So check this one – I leave the Hill that Breathes yesterday, all participants duly transformed for the better as promised, job well done, sun shining, still basking in the afterglow of hanging out with my dear friends, John and Gaia, who own and run the Hill, load up (with the last major block of heavy chattels from London, spread among two huge wheely cases that hardly fit in the car and that should have been flown down to Ibiza a couple of weeks ago but were ash-waylaid), rev up my ever-so-cute black Fiat 500 rent-a-car and tootle over hill and dale, heading for the mountain pass to take me over the mountainous spine of Italy and down to Florence, where I’m planning to pick up a few provisions to take to Ibiza before heading to the airport in Pisa.
But when I get right up to the ridge after two hours winding the car round sharp dizzying curves, without any previous warning or signs, the road turns out to be closed for repairs. I think about chancing it over the rocks, even waste another hour exploring the dirt-road option but finally head back to the Hill to start again.
Bad breakfast
Now rerouted, after what I must say is one of the most scenically beautiful journeys of my life, through Marque, Umbria and Tuscany, I arrive in Florence eight hours after setting off, all the shops now closed, my favourite hotel full and my car in a tow-zone. So I lose myself in rapid circles for an hour till I find the Pisa road, starving hungry, all motorway services shut as if they’ve only stuck the knife and fork signs up to tease me and finally arrive in the madhouse that is Pisa early this morning, check in at the very best hotel, which other than the exorbitant price, matches the very worst hotel you’ve ever stayed at, can’t get the promised wi-fi to work, sleep fitfully – the room smells of dead travelling salesmen - get up early, pig out on bad breakfast complete with lashes of bacon after a week of pure vegetarianism, load the bastard cases into the groaning 500 and make my way through the chaotic traffic to the chaotic airport noticing I’ve (understandably) broken out into a bit of a sweat.
Desert on the moon
No matter – drop off the car (rented on the opposite coast) – assure the Avis guy proud of his nation’s number one treasure and export how cool the 500 is and how much I love it and make my way innocently to the Iberia check-in, only to discover that my usually tiptop travel agent, who’s actually called Ash, no doubt suffering the mentally disorientating effects of ash-chaos or Ash-chaos, has cancelled my ticket without telling me, so €1200 later for flight and excess baggage and lots of running to and fro around dawdling, obstructive travelers, wheeling the bastard cases between check-in and ticket sales, I’m boarding the flight to Madrid to get a quite tight connection to Ibiza in time to arrive at various parties I’m due at. Except we don’t land in Madrid, because having gone through one of those kiss-your-ass goodbye run-ins with an angry thundercloud for nothing, the pilot informs us Madrid air traffic control are having a bad day and have put us in a holding pattern for another 30 minutes. Which would all be fine except it’s not a big plane and my luggage alone has probably used up most of the fuel, which is now fast dwindling and the only thing to do is land in Zaragoza, which might as well be a desert on the moon. Eventually having refuelled, we take off, land in Madrid, having missed the connection, the next flight to Ibiza eight hours later and hence here I sit watching loads of moody looking, unsmiling people wandering up and down and talking to you.
Conversations with the Cosmic Comedian
However the interesting thing – thanks for sticking with me till now, assuming you have – is that somewhere along the road back from the closed mountain pass, I came over all Neal Donald Walsh and the Cosmic Comedian started having a conversation with me, which took the form of a near endless repetition of the following, which I now expect to use as a lyric at the gig I’m doing tomorrow night, assuming I actually make it back to Ibiza: “Everything is working exactly as it’s meant to, to produce your highest good – trust – everything is working exactly as it’s meant to, to produce your highest good – so if you’re feeling down, or have a frown on your face, or are all spaced out and filling up with doubt about the way things are going, hear these words from the voice of the divine travelling up and down the length of your spine: everything is working exactly as it’s meant to, to produce your highest good. Good.”
Which I must say when repeated over and over does have the most reassuring effect.
And if the whole madness of the travel chaos I’ve experienced over the last three weeks during this nearly-over-thank-goodness bout of Mercury in retrograde, has been for nothing other than to hear this lyric and transmit it to you, it’s been worth it.
It’s been worth it anyway.
Appreciate everything
I’m sure if I was dead and missing life on planet earth, I’d give my right astral arm to be able to while away days on end enjoying random travel plan changes and their accompanying inconveniences. I’m not complaining, just explaining, in other words.
We have to love what’s happening, no matter what, because what’s happening is the only thing there is – everything else is purely imaginary. Even most of what’s perceived as actually happening is purely imaginary. But that’s the topic for anther day’s out-blurt.
With love, Supercharged
Everything is working exactly as it’s meant to, to produce your highest good – trust.
