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Hello and welcome to my blog formerly called Gypsy-K. Please note that I am only updating this blog while I am walking from Rome to Jerusalem from September 2015. My online home and permanent blog is at You can also sign up for pilgrim postcards and newsletters here. Thank you for being here and supporting my journey. With love and courage, Kym xx

Friday, 23 November 2012

My Healing Heart

I said: What about my eyes?
God said: Keep them on the road.
I said: What about my passion?
God said: Keep it burning.
I said: What about my heart?
God said: Tell me what you hold inside it?
I said: Pain and sorrow?
He said: Stay with it.
The wound is the place where the Light enters you.
~ Rumi

I love my slow and quiet starts to Friday after I have earned my living for the week and my long weekend begins in silence and soulitude soaking in written words.

Last night, I left work wearing tiredness like a heavy cloak draped around my shoulders and with the almost constant sadness tugging at my heart. I am okay with the sadness now. Over the last several months, we have sat and conversed and I have discovered it to be a friend. Its name is longing, calling me deeper into who I really am. Calling me to love this world fiercely. It is the gap, the space between where I am and where I am called to be. And it’s getting smaller if not more urgent.

As part of my Reverb in December last year, I picked focus as my word for 2012. Back then, I thought my focus was to finally answer the question that has eluded me over the last four years since I became aware I no longer wanted a career in financial planning: What am I going to do with my life?  But the focus I really needed found its own way to me. Healing. Healing my hidden but deeply wounded heart.

Time heals all wounds. So goes that old adage often quoted as a means of offering comfort to those who grieve and hurt. But does it really? Time puts space between the infliction of the wound and the present moment, softening to a sting but does it heal the wound? In my experience, no, time does not heal all wounds.

My mum died sixteen years ago this year on the 19th December after suffering Facioscapularhumeral Muscular Dystrophy (FSHD) for most of her life. We had an extremely turbulent relationship to the extent that she was emotionally abusive towards me when I was a child. Despite this, I still had to be one of her main caregivers as she was confined to bed, unable to walk without falling. Although I was scared of her a lot of the time, I still loved her. She was my mum. I knew who she really was in her heart but her disease, her suffering and her own unhealed wounds from her childhood complicated everything.

Invisible wounds from childhood. Invisible wounds from loss. Time has not healed these wounds.

It is presence, offering them light, feeling and expressing all those painful festering emotions until they dissipate. This is what heals. It requires strength, courage, patience and as I have found, the support of a beautiful, gifted healer to enable this healing. It is still in progress but I have come a long way.

I understand now why I felt compelled to come back to Melbourne and why I have felt so stuck, confused and unable to figure out the way forward. My heart is opening and as it opens so does the way forward. I have been unraveling into wholeness, finding my way back into my heart, fully, so my heart can guide me for the rest of my life.

Me soaking up the sunlight by the Yarra River, Melbourne

Returning to the work tower after a light-filled lunch break

Coloured light, sunset over the Docklands, view from the work tower, Melbourne

Tuesday, 6 November 2012

Everything that matters

As I explore the threads of my life
winding back through the days
that have drifted away
with the currents of time past,
I recollect the stones
of desires I discarded.
These golden threads,
they lead me back
to the words of a kindred
forgotten in her silence.
Wordlessly we commune,
through images
that distilled life
and captured spirit
in one witnessed moment
before it raced its way forward
on the current of time to come.
I am reminded of what
we both wanted to know.
What would remain
if everything was left behind?
And we both have our answers.
Everything that matters.
Everything that truly matters.

I am exploring poetry with Liz Lamoreaux through her online offering More Poem It Out Liz's love of poetry and her teaching is both inspiring and beautiful.  If you've ever been interested in poetry but not sure where or how to start, try Liz.

Sunrise over the Ganges, Varanasi, India

Sunset over the Mekong, Luang Prabang, Laos

Beach at Tandryankupam village, Pondicherry, India

Monday, 5 November 2012

Beauty needs a name

Today, Summer and Spring are playing tug of war. The air is warm. It wraps around me like a soft cashmere blanket comfortably snug and elicits a contented sigh. But the skies are surly and occasionally spitting seasonal reminders that Spring is still here and Summer doesn’t officially start for one more month.

This morning, on my walk home from the supermarket via my local cafe, nature commanded me to stop and be still. On the miniature park-like median strip were four lanky trees laden with thousands of buttercup stars shooting sweet perfume that danced around my head like playful fairies. I breathed in deeply, slowly and the scent wistfully scratched my heart with reminders of Summer and Christmas of yesteryear that I still don’t understand.

I came home and unpacked my shopping. I ate my crumpets with peanut butter and sipped my latte. I started writing just like every other Monday. But I was restless with longing and an incessant need to discover their true name.

This beauty cannot just be a tree, a flower, a scent. It needs to be named to honour its uniqueness and to forge a deeper relationship with its essence.

Eventually, with the help of a friend, I stumbled across its name.

Native Frangipani.

Evergreen with creamy white and yellow flowers with a heady fragrance that for some hidden reason reminds me of Summer and Christmas as a child.

Native Frangipani.

I smile. Exhale. Content.

Native Frangipani.

I press my palms together near my heart and bow. I see your spark. I honour you.

What will you see, honour and name today?

Native Frangipani, Richmond, Victoria, Australia