Tag: life

The 5 Symbols of the Camino de Santiago, Part Two: The Walking Stick

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The Walking Stick is a symbol of those people in one’s life who assist in upliftment, encouragement and forward momentum. Having an emotional, physical and spiritual staff to lean on can help traverse tricky terrain.

I don’t walk with poles or a walking stick—in fact the few times I have used someone’s for a difficult crossing or steep downhill, I have fallen. This indicates to me that I need to become more familiar with asking for support. My innate tendency is to always be self supporting and to hold others up. This can be to my detriment if I can’t equally find the people and resources to support me in supporting others.

A Walking Stick can be seen in the negative light of a crutch and using one can be seen to highlight one’s disabilities. It is, therefore, imperative to give this an archetypal symbology that encourages its use. The sense of outreach in difficult times is so key to reducing suffering and restoring well-being. 

This current campaign to walk 1,000km to raise awareness for mental health and suicide prevention made me extremely vulnerable in the asking for support and extremely disappointed. My lessons around support are to lean in only when the support is actually there and being mindful of expectations of it, without using the lack of people believing in me to snap back into being 100% self supporting again.

When you carve a walking stick that ultimately provides support for your pilgrimage, it is like an analogy that can translate into the care and love offered to and infused into another human being that ultimately become the food that fuels that individual to be the support you one day may reach out for.

The pilgrim’s Walking Stick is a symbol that young, able-bodied people also make use of this often necessary tool for of support and that there is no stigma attached to utilising it, whether walking 5 or 45 legs of the Pilgrim’s Way. Using a Walking Stick can be a practice of mindfulness and gratitude—a way to honour the self and the body in recognition of its strength and also acceptance of its fallibility.

It holds the intention and reminder that there is always support at hand and it will challenge a different response when either needing to ask for or accept the offer of help from others. I can lean on something/someone temporarily and it’s ok to then lay it down, until needed again, without a) feeling obligated to be enslaved, and b) depending on it always being there.

Questions to ask yourself:

  • What held me back—cognitively, emotionally, somatically—in asking and/or receiving a hand of support today?
  • Who are the people in my community, tribe who are my walking sticks in life and how do I honour these people more by being receptive to their care?

You can follow, support and share my Walking for Mental Health fundraising campaign on BackaBuddy. All my socials can be found on LinkTree.

Believe yourself into Being

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When people believe in you, you start believing in yourself.

I grew up not being believed in — my skills and abilities and also my innate wisdom were overlooked; considered odd — and I consequently learnt from a very young age to abandon myself to fit in and be fed.

I am not a victim to this because I also know the wound is the gift.

So my life’s calling, and my ultimate answering to it, has been to value people and help them heal enough to believe in themselves again.

I have found in life that there are two times where people get abandoned in the type of society we now live in where attention spans are diminished and judgement trumps trust: when at our absolute rock bottom having lost the ability to don the masks of an expected norm, and when in our blissful joy living in alignment with our purpose and meaning.

There are always those champions in life who hold you in support and believe in you at both ends of the spectrum — these are your people; hold onto them … the ones who only hang out in the middle zones only erode the belief in yourself you have worked so hard at regaining.

The loneliest of people aren’t those who have no one around, they are the ones surrounded by people who don’t share values and who expect you to show up in service of who they need you to be.

As Michael Mead says, “The calling keeps calling.”

It is never too late and you are never too old to become who you were born to be. Depression, addiction, anxiety, stress … to name only a few afflictions of this world we live in … are the silent killers that need to be witnessed and brought into the light by those willing to go into the dark.

I have found that when life is so hard I have lost the capacity to help myself, I go buy a meal or a blanket for a homeless person or pay for street people to spend a night in a shelter. This is my medicine—an unwitting and relatively minor altruism and the one that has had the power to keep me going until I believe in myself again.

And then I must dance … because dark and light have to be navigated in equal measure for the psyche to find true harmony.

Unravelling

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People often ask how I got from the 60-hour work week, shackled to a corporate desk in Investment Banking, to the fluidity and flexibility of a multi-faceted therapist, coach and guide.

In surrender, I reply … on my knees, with broken heart and shattered dreams. And not just the once.

For decades I did what I was meant to do to fit the societal construct of a productive adult contributing to a broken world. Nobody had versed me in the art of creative choices, the trust in intuition, and the capacity to follow my soul in life or in love.

We often think doing the work, the training, the emotional labour, means that we will be more resilient at times of challenge. But it’s often not true.

It is my role to guide you through the crises, that will ultimately bring growth and development, rather than numb you with more layers of bullshit just to temporarily help you ‘fit in’ with the essentially dysfunctional society in which you exist. Existential distress does not equate to mental disease; it means there is an inner tension pushing you through another birthing into a new way of existence. It is a calling to the you who needs to unravel in order to be rewoven.

Through the blend of modalities that I show up with in service to your wellbeing, there is an un-layering that occurs to reveal your values and roles, or bring you to a place of balance  from where you can better develop those values in order to find belonging through authenticity rather than through merely adopting the values of those around you and ultimately adapting to a system that doesn’t resonate with your true need to find meaning.

It is important to find the core strength to stand out rather than fit in; to add rather than adapt; to live your own life rather than exist in others’. You don’t come into the world; you come out of it.

As a nomad on life’s landscapes I have developed the skills and wisdom to guide you to a deep exploration of who you are, what your gifts are and how to live your truth and purpose into the world with curiosity and compassion.

People call me courageous because of how I approach life. The word courage comes from cor meaning heart so, yes, this is a word I live into the world … one day at a time.

I blend my studies with my experience and I bring a deep wisdom, tempered with ignorance, into the world.

I invite you to explore your inner world like a true adventurer.

I am an energetic accumulation of my life force, my experiences, my research, my studies, my connections and my family tree; I am you in me and I am me in you.

Walking for Mental Health

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I have been a quiet activist for most of my life, starting as far back as pre-teen when I thought donating my pocket money would end world hunger.

I have also been a not to quiet activist, getting hate mail when I was feeding hundreds of people made homeless in the settlement in Hout Bay.

I’m not so naive that I expect this campaign or even the work I do to change the world; what I do know though is that if I die a pauper having helped just one person survive the darkest moments of their life then that is a rich life indeed.

What it means to live well means different things to different people. For some it is accumulating money, status and possessions and for others it’s about relinquishing such things. Some people require luxury and some need simplicity and there is no right or wrong. The key is integrity, authenticity and self-reflection on the meaning that is being lived through you and how that motivates you to purposeful living.

For many years I accumulated as much as possible feeling my prior years life as a sensitive activist was washed away by the perception of a waste of time.

My years in investment banking and consulting was like putting a metal cast on a grazed knee—it was the ultimate burden that almost killed me by first breaking the spirit of who I was meant to be in the world.

As I stripped away the layers and left myself exposed to those who couldn’t understand my giving up my feathered nest, I recognised that behind the criticism of many was that longing to also find meaning … and the intense and debilitating fear that often prevents it.

I have shadow boxed with depression and addiction my entire life. A recent confrontation with depression, addiction and dysfunction has helped me address the relationship these have with connection, childhood trauma and hyper vigilance around personal safety, boundary violations and feeling the need to give myself away in order to be accepted … to exist even.

Depression and addiction have deep roots and, although I have done decades of work on my childhood traumas (neglect, abuse, violations, hyper-vigilance and a lack of safety), as well as adult traumas (rape, relational and familial abuse, breakdowns, grief and self harm), I have to be vigilant. Sometimes my only saviour is feet in running shoes on mountain trails. Some call that an escape, others call it an addiction. I call it survival, serenity, self care. Running and hiking have always been my medicine; my means to process and progress on an ever-deepening spiritual path. Writing and story telling are my other elixirs. So, when looking for a passage through this mental health crisis, I recognised the Camino de Santiago as that tool that could save my life.

Grief is not always about losing someone you love, it can also be about losing aspects of self; it can also be mourning the loss of a person still alive and grieving the person you could have been if things had only been different.

My immediate aspiration is to walk 850 to 1,000kms across Spain from 17 Sep to 4 Nov ’25 whilst advocating for Mental Health with the sharing of tools & techniques with fellow pilgrims, to create a new narrative through coaching and story telling. I will also offer craniosacral therapy along the way.
My long term goal is to use the unique combination of my qualifications, wisdom and experience to initiate teenagers from disadvantaged communities into nature therapy (using my years of experience and studies in social development) as well as corporates (using my long history in Investment Banking and Consulting).

“My ugliest parts, when met with mercy, can become my greatest assets.” ~ Frank Ostaseski

My work is not to help people live the kind if life I have chosen to live; it’s to show them that they have their own way and to help them uncover and/or develop the tools that will enable them to find the path that will appear only when they take that very first step. It can be overwhelming deciding (in the head) which of the myriad paths to take until a felt (in the heart) sense is realised.

To support me to support others whilst walking the Camino de Santiago, please click on the link to pledge your support:
https://backabuddy.co.za/campaign/walking-for-mental-health
I offer donor incentives in the form of vouchers for specific minimum donations.

The amount you donate will contribute to my pilgrimage to giving the topic of mental health the bandwidth it needs and supporting me to support others as they too walk to wellness. Together we can remove the stigmas attached to the topic of Mental Health and support people in their times of crisis and healing.

We begin so we can end and we end in order to begin again.
Let’s get people walking their talk to better mental health.

Scan this QR code for my LinkTree,
which contains all the relevant links for you to follow, support and share the campaign
as well as the work I do both here and abroad.

Prelude to a Memoir

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I have been trying to find the seed to write as I have been reluctant/resistant to tell my stories and reveal all the mucky truths … still that fearful little girl inside not wanting to invite the wrath of volatile family members who offer nothing without conditions … so I have been trying to write everything apart from what is trying to be written. 

There are opposing voices in my head—one warning me the just be quiet because of the impact the truth has, and the other down on its knees begging for this truth to be told. Truth isn’t the same as facts. Truth is something deeper. 

After an episode of coercive manipulation last year, I no longer feel the need to fawn or fight as I lean into what Anne Lamott says: “You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better”.

I can’t tell a powerful story if I’m afraid of hurting people—writing from a place of fear is never a good way to proceed. My first obligation as I forge ahead is to the truth of my story and that means not censoring myself. 

Some stories need to be told, and while the telling may come with some fallout, my compulsion to share my own story is because it helps others feel less alone; those who need to be reminded that in a world of eight billion people, it is inevitable that there is going to be an awful lot of shared experience and, although we all have our unique interpretations of events, we are not unique in our struggles. We mostly just need help getting to the other side of them.

This is what my work is all about—not transcending anything but simply being my authentic dark and twisty self so that I can hold those parts of other wounded souls. I am not into false positivity; I am into real hard life stuff … the cracks and breaks that guide the way into the gifts that each one of us has.

My lifelong studies, self development and spiritual growth have led me to the gifts I was born with—not to tell people to let go of the past and leave the pain alone but to sit with them in their past and in their pain. It is only in going into the dark that one can one day come out into the light once more.

My pen is my sword as I now sit down and write. 

Twenty Six: Monsoon Bower Bird

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“Please speak of how you view the possibility of attachment to non attachment,” I ask the dharma teacher.

I am at Kopan Monastery to heal my body and mind from resonating at the frequency of the fatal diseases I might have contracted from the dog bite, and to recover from setbacks encountered on the home front. On a three-day water fast, I travel the darkened tunnels of a healing crisis with fever and fitfulness and I find the comforting containment of 700 monks and nuns chanting and performing pooja to be instrumental in my wellness.

I notice, as I ask the question, my hand running fingers through the thin blonde hair I have always equated with femininity as I admire the teacher’s beautifully smooth-shaven crown. I am drawn to life in a nunnery and commit to shave my head on my arrival in India … yet I also know how fickle I can be. Life as a renunciate mocks me as I consider relinquishing the bower bird aspects of my identity … the beautiful shiny objects I have around me, even on my travels.

I sit each morning as an observer, an outsider looking in on the monks as they arrive dressed in robes that simultaneously shed their identity and give them one. They prostrate and take their seats. They are vessels, showing up in service to the prayers; chanting for others what others can’t do for themselves.

I sit and contemplate on no more than what I witness. The pooja, the music, the clapping away of evil spirits. When a British Colonel arrived in Lhasa after gunning down thousands of Tibetans, he is said to have felt great pride in the Tibetans clapping for him on his arrival, mistakingly believing their attempts to dispel evil as their celebrating his prowess.

The opposite of doing is not apathy; it’s allowing … a yielding rather than a seeking. Meditation is an action. It is a deliberate and intentional allowing of all that is, in order to practice not attaching to any of it through the sense organs. Gathering to wash the plates and utensils from food preparations, the chatting and community is as profoundly important as the nourishment from the simple food. Quality of life is expressed through moving hands that find their intelligence in ordinary tasks. Is this what malas could be used for? I wonder.

As the fever passes, I feel both relief and disappointment. Relief that I may have healed myself from potential suffering. Disappointment that I may have saved myself from dying. If you know me, you will understand that this is not in fact a depressed dig in the darkness, but a lightening of something quite liberating. Regardless, a little more context may be required for those who don’t know the true meaning of the word GuRu and may be more attached to just the one syllable without considering its counterpart.

I have never felt fully committed to this incarnation. Call it trauma, abuse, nervous system dysregulation … no matter … contemplating death these past days, I recognise that I am more attached to death than I am to life. So the tears I shed are related to feeling that dying from a dog bite in a country that honours death as much as it honours life would be a better fate than ultimately taking that long walk into the ocean when I am done with this so-called me I am becoming less and less identified with as I travel to integrate the past five decades of my fabrication.

There is a middle ground always: not attached to either life or death but fully committed to and incarnated in both. Like a suspension bridge that must be fully rooted in both banks. Straddling. Clinging to neither … and also to both.

My writing habits have gone into holes and tunnels and transcended the notion of linear time. There are gaps … chasms. And, as with my meditation practice, I have to keep coming back to the cushion to start again.

I am in India now at Deer Park Institute in Himachal Pradesh. So much life has happened between my time here in February, and this time now. I have written less than I aspired to, traveled and explored way more than I imagined, connected, studied, expanded (and also contracted), integrated and shed so much of who I believed myself to be. To honour this new version of myself that can’t recognise myself in the mirror anymore, I travel to McLeodGanj, two hours each way by cab, to a hairdresser I met in February. My instruction to Mukti back then was still my usual, “Just the ends off please; I’m trying to grow it”. This time I am not bold enough for the full head shave—yet—but I flick through Pinterest to show him some images that match this new Penelope V11.9 and tell him to work his magic. I close my eyes and breathe.

This is the only death I need right now.

Monsoon season is a flushing of all the rubbish; a cleansing of the earth and a transition into autumn. India has six seasons instead of four … six opportunities to adapt or die.

Twenty Five: Death on the Carousel

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‘Hm’, I said, not meaning for it to be such a short sharp expression of a somewhat surprising realisation. I often disappear into my thoughts; occasionally I get jolted back with the realisation that I have spoken something—usually a question—out loud. Today, sitting in an armchair in the library of Kopan Monastery where I am staying for a week, I found myself unwittingly tapping on my phone, writing about death. The subject had been discussed in the earlier dharma talk and, on entering the library, my eyes and hands thankfully landed immediately on The Book of Joy by Archbishop Desmond Tutu and His Holiness the Dalai Lama. I tend to experience excessive overwhelm when choosing a book in a library or bookstore and often the doors have closed while I am still drifting trance-like up and down aisles, touching and leafing through—and often sniffing—hundreds of books I fail to narrow down to just that one. It seems unjust somehow to eliminate so much unread potential with the accumulated value of hundreds of thousands of writing hours by hopeful authors. This is why ‘thankfully’ interjected there. As it happens, I read very little of the joy book. Surrounded by all those words and wisdom, a quite typical Penelope thought crossed my mind: I am more afraid of my luggage not appearing on the airport carousal than I am of dying.

I decided to unpack that—so to speak—in light of my current day of drifting in and out of sleep; my previous few days of stiffness in my knuckles, forearms and upper back; general tension and weakness in my body, and an incapacity to fully function. The now almost fully-healed wound on my right arm reminds me of the potential cause of these symptoms: a dog bite a week ago in Pharping Dollu. 

We are all on the limen of life and death and not one of us knows exactly when we will unwittingly cross. Yet cross we will. So, when the darkness beckons, I submit. Sometimes I go so deep into the dark without a flashlight and, to the alarm of many, I’m not afraid of staying there a while. And then I write and I share. But no one wants to hear these travel stories. People want to live vicariously … they want to suck the dopamine hits from my days on the road. They want romance stories not murder mysteries; they want beaches and sunsets, not oil slicks and smog. People want to be wooed by their projected fantasies onto the ones who leave; unwilling or unable to live their dreams into existence.

I have so often been dangerously and excitingly close to crossing that limen between life and death that I can freely claim to have intentionally dangled a foot over the threshold on more than one occasion. This time, however, I had to weigh up the risks of taking my chances dying from a disease I had a minuscule chance of contracting or getting a vaccine and risking injury or death from a medicine I had a minuscule chance of needing. Either way I might die and I had 24 hours to choose which death risk I was willing to take. Those hours felt like a hike through hell as I had to not only consider my choice to vaccinate or not but also navigate my unfamiliar discomfort with death standing vigil at the foot of my bed. 

Every breakthrough is accompanied by a fever.

I awoke from a torrid night with the absolute surrender to my mortality and my autonomy in taking my chances crossing the threshold potentially whilst still exploring Nepal. Life, after all is only a practice and death is inevitable … and if this is my destiny then my freedom to choose this was also pre-determined.

Like the luggage on the carousel, I recognise that suffering is in the anticipation only; the struggle and the resistance. It lies in the attachment. Some have suffering imposed on them and some get stuck in adversity as though an addiction whilst others embrace it out of fear of who they would need to be if freedom was their new reality. Still there are others who never experience suffering and adversity and always seek an elusive freedom as a fish seeks the water it swims in.

The weight on the airport scales is nothing compared with what I drag onto planes … the emotional baggage; the leaden soul. Dark nights and prolonged depressions are also travel. Longterm nomading has nothing to do with escaping anything and everything to do with facing everything … in ever-changing landscapes that highlight the myriad crises and give endless space to tease them apart … to sometimes break them open … to make space enough to step back, get perspective and rebuild with breathing space. Because nothing can be escaped. All I can do is express how it actually feels, not how I want it to feel. And not how vicarious travellers want to experience it either.

So I travel to recover and heal from a lifetime of living in survival mode, decades of abuse, breakdowns and mental afflictions such as narcolepsy, ADHD and autism. I travel to break down the walls of the necessity to function according to other people’s perceptions and expectations so that I can transmute and transmit my light through the cracks in the dark matter of dis-ease, dis-function and dis-order. I travel to free myself from the here or there or now or then; to find the moments of existence that contain everything and nothing. Because true freedom can only be found through the gateways. I travel to practice living well so that I can die well.

Death still lingers as aches and pains as I face up to where I am in its liminal space. As I stand at the carousel of life and luggage, I none the less give the three black monastery dogs an uncharacteristic wide berth as I walk to the Gompa. Just becasue I am questioning the power of my mind to slip either into healing or suffering and how prepared I am to cross the threshold does not mean I actually want to die just yet.

I travel to question my questions so that I may never find the answers.

Twenty Three: The Spaces Between

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Some people travel to find themselves, some to lose themselves. I travel to discover that which brings me to life through confronting death and adaptability. Travel wakes me up from the narcolepsy—and also the more generalised sleep—it informs me; wisens me. It opens the portal to the writer in me so that I can write out into the world that which I most need to learn … so that what needs to live through me can fill my vessel and reweave my narrative.

It’s the movement of travel that I most adore. The momentum, the dynamism … the swings and spirals to find that sweet spot of equilibrium and poise. Balance is an unnatural state—a new age erroneous desire—it alludes to a state of stagnation. Sitting at a desk in front of a window to write, the curtains are drawn on my mind. But put me next to the window on the backseat of a taxi on a bumpy, windy road under construction with an uncomfortably full bladder and an ache of hunger from a 7-day fruit fast, and I am instantly inspired.

Triggers confront me—consume me—as I am forced to work cell-by-cell on past traumas to remind myself that I am truly free and that I can finally write without fear of recrimination. I lean in deep enough to touch into the fears, the anxieties, the debilitating threats I faced of getting thrown out of home or losing custody of my child if I spoke my truth … if I shared my reality. Courage walks hand in hand with fear. I am known to overshare if given the chance.

The barrier on a bridge has been opened like a gate. A rusted reminder of mortality lies in the riverbed beneath. Giant stairways and planted beans stretch to the giant in the sky. Departing souls have easy access to high places. Also a reminder that first one must fall to rise. Death feels easy here. Heaven and hell are only as far apart as earth and sky. There is no separation, only perceived segregation. There is no ‘other’. The inner child takes the crone by the hand. They jump and skip. Heads thrown back, they laugh at the sky. The sky knows change. It is unmoved.

Houses retreat into rubble and dust, making way for a new highway. Memories of a Yangtze River trip invade my mind as people are displaced to higher ground. The road becomes like a river washing away houses … an unnatural disaster; a crime against humanity. It looks like a war zone; it’s difficult to breathe. My eyes seek attainment and attachment to the next dopamine hit. A bus with DELUXE emblazoned across its front is being worked on by two bare-chested men exposing cages of ribs. Deluxe is just another word—a branding that has no intrinsic meaning value.

I am reminded by rivers of rubbish down hillsides and in forests that there is no such thing as away. Like the tongue that keeps seeking the broken tooth, the psyche will consistently and obsessively keep seeking the wounded parts again and again. We think we can throw certain things away whilst accumulating other things when in reality everything always exists and it is simply we who are shifting in and out of the objective reality of those very things we believe we are either discarding or holding onto. So I discard words and, in deleting sentences and paragraphs, I detach also from the meaning they hold.

The silences between musical notes are what frame, contain and make the songs possible. The weft and weave of story is the same. It’s the spaces that allow the piece to breathe, that give it both life and death in non-dualistic harmony. Words are plucked and rewoven, always leaving a knot untied or that one loose thread as a reminder that nothing is ever complete or perfect.

As I learn to write again with honesty and authenticity from that fierce place in my core, I write away all the shields. And as I learn to cease the word vomit that perpetuates my narrative, I learn to re-create spaces between the words so I can steep myself in the breath of the present. I pour words on my skin like nectar until they wash away—slowly, slowly—the outer layers … until my armour can rust and fall away.

The aim is not enlightenment; the aim is truth. My voice and my silence is my message.