The only viable solution I’ve come across for dealing with the myriad planetary crises I’m facing, is to expand my awareness towards soul connections, where every association is sacred. It doesn’t matter if the interaction is with something as profound as birth, as mundane as stirring honey into my tea or as emotionally charged as my conversation this morning with the cell phone company who cancelled my contract by mistake, and then diverted me through five auto voices and four consultants before cutting me off without resolving the issue.Read More
Sebastian loves the song ‘Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk’ by Rupert Wainwright because he resonates with the feeling of it. However Sebastian’s story is about chocolate cake, not chocolate milk, and even though, like Rupert, he has also used countless cigarettes and sexual encounters to fill the gaping, bruised-edged hole in his aching soul, (haven’t we all), it isn’t really about those either.
The reason it’s about the chocolate cake and that it’s Sebastian’s story rather than yours or mine, is that Sebastian had a chocolate cake epiphany.Read More
She is not Grace Kelly who died back in nineteen eighty-two and never got to look this old, and obviously not androgynous singer-songwriter-model Grace Jones. This is just Gracie, who ‘did’ the books for fifty years in the back office of the hardware store in Observatory, and who worked behind the till on Tuesdays and Wednesdays.
Gracie inherited her mother’s lovely tea set but married ‘beneath herself’. She never became that doctor “even though she had the brains for it”. She never fought in the apartheid struggle – hell, she hardly knew it was happening because reports of it were banned from being published in the Cape Times.Read More
Rachel, my friend’s mum, died a month ago. She’d been happily married for sixty-some years to stoic Daniel, a wise man, a calm man, who never set foot in in the synagogue anymore, but who used to watch God rise every dawn over a steaming cup of coffee on the stoep. Daniel couldn’t stay in the same room as Rachel for more than a minute or two in the last weeks of her life. He wanted her to go back to sleep and wake up as usual in the morning, whilst he went back to bed next door. Maybe it was the Alzheimers that was creeping in, but her illness agitated him.Read More
This is an illustration of a powerful dream I had last week where I was taken to an incredibly high dimension filled with golden lengths of wood, each of which rang at different frequencies, and which together could be played as great musical instruments. Each person had their own room and could play their own 'soul song'. It was extraordinarily beautiful and felt like a reconnection through nature and wood to my inner wisdom, and simultaneously to the wisdom of life itself.Read More
This post is a conversation I am opening up to anybody who might have experience and understanding of how a bridge between soul and self might be experienced through the cerebrospinal fluid. I’m aware that many people have vastly expanded understanding of this topic from ancient wisdom traditions such as yoga, Taoism, kundalini training, and also through craniosacral therapy, osteopathy, meditation or any modality that taps into our intuitive awareness. I would love to build further on what feels like a touch-point here.Read More
Sometimes I can be walking down a beautiful beach, enveloped in peace, joy and serenity, when my cell phone rings. Ten minutes later I look back and see all the grumpy footprints I've been stomping into the sand. Poor sand.Read More
Over the 25 years that I’ve facilitated Soul Integration sessions I’ve never met an unborn baby that didn’t hold a spacious, non-judgmental quality of expanded consciousness. One that is quite devoid of ego. Sure they come in with baggage, but until they are squished into their unwieldy and demanding bodies at birth, they seem to have a slightly amused take on the twisting, turning journey of life ahead of them. They obviously have no care for how insurmountable the mountains or obstacle-strewn some of the ravines are that they might encounter. They’re either really courageous or really dumb.Read More
The sun is as it is. Not doing much at all. Simply hanging out in the sky. Being the sun. But when it reflects off leaves, sky, clouds, it becomes a powerful life force, radiating the knowing that I am me because you are you.Read More
I prefer to drop into my soul self when I’m immersed in the sacred space of the natural world. It is more accessible to me there than in concrete cities. However if my heart is open enough, soulfulness is accessible in the life force that flows both through the junk I’ve created out of discarded tins and rusty nails, and through the child who plays with them in the street below my cottage.Read More
My soul-self is silent when confronted by the angst between my shoulder blades, the judgment behind my sternum and the humiliating possibilities in my belly. Who could blame it? With genuine appreciation it basks in the sunshine of my everyday attention, delighting in the perfection of every uncomfortable mirrored moment, but initially, like a hidden bush-baby that I know is in the tree during the daytime, it takes patient, peripheral attention to encourage it into awareness.Read More
I’ve been living a lie for as long as I can remember. Having spent half my life trying to figure out how to inspire people to find joy in nature or dancing or friendship or meditation or music, I admit to myself that sometimes I am in the presence of all these wonderful things in the most disengaged and disagreeable manner.Read More
Sitting quietly on my meditation cushion I soften into the purity of absolute stillness and become like an unborn baby receiving nourishment from her mother.
As seeds sprout into fields of wildflowers, so this food for my soul awakens a dormant wisdom within my cells.
A chainsaw growls in the gorge less than twenty meters from me as I sit on my stoep. It is LOUD. It is insistent. It sounds like my mind: “Gotta edit the newsletter asap. BZZZ. Gotta get back to twenty people on my to-do list today. Bzzz. Gotta get my head around social media being a fun playground. Bzzz. How will I respond to that bitch on the Whatsapp group? Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz.Read More
My world is not the same as yours. Even if we are sitting in the same restaurant drinking the same power green smoothie through the same (non-plastic) straw, mine might taste of a hangover, or a troubling interview that is coming up in half an hour, and yours might taste of sunshine.
I sometimes have a terrifying thought that it is time to burst my Robyn bubble and blast into full power life. Taste buds beware!
Watch this space.Read More
Once upon a time, way back in the mists, the earliest shamans boldly wrote their liminal journeys into the Akashic records for posterity. Other shamans swam in those waters whilst madmen drowned in them. I dip my toes in and out whilst all about me the volcanic broth of twenty first century chaos is heaving wildly. As a last ditch attempt to save us from the Kali Yuga, apocalyptic mess we’ve created on earth, the Liminal gods and goddesses are offering us a leg-up with free entrance passes into these worlds without the years of living as hermits in caves in the Himalayas.Read More
Being present did not only require that I be mindful of my physical surroundings. When I became aware of those, I observed that my windows needed cleaning, that the lemons were ripe for picking, or that the young girl next door, who I could see out my dusty window from my fairly untidy desk, was getting better at doing cartwheels. I needed to be aware of more than my surroundings and more than my emotional state as well, with its small anxieties about an inappropriate email I sent or about unmet deadlines.Read More
My wild child retreats to the safety of the treetops, refusing to return to my heart.
No. She is adamant, pointing at the sneaky snakes in my tummy winding their shame around the prickly angst and the darkly repressed anger.
Soap bubbles, she instructs, get in there and clear out all that muck.
They are delicate as gentle laughter washing me clean with a tenderness that surprises me.
An olive thrush pecks at his reflection in my kitchen window.
Incessant. Merciless. Remonstrative.
In the bedroom next door I tuck my head under my duvet
and pretend he is not a reflection of me.
Gratuitous violence on TV is like maize meal and yams in Africa. Staple diet stuff.
So much of life is unquestioned and entrenched into my worldview, and much of it is violent. It is so ‘staple diet’ that I forget, that like yams, it has very little nutritive value.Read More