Scars As Karmic Reminders

Most all of us, if we’ve lived any length of time here on earth at all, carry some bodily scars from accidents. Are accidents karma? I certainly believe they are; the scars we carry are constant reminders of those incidents that happened long ago.

When I shave in the morning, I see a small line on my chin where I cut myself on a broken baby bottle back in my infant toddler days. I certainly don’t remember this accident, as I was too young, but my face remembers. It remembers my mother telling me how I fell as a baby with my bottle that broke.

My first self-created scar is on my right knee, where I had the cartilage removed back in 1975. This accident was caused by me, a Western man, trying to be an Eastern man. I’d been practicing yoga heavily and longed to master the full lotus posture; but way too early in the game. From pushing my body too hard, I loosened everything around my knee. Then I twisted it getting out of a small pup tent. Luckily I had insurance, but this was my first time in the hospital with major surgery and being put under. It wouldn’t be my last!

Another three inch long thin scar adorns my right thigh, just above the knee. This scar has the most unusual story behind it of all. Back in 1979, I spent six months in Fiji Islands traveling all over many islands in the archipelago and living with the natives in their villages. As chance would have it, I took a cargo ship on a three day voyage to the remote island paradise of Rotuma. I was the first American hippie musician, looking like Jesus Christ, to ever visit this distant island. It hadn’t been discovered yet. No tourists ever came here and few had even heard the word “Rotuma”. My stay here was special beyond words. When I was riding on the back of a motor scooter with my friend Ian driving, I felt something gently brush against my thigh, above the knee. I didn’t look down at the time and just thought it must have been a leaf that rubbed against me. However, when we finally came to a stop back in the village of Juju, I was bleeding! It looked like a paper cut. What did this? I gave it no thought what so ever until years later; I noticed that it is still there- reminding me of magical Rotuma. This is a happy scar for sure.

Other scars on my body aren’t so happy. I have a scar that extends fifteen inches long from the top of my hip down my femur. There are nineteen screws there holding the eight breaks in my leg together. I fell twenty feet off a roof, breaking my leg and shoulder. The shoulder scar runs from the top of my collar bone down into my arm pit. Both of these are karmic reminders of a horrible time in my life. I had just gotten back with my estranged wife after a year of separation when this accident happened. Those scars remind me of three months in a wheel chair, then crutches and a cane as I learned how to walk again all over. And they remind me of the painful divorce I went through at the same time.

The scars on my left ankle carry five screws underneath, from an accident caused totally by alcohol. Bad karma! In a drunken stupor, I slipped off two steps on my porch, trying desperately not to squash my small Siamese kitten, Mister Blanco. This was a compound fracture with the bone exposed. Of all scars I carry, this accident hurt the worst.

So there you have it. As every picture tells a story, every scar does too. Can you remember the stories behind your scars? Everything speaks to me. Om Namaha Shivaya

Singer/songwriter Rob Rideout is the award winning author of Still Singing, Somehow. He lives on a farm overlooking Colville, WA with his three cats Baba, Maya and Olive. He just released a second book of poetry, based on his song lyrics and has a CD of original songs scheduled for release May 2011. These songs of three decades are meant to accompany both books.  Rob’s books can be viewed or purchased @ www.stillsingingsomehow.com He can be contacted there too. Be sure to check out his blog on the home page of his website.

The Value of Journaling

I guess you could say I started journaling when I was seventeen years old and took a sailboat trip up the coast of British Columbia with my friend’s dysfunctional family. I chronicled our trip, calling it “To Hell and Back in a Sailboat”. This was my first attempt at writing; my mother loved it and encouraged me to do more. I did two years later, at nineteen, when I traveled through all of Western Europe in a VW bus and kept a daily journal of that experience. I can’t remember exactly when I started daily journaling, but it was in my early twenties when I got married. I’ve pretty much been writing daily now for about forty years, with a few lapses during my lifetime where I just didn’t want to write anymore or was too messed up to write; at one point, I couldn’t even hold a pen due to alcoholism.

However, the written record I now possess of my life is incredible, and all written down by my own hand! Many times I have used my journals to look back and find some exact date or other info I needed; and there it was written down long ago. Daily writing keeps me sane, as paper is patient, and I can write out any feelings or frustrations I may have- to get them off my chest, so to speak. Writing is therapy to me and the more you write, the more you’ll be amazed at who you really are. When we talk, we use one part of our brain that responds automatic ally. But when we write, we stop to think before writing what we are going to say. The more you use your writing muscle in that creative part of your brain, the more it will develop and grow, showing you different ways to express yourself with words.

I recently published two books, after many years of rewrites. It was a long, slow process but now I can say that I am a published author and semi immortal, now that my inspirational memoir is out there in cyberspace and Amazon. And I never could have written my books without the years of practice I acquired through journaling. My old journals came in handy again when looking up the spelling of some village in India or Fiji. What is really amazing, however, is that what I actually wrote was often times far different than my memories of the experience! I see that our memories often get distorted and exaggerated over time. That must be the nature of the human mind. But when you can go back and read what really happened in your journal, you’ll be amazed at what you wrote!

Here is an example from my 1979 journal in Fiji Islands:

“Dec. 21- I actually slept okay on the floor last night. The three bachelors taking care of us had coffee and pineapples all ready upon waking- taking care of us greatly. We are presently at a beautiful white sand beach south of Savusavu where I went snorkeling with Bruce in the clearest water yet. A lone horse is next to me as I write this. He accidently smashed all of my bananas when he smelt them in my pack. We ran into red haired Don from Canada again- what a small world! Laid out in the sun some more, to keep that tan that I so adore; how egotistical is that? Then I read some pages out of Paul Brunton’s book about holy men in the Himalayas. It seems to keep me aspiring spiritually here. I tried to meditate by the ocean but my attempts were futile. Maybe someday I’ll be the yogi I really want to be.”

I can barely even remember writing these words years ago, but there you have it and there it is- all thanks to journaling. In fact, when I’m dead and long gone, somebody could take my years of journals and create many movies, stories or books just from the written legacy I’ve daily recorded. Think about it. It is never too late to start writing out your thoughts about your life, as nobody thinks like you do and nobody can do it but you. So, my advice to you now is to start writing daily what is going on in your mind, heart and life. It is one of the greatest blessings you can bestow upon yourself!

Kava in Fiji

Kava is a mild liquid intoxicant and a large element in Fijian culture.  And it’s legal. This is the liquid drug or beverage of choice in most of Melanesia and Polynesia. Kava or kava-kava’s scientific name is (Piper methysticum) (Piper: Latin for 'pepper', methysticum: (Latinized) Greek for 'intoxicating'). The roots of the plant are used to produce a drink with sedative and anesthetic properties. Kava is consumed throughout the Pacific Ocean cultures of Polynesia (including Hawaii), Vanuatu, Melanesia and some parts of Micronesia. Kava is sedating and is primarily consumed to relax without disrupting mental clarity. Its active ingredients are called kavalactones

This variety of pepper tree takes five to seven years to reach harvest maturity.  When the stems and roots are dried, and then manually beaten or mechanically ground into a flour, cold water is added to create what looks like a mud puddle; it resembles the taste of a freshly ground cedar pencil. One island I visited didn’t dry the roots at all, but beat them green into a split pea soup looking drink, that was much stronger by far. Drying seems to be the way to go for most island folk, however. With my addictive personality, I had a love/hate relationship with this grog or yaqona, as it is commonly called in Fiji.  It seems to be consumed daily there- as a ritualistic ceremony, a “grog break” at a city bank or socially in the villages and towns. And don’t forget the tourists, who consume their share too, be it ever so small.  Both native Fijians and domestic East Indians partake of this narcotic beverage, which seems to be basically a man’s drink. Women partake at weddings and funerals, it seems. I out drank the chief of another village one night and became a living legend- something they would talk about for a long time.  When asked if I was stoned yet, I replied, “You don’t even know the meaning of the word.” You are dealing with one of the original hippies here.  To me, the high was like one beer combined with a mediocre joint.  But when drinking mass quantities, I developed what the Fijians called coni coni or second skin.  This is an intense nerve itch that can’t be scratched- like a snake shedding its skin.  I swore I’d never drink grog again. However, when tomorrow arrived, there was nothing else to do but to drink it again. My thinking was that it made me feel more at one with the natives, myself and this hot environment, despite the consequences. Maybe it did and maybe it didn’t. This rational and pattern would be repeated with alcohol by me later- that damn addictive personality at work. At night in the villages, I often heard what sounded like drums pounding away. However, these were not drums but the beating of kava or yaqona root into powder. The beat goes on, even in Fiji.

And years later, when I returned to Fiji with the lady who would become the mother of my son, that story of me out drinking the chief came back to haunt me there; here I was in the same village again and drinking that mud puddle again, called kava. But this time I learned my lesson and drank less, so I wouldn’t get that irritating coni coni itch!

Singer/songwriter Rob Rideout is the author of “Still Singing, Somehow” and is still singing, somehow on a farm overlooking Colville, WA with his three cats Baba, Maya and Olive. He recently published a second book of poetry, based on his song lyrics. The release of his CD of original songs is scheduled for spring 2011.
To contact, purchase books, view pictures, hear interviews, see videos and read reviews, go to www.stillsingingsomehow.com