Don't give up...

Appearances can be deceptive. Always remember that. When I first pitched up at Lifehouse, I confess my heart sank. It had a wonderful setting (planted in 130 acres, including twelve acres of historic listed gardens) but the building looks like a series of white concrete boxes. The layout is a bit wonky and the decor is decidedly airport – striped carpets, blond wood and colour blocks.

Also, it all seemed a bit fluffy. A bit unfocused. But I figured this was probably me. I’m a bit old school with spas – I like the rough tough ones where you see the doctor as soon as you land and s/he tells you what you need, rather than you saying what you want. But nowadays spa is commodity, it’s all about pampering, about the whole ‘you’re worth it’ malarkey. Which kind of grates with me, though why it should I really don’t know. Spartan upbringing maybe? Underlying belief that I’m not worth it? Hell, who knows?

I puzzle as it sits weirdly with my belief that you should be gentle with people. I have always believed that you can’t force people into things. And that if someone makes a tiny change, tries something slightly new, it might just nudge them into making another change, and another. People used to ask me why I worked for the Daily Mail; how I could have sold out in such a cavalier fashion. But really it was the best way to reach people. To show them what was out there in the world of natural health and wellbeing. Why preach to the converted? People also say I dumb things down – well of course I do! Make it easy. Don’t put people off straightaway. Coax them in.

And, hmm...actually that’s what Lifehouse does, rather cleverly. Scratch under the surface and there is some pretty amazing stuff going on.

I wasn’t sure what I’d make of Pete Cohen, the man who was apparently going to ‘sort out my life’. I wasn’t sure I wanted to be ‘sorted’. I’m not a parcel. And, actually, I have a pretty clear idea of where I want to go (workwise at any rate).  But, bless him, he just asked sensible, pertinent questions and he listened to my answers. And we laughed a lot and swapped stories about big-headed bores and talked movies and got all excited about a lot of spiritual stuff.
‘You know where you’re going, don’t you?’ he said. ‘And you’re very nearly there.’
Interestingly, en route to our meeting, I had pretty much made the decision that rewriting my YA book, Samael, was making me miserable and that I should just call it a day.  Pete suggested I reconsider. ‘Get the bastard out the way,’ he said. ‘Just do it. Then you can move on to the next book. Don’t give up.’

Hmm. Interesting.

My health consultation was with a naturopath who used to work at Chiva Som. Sue Davis didn’t just take my blood pressure (‘absolutely perfect’) and go through my diet and lifestyle (‘sickeningly virtuous’) but she offered to give me an Australian Bush Flower remedy reading and treatment.

I had to pick out the flower images that I loved and those I loathed. The results were fascinating: about finding self-approval and acceptance; about releasing deep fears; about being willing to try new concepts, new ways of living, about unblocking creativity. The bottom line? ‘Don’t give up,’ she said. ‘Never give up.’

Sensing a theme here?

And as I wandered into the juice bar I found a woman in a bright purple top in front of me. ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I’m Moon.’
Well, of course she was.
‘Shall we sit down and have a chat?’

Of course we should. A totally unscheduled chat.

Moon is a healer, a shaman and so naturally we were off and away. Talking the deep stuff. And I won’t bore you with that. Except that, as we parted, she turned and said (you know what’s coming, don’t you?’

Yeah.

‘Don’t give up.’

So I won't.  :)

The problem with oracles

The trouble with oracles is that they often aren’t clear-cut. The fatal flaw in believing that the universe is sending you messages is that you might not be reading them right. Know what I mean? Ask the ancient Greeks – that Delphic ditz regularly did their heads in.  I mean, look at her - you can almost hear her thinking, "Hmm, how can I make it really really confusing? Is there a more complicated way I can say that?"  She ought to write technical manuals.


Last night (yup, my usual 2.30am (not)friend) I was reading In The Dark Places of Wisdom about the Phocaeans who asked said oracle where they should go, having been booted out of their home by the Persians. They thought the oracle was telling them to go to build a town on Cyrnus (Corsica) so off they sailed only to get their asses royally whooped by the Corsicans. Eh what? They had done exactly what Apollo said and been almost totally destroyed. No wonder the poor bastards were confused. Then along came a stranger (as they tend to) and said, ‘You got everything wrong.’ Which is why you usually want to fecking thump the stranger. ‘That’s only what you thought. What he was really saying was to build a place for Cyrnus.’

Eh what (again)? Well, Cyrnus did mean Corsica but it was also the name of the son of Hercules. Anyhow, it doesn’t really matter. Though it did to the Phocaeans of course. ‘Everything had seemed so hopeless. But all they had done was interpret the oracle too narrowly, understood it on the physical level instead of at the level of myth.’ Stupid fecking Phocaeans.

Sorry. This is really long-winded. But bear with me. I try to follow the clues, I really do, but I’m beginning to wonder if I get it all wrong; if I’m blindly following a string when the end has been untied (sorry, mythical metaphors really getting tied up in (Gordian?) knots now). Shit. *smites brow*

Last night though (earlier, before the 2.30am interlude), at least, it all seemed pretty clear-cut. I had fed and watered James, watched a few sky burials with him and then sat down to go on the Internet. The screen started to swim. Migraine alert. Weird. I get, what, maybe one a year? But there was no arguing with it: darkened room, eyes shut, no choice whatsoever. The idle though ran through my head, unbidden, that the Louise Hay prescription for migraine is masturbation. Shit, Louise, have you ever tried it when the whole room is pulsating and the lights are flashing (but not in a remotely orgasmic way?). Anyhow, I reckoned that this (the migraine, not the non-masturbation) was a pretty clear message: stay OFF the internet.

But then, today. I was halfway through an email to the Daily Mail (yes, yes, I know) when Everything Died. Power cut. Sooooo? Is the message ‘Don’t go back! Don’t sell your soul to the devil?’ or is it more a case of ‘Hey, you sad loser, the sun is shining and you’re sitting in front of the fecking PC. Grab the moment! Walk the SP!’

See what I mean? You don't? Do I think too much? Don’t answer that. Just a power cut? Ah, whatever. You’re probably right.

Anyhow. We walked and I saw one person in the distance walking towards us over the big field and, instead of veering off the way I usually would, I headed on a collision course. And the person turned out to be my friend Maggie. And she turned around and walked with us again. And the big field worked its magic in its usual way. And it was good.

And...this will make you laugh. I came back to find the power was back on and that I’d been invited, nay summoned, to a four-day course called Sort Your Life Out. With this guy.  Here. This Sunday. Sort out my life in four days? Bring it on, sunshine.