Ahoy there. Last week, after blog number deux was posted, I was approached by a saucy wench pointing out the obvious, “Did you know your initials are “FCK?!” My first thought was, “Madam Marauder, you obviously did not read the introductory blog, because I mention those jinxy initials straight away.”“Aye, me matey,” I says, smiling wickedly and pointing to my rhinestone-encrusted choker (see photo), “Although unavoidable, my scurvy initials are indeed FCK. Quite burdensome, ye know, but a dash of sparklebooty makes everything better.”
Shiver me timbers: That’s my treasured philosophy when you get down to it. Problems, pox and pain are everywhere, but throw some paint on it, add glitter and you’ve got art!
For me hearties who have just come aboard, I am one of the three Frida Dolls who lives virtually at FridaPeople.com, where jolly lads and lassies are welcome to visit anytime. I am Frida Chiquita Kahlo, The Everyday Anthropologist, dedicated to the study of Landlubbers. If you’d like to be amused, read the previous entries located starboard, then visit yonder site. Or else walk the plank, ye blaggards.
Now, back to me treasure. Frida Miranda Kahlo, one of my salty cohorts, calls people who lead with their problems “Honkers.” You know, those swabs who sit in bottleneck traffic, uselessly honking their horns? Aye, kinda like this, “Waaah, I’m hurt, waaaah, I have a disease, waaaah, what are you going to do about it?”
Well, our Cap’n Frida Kahlo, eminent seadog, was NOT a Honker. She experienced all manner of grief, yet managed to throw paint, glitter and tears on the canvas and gave the world the gift of her heart.
Which leads this Corsair (a more romantic term for a buccaneer) back to the language of the Chakras. If you recall, the energy body of swashbucklers and landlubbers alike are comprised of seven major energy centers referred to as “chakras,” or wheels of energy.
I was racking me brain, trying to figure a way to explain this meaty concept (or curdled soybeans for our vegan picaroons) and the string theory came to mind. Nay, not the quantum theory of gravity, but the string-of-Christmas-lights theory.
Imagine a short strand of Christmas lights composed of seven bulbs hung vertically on a cord, each bulb a different color, starting with red and going through the colors of the rainbow. The second light up would be orange, the third yellow, the fourth green, the fifth blue, the sixth purple and finally, at the top, white.
Next, visually insert these seven bulbs into an outline of a human being and you now have a lockdown on the lighted energy centers. Each person has a strand of colored energy wheels running along their spinal cord and just like wrestling those pesky tree lights, if one bulb goes out, the rest of the string is affected. You can picture it, a steaming goblet of nog by the fireplace, the tree finally in its stand, and those bilge-sucking lights won’t work. Aaaaaaargh!Begad, what’s a Jack Tar s’posed to do? Well, a Sister of the Coast called me the other day for a little support. Her tooth was hurting and a visit to the dentist revealed she still had a baby tooth in her mouth, which needless to say (but I’m going to anyway), was rotting and had to come out. Blimey! And her throat hurt, her voice was hoarsey and in general, she felt quite dodgy. With two young boys and the Holiday Season in full tilt boogie, she could not afford to catch a plague.
Using the string theory on her, I scratched me whiskers in a pondering gesture, and considered the clues. Baby tooth (childhood), mouth, throat, sinuses and December, and presented her with my thoughts. It was almost a year since her dear mother had kissed Davy Jones’s locker.
My friend’s 5th chakra, or blue light, blinked off and on, signaling discomfort with semaphore precision. Bothered by something, me seafaring chum needed to express herself or her energy would continue to weaken. I lowered the boom and suggested she dust off her guitar and sing a shanty about missing her poor mother.
“Yo ho ho, that’s it!” she cried. “I am sorely missing my mother and my music.”
“Avast and go!” says I. “Lament and wail.” Then I gave a cat o’ nine tails performance over the phone, improvising lyrics and tune. “I miss my moooother. She’s turned into shark bait and fish grub. I’m too busy to plaaay music, gotta go and scrub my tub.”
Suddenly, Friend was laughing and her voice came back. I practically guaranteed that if she would spend fifteen minutes singing her heart out, the other details would fall easily into place. I could see life was challenging for my friend when undermined by a drain on her energy. To reboot her system, she needed to express her feelings in a way that was meaningful, and for her, it was through the music she had let fall into the briny deep.
Even though she felt too busy to pick up the guitar on a daily basis, the fact that she wasn’t playing music made everything else more difficult, feeding the erroneous impression that she didn’t have the time.
A scurrilous belief floats on the waves suggesting it is selfish to pay attention to personal needs and preferences. And the nominee for the misleading notion in a Broadway musical is The Busy List. Attention SwagMart shoppers, all items must be crossed off this exhausting list before any time can be devoted to nurturing one’s self. That code of conduct perpetuates imbalances, lowers energy and breeds resentment. It also makes frustration out of daily tasks and extends the time required to accomplish them.
Scallywags, it does not have to be that way. Human beings are not meant to be constant Human doings, because eventually, flesh and bones conspire mutiny. In other words, they get tired, out of balance, and then sick.
Sail Ho! Here comes the good news. When people listen to themselves and take care of their own needs first, their chakras are happy, balanced and like magic, the refreshed energy centers assist with swabbing the decks in record time.
What’s the wisdom about head colds, “Untreated, they last a week. With treatment, seven days?” My proud beauty reported back that she had sung her lungs out to her mama and felt much better. She spent a valuable hour singing, reclaiming her voice, expressing herself and what do you know, the scourge did not pillage or plunder her body after all. Her blue bulb was back in alignment and so was the rest of her string of lights.
In terms of time and energy, which yields more bounty, an hour spent in fun or a week in snotty misery?
Godspeed and fair winds!
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