I was talking to my friend Kaia a couple of nights ago – a friend who’s been living in my London flat for almost two years now. Oh, my London flat. I was going to do a little upgrade on it and then sell it when I got back from Peru – just before I moved back to Thailand – but then my materialistic mindset and my obsession with interior design got the better of me, and I wound up ripping the total fucking heart of it out – bathrooms, kitchen included – and magically turned it into a residence fit for Queen.

Which, in this case, would be Kaia, because not one month after everything was finished and perfecto, I packed up my bags and left.

Anyway, so Kaia was updating me on this issue that had been rearing its head for quite some time now – this new cladding issue that a lot of UK city apartment owners will be familiar with. Apparently, none of the buildings are actually safe; they all need cladding, and the government may – or may not – fund any of it, which potentially leaves all of us leaseowners in a rather precarious position. And it got me thinking – wow, if this doesn’t actually get resolved, then what happens then? Will our places wind up being worth completely zilch? (Closely followed by: So, then… Even if the Capital does survive a flooding – a flooding having long been my suspicion – then there might well still be a crisis of sorts.

Or will there? What is it, anyway, about there always being some crisis?

Is what we think to be a crisis … ever really one at all?)

Later that day I spent a rather magically heightened afternoon

…in my hideaway garden that backs out into the jungle. I breathed into my chakras and gazed at the energy fields vibrating from the trees. Bella, my cat, prowled and slinked herself around me, communing sporadically (or insistently) with her incessant, sometimes petulant miaows. Give me attention, she always tells me. But… not now, I admonished her sweetly. Let’s just be in this space together, nice and quietly… With Vivaldi, I added as an afterthought. Four Seasons and Storm amongst others were booming out of my speakers.

Rapture wasn’t the word, except it was – a million times over – as well, as this notion of safety, in fact … that came from this deep, almost instinctive knowing that no matter what’s going on in the outside, we are all being cared for; and we are being guided; and we don’t so much need to cling on to what’s crumbling as to just keep on walking forwards as parts of ourselves and our old ways of being and existing in the world …

…just keep dripping and sliding right the way off us.

It’s a matter, now, of putting our energy, intentions, emotions, thoughts and feelings into the vision we want to create …. and not feed the fear surrounding all that is dying, which is clearly the reality we would not prefer.

And it’s also a matter of knowing that that your only real home is your own authentic Self, and your own authentic Truth, and that anything else – no matter how lush and bountiful, nor how good and polished it looks from the outside – is just a house of cards

Back on the tangible house front again – there was absolutely one point where I thought, ahhh, I should’ve sold that damn bloody flat and just been swiftly done with it. But, hey, what the hell, so then I wouldn’t have got close to Kaia – my eccentric shamanic priestess – who’d sit for hours on end during the onset of those 2019 London wintry nights tuning in with her pendulum, and who also taught me – or at least presented to me (to take away and implement later… and ok, ok, quite a fair bit later) – the value of just ‘being’.

Later that evening, I was halfway on my scooter to the local 7-11 when I heard a ‘miaow’ – now much chirpier – coming from behind me. That damned cat was only perching quite happily on my bike seat, her pointed ears peeking out around my hip.

‘I really got what the plants were telling us’, she said (to my very raised eyebrow), ‘about safety’.