about this yet, and it deserves more time than I probably have now, but the mystical nature of some of the places, the lands that I have been communing with is one of the biggest reasons I am making this voyage. I didn't really understand that before, but it is becoming clearer everyday. And Glastonbury, where some believe Avalon lies shrouded in the mists and Camelot once stood, is an energetic hot spot that draws thousands of pilgrims each year. There, too, is the Chalice Well, said to hold healing powers. I drank from that well, sat with it, and then climbed the Tor, or hill, that seekers have been climbing for centuries.

The next day I went on to Cornwall, land of Morgaine, and, if the myths are to be believed, the place where King Arthur was born. This land, as I have said, spoke to me so loudly, so deeply. And as something ancient within me, stirred by the land, by the energy of so many pilgrims who had traveled to these places before began to resonate and wake up, my mind started to fight back.

Little digs, the way our little demon voices can, began to fly at me out of the blue. Self-doubts about all aspects of myself, my body, my creative abilities, my chance for love, all of it, started hurling themselves into my brain. It's as if the more I connect to something bigger, deeper, perhaps something more powerful which has shown me glimpses of the way I might focus my life and my light in years to come, all the fearful places in me are flooding to the surface, trying to unfocus me.

Fortunately, I have a lot of strength these days, willing me to walk towards the light and the life that is trying to show itself to me. For the most part, I have been able to dismiss the little voices with relatively little effort.

Though, occasionally, I have engaged in a bit of a wrestling match with the fear. Just yesterday this happened when I was getting dressed and all the old and experienced voices started telling me how bad my clothes fit me, telling me, as I waked down the streets of Edinburgh that I was old and invisible, basically attacking me at my weakest spot--my body. I had moments where my self-esteem would start to tumble like dominoes: first my body, then my talent..in acting...writing..., then my lovability. So quickly the tumbling can happen. I would then sort of puff myself up trying to make myself appear more powerful and bat at the feelings, ineffectually, creating a sort of shoving match inside. Ultimately, I tried inviting the negative feelings to go through me, as the self-help books tell ya to, I stopped fighting and tried living with the discomfort that comes from listening to the fear, instead of trying to pretend it isn't there.

Then today, I woke up, not feeling solid quite, but more comfortable in my skin than I did yesterday. However, my skin is looking a wee bit like a teenager lives in it. The rash is a little more visible.

I've had a couple of different naturopaths who have said that when the skin breaks out it is a good thing, it means the toxins are coming to the surface....releasing themselves from the body. This is what it feels like, like years of toxins, both of the body and the mind, are making their way to the surface. And I have a choice, I can let them go, finally, or I can continue to puff myself up, pretending they don't exist while they continue to poison me.

I am telling you all this in hopes that by writing about it I can speed up the letting go, the releasing of these voices, these fears that no longer serve me well. Hopefully by bringing these feelings into the written light, without shame or embarrassment, they will lose their hold on me. They will know that I have made my choice; I am no longer willing to spend my energy fighting the fears. I am ready to relax, let them in, and let them go.

Edinborough? Edinburough? oh, Edinburgh....

Well, after a taxi, three trains and a bus, I am about to get on a plane to Scotland. I tallied up how many buses, trains, etc, I have taken so far and I am up to 20 trains and 17 buses. That doesn't include inner-city stuff...just the major get-from-one-city/village-to another stuff. One thing I have learned on this trip is that the more you can go with the flow, the happier you will be. That's really a no brainer; everyone says it. But when you have to make 6 different connections with three different modes of travel, the only thing to do is take one step at a time, hope for the best, and enjoy the trip.

And let me tell you, talking to people along the way makes for some interesting times....just today I've met two missionaries from the church of latter day saints, one from California, the other from Calgary. While they gently tried to convert me to Mormonism, I gently tried to convince them that they should try Paganism.

I spoke with one guy on his way home from St. Ives to Liverpool (he came complete with the Beatles accent), who was trying to get over a girl, vowing to be back in St. Ives by next week (despite the girl being there) after he'd made a few bucks cleaning windows in Liverpool, and who says he is "always undone leavin' this place (St. Ives), cuz its quite spirituul".

I had a long conversation with a train driver who was on his way to his next assignment who lives in a thatch roof home, with another farm house on the french/Spanish boarder, who used to train people how to sail for the British Air Force. He has offered to take me sailing on the Cornish coast the next time I come this way. All the while that he spoke to me, a very strange woman in the seat in front of mine kept turning around and peering at me through the seats....was she trying to warn me that this man is a well known serial killer, or was she just jealous of his blue eyes and attentive nature.....

And just now, I spoke with a family on their way to Spain, for "holiday". The man had the thickest Bristol accent and before his wife and son joined him in the bar, he told me how he thought most people would like to be doing what I'm doing....traveling on my own.

I told him it is a mixed bag. And it is. There are moments I long for companionship, familier companionship. But today, the people I've met have been brilliant and left me feeling quite full up with company.

Now on to Scotland.

Just In Case

In my post this morning I said that today would be the day that I confirm whether or not Tintagel should be the place that my ashes are scattered (in the very distant future). I will tell you more about the how and why I have reached the following conclusion later, but just in case, you should know that I do not want my ashes scattered on Tintagel Island. However, if they should come to rest, as much as anything can rest at sea, on the ocean off of the coast of Cornwall, my spirit would be happy, I have no doubt.

Now, everybody knock wood....three times...okay...now get back to what you were doing....

Reason to See the World Number 712

To discover that a notion you'd held onto since childhood about a place is nothing compared to the actual beauty of a place once you really go there.

Cornwall

I have finally arrived in Cornwall. I have wanted to arrive in Cornwall for a very very long time.

The first words spoken to me in Cornwall were these: Y'ar right, my love?

They were spoken to me by a taxi driver who was reading the bus schedule standing next to me, as I was also reading the bus schedule. I found it perplexing that he, a taxi driver, was reading the bus schedule. Turns out that he was figuring out how a couple of travelers might get to where they were going, without taking a taxi. Hows that for Cornish hospitality...the taxi driver helping the tourists to take the bus.

Even more mysterious was the way he said, "Y'ar right, my love?" It was so quiet and intimate that I didn't think he was speaking to me, even though I was the only other human there. So I asked him if he was speaking to me. He was. And I knew that I had already made a friend in Cornwall. Even though I got on a bus 20 minutes later, probably never to see him again.

But everyone here is like this, whether they were born and bred here, transplants or just visiting, like me. I swear, everyone has a twinkle in their eye and a warm thought in their heart.

The land itself if perfectly remarkable, as well. Remarkable and absolutely ordinary, in that it looks exactly as I imagined it would. And, Yes, I am in love with Cornwall.

If you are keeping track, I have fallen in love at least three times on this trip. My first love was Vernazza, in Italy. This was like meeting some exotic man, so unlike me, so passionate, yet relaxed. Like certain men I have known, I know that no matter where I go, I will never be able to completely shake off my passion for Vernazza. It calls to me and turns me on and makes me giddy. But I also don't completely trust it, the way you do with certain lovers....you want them, but your not sure it's good for you to love them.

Then there is Wales. Wales, as I have said, was like going home. Also giddy, and completely unexpected. Everything, every moment in Wales felt somehow electric, as if I'd been plugged into a part of myself I'd long forgotten.

Now, Cornwall. I believe if you could look at the strata of my soul, the way geologists look at tall towering cliffs and see the ages and history of the land in the various layers of rock, Cornwall would be a deep, pulsing vein running throughout my energetic life. I belong here.

I am about to walk three hours along the Cornish coast to Tintagel, a place I've wanted to go as long as I can remember. Some believe King Arthur was born here. When I was young, very young, I wanted my ashes to be scattered on Tintagel's coast. Later, I thought that foolish, to want to be left somewhere I had not been, a place that belongs to fairy tales. Now, I suspect that that young intuitive pull, the desire to let this body rest somewhere so resonant with my spirit might have been a wise one. I shall see soon.

After Tintagel I will hike to a water fall that my Waiter last night informed me has healing powers. He said it won't be a big shiny gift, but it will leave me changed none the less. He also used the word so many have used in the last few days about Cornwall: Magic.

And it is. As tedious as it may be to say, I have once again discovered myself surrounded by magic. I send it home to all of you.

Reason to See the World Number 9

Finding yourself standing someplace that you have read and dreamed about for years and hearing yourself say (outloud), "I'm here. I'm really here."

Soooooo.....

When I last left you, Jane and I had arrived at a little Tapas Delicatessen called Olivas. We were fairly hungry, but in good spirits. Though I think both of us were very conscious that this was going to be our last meal before Jane returned to London and home again. With that knowledge there was, I would conjecture on both parts, a good deal of sadness and also a bit of resolve to start thinking ahead towards what comes next...for me that was three weeks of traveling on my own...for her that was the sudden return to London and home again to work and good things there.

We walked into the Tapas bar and found a frazzled beautiful Colombian woman named Xiamena and her daughter Isabella, no customers, but bowls of beautifully marinated mushrooms on the two long communal tables. We asked if we could have a bite to eat and Xiamena immediately started apologizing in rapid broken English. After a bit of translating we discovered that Xiamena had been about to close up for the night when a party of 12 that was supposed to arrive the next night showed up a day early. Working alone and on a few hours of sleep, Xiamena asked the party to go away for 1/2 an hour and she set about trying to cook and decorate and generally work a miracle. That's when we walked in. She kindly informed us that there was no way she could cook for us, as she didn't know how she was going to cook for the Cotswold dozen that were due back in a minute. As I found myself wishing we could help her...Jane said, "Can we help you?"

Xiamena looked at her flabbergasted. "No," she said half heartedly.

I said, "Yes, let us help you. Jane is a waitress."

Well, after a bit of awe struck stuttering, Xiamena finally relented and let us help. She was absolutely beautiful in her acceptance...once she said Yes, she hesitated no longer and immediately started telling us what to do.

We sprung into action eagerly, donning aprons, pulling out glasses, chilling wine, chopping bread, slicing pepperoni on the professional meat slicer. Isabella helped out too, pointing out where Jane and I could find extra napkins, strawberries, that sort of thing. At one point, Jane was whizzing around the kitchen chopping bread, taking it out to the customers, pouring wine, while I was melting chocolate, dipping gooseberries, and Isabella was sprinkling the confections with coconut.

On one pass through the dining room one of the women said it was good of me to come in at short notice. I just smiled.

Later, Jane broke it to the patrons that we were actually tourists who just came in for dinner and ended up working. It took some convincing, but finally they believed her. When I came out from the kitchen they still thought I was a regular employee, so I had to convince them all over again that Jane's story was true.

"You're not really from America....not REALLY."

It was priceless.

Afterwards, Xiamena made Jane and I dinner and the three of us, with Isabella buzzing around us, drank wine and ate and laughed about the miraculous way the evening, and Jane's trip had ended. Instead of being sad that we were going to say goodbye the next day, Jane and I had had an evening unlike any other and ended her trip with a story that all involved will be telling for years to come.

Throughout the crazy night Xiamena was often muttering under her breath about what a gift it was that we had showed up and she kept thanking us. But it was I who felt like a gift had been dropped into my lap. As soon as she accepted our help, I realized how hungry I had been to be of use, to work, to share the common goal of making a gracious and happy event for someone else, not just myself or my small circle.

I have been learning so much on this trip about the daily ways we can all make the world better for the people we encounter, both through the souls who give me a bed for the night, or through the unexpected ways I find myself being of use as I walk through strange towns. There will be more on this later, when I get home and can process it. But needless to say, the extraordinary events in Painswick were massively educational and uplifting.

The next day, after Jane left I stopped by Olivas for a coffee and a bite to eat and ended up staying for a few hours and working again...making cappuccino and serving pastries. Those two days shall go down for me as two of the happiest days of my trip.