The Art of being Alice.

Purpose. It’s a recurring theme in my life, one I return to again and again hoping that time would have allowed me more clarity to understand what mine might be. The dictionary tells me that purpose is simply ‘knowing what the intention is and working towards it’. In order to be a powerful human being you need to be clear about what your Life Purpose is and follow it boldly. When you are operating from this “place of power” your intention and actions combine to open a clear path that leads to your destiny.

Knowing your own purpose is no easy feat these days. The onus lies heavily on each of us to figure it out for ourselves, if we’re lucky. In earlier times it wasn’t always such a puzzle. In Burkina Faso the name that is given to you at birth is directly related to your purpose, which is ascertained by means of ritual or divination before birth. Malidoma Some writes beautifully about his name and purpose in his novel “Of water and the Spirit”.

“During the ritual, the incoming soul takes the voice of the mother (some say the soul takes the whole body of the mother, which is why the mother falls into trance and does not remember anything afterward) and answers every question the priest asks. The living must know who is being reborn, where the soul is from, why it chose to come here, and what gender it has chosen. (…) Some souls ask that specific things be made ready before their arrival – talismanic power objects, medicine bags, metal objects in the form of rings for the ankle or the wrist. They do not want to forget who they are and what they have come here to do. It is hard not to forget, because life in this world is filled with many alluring distractions. The name of the newborn is based upon the results of these communications. A name is the life program of its bearer.” (p20)

Westerners don’t have the privilege of this kind of ritual and our spirit purpose isn’t exactly considered in the West. What is considered is how we might add value – not to the earth we live on, but to the system we operate in. The task set most clearly out before us from an early age is not to figure out who we will become, rather what we will become and then to be defined by that. We are rarely propositioned with alternatives that fall outside of this clear cut agenda and it’s only those with the means, desire, brains and bravery who can create lives outside of it. The standard has been set so clearly and completely that to oppose it is considered dangerous, even suicidal. Many people force themselves to operate in frameworks they don’t really agree with and that don’t contain their actual life purpose purely because no other options have been offered to them as actual viable options. So we stick to the program. And it continues.

‘Ruin is the road to transformation’: says a character in the new film of the book Eat, Pray, Love. It sticks with me long after I leave the theatre. Ruin allowes you to open up and excavate old parts of your being, ones that you’d forgotten about or buried, ones you’d hoped you’d never see again and yet they’re still there, intact, waiting silently to be rediscovered. Yes Liz Gilbert, I understand. It’s only when you’re down to your foundations that you can see the map of how the house is to be built.

I’m lucky. When I was twenty five I was initiated into an ancient African culture that gave me an alternative framework or container to operate from. It’s like an ancient world reached out and saved me just when I really, really needed it to. I was given a life boat in an age when everyone is drowning and without this container I would certainly have continued to be depressed, suicidal and sick.

Besides for giving me a container, being initiated also offered me clear indications of what my purpose is. Naturally, I got to a point where I believed it to be more of a curse than anything else. Being a Sangoma really didn’t fit in with my plans. I had dreams see, aspirations. I wasn’t ready yet to live my purpose and accept my power, and so I danced around it like a headless chicken saying: “this isn’t my purpose, my purpose is to be an actor! A director! No wait! I’m going to be an English teacher!”

For the longest time I believed that my purpose would fit in with what they taught at school. I didn’t want to be (what I considered to be) different, so I always played down the aspects of myself that I considered to be unacceptable. The only problem was that that was pretty much the bulk of me. The past couple of years I’ve been looking at the world and wondering why I don’t feel passionate about anything anymore, and I’ve finally realised that although I felt passionate about many things, I didn’t think they were acceptable, or that they fit into the framework, or that they were impressive enough to be passionate about.

Although most of us don’t have the blueprint of our purpose locked in our name like the folk in Burkina Faso, I think most people know innately what their purpose is. It’s in your bones, down in those foundations of yours. The only thing changes is your perception of it, and most importantly your acceptance of it. Many people are unhappy because they dance around their purpose for so long that eventually they just feel really tired and lost. I’ve forced myself into many awful situations where I didn’t really belong purely because I believed I had no choice about the matter. Boy, was I wrong. I create my own blueprint for my life. I am the Master Architect of my existence.

I still don’t know what my future holds, but I know what I enjoy, where I feel most comfortable and what my strengths are. The longer I follow that, the better I feel about myself. The further I step away from them, the more desperate I become.

I’ve given notice on my flat and for the second time in two years I’m packing up my life. The first time it was partly out of desperation. This time it’s with clarity. It’s from a place of power. I don’t know what happens next but I’ve never felt more certain that I’m doing the right thing.

I’m striking out in my power.

And that is the Art of being Alice.

These boots were made for walkin

The story goes something like this:
   
Girl comes into large(ish) some of cash and can either use it as part of a down payment on a property, or she can go travelling the world. She decides to pack up Cellini Euroline and head for the hills.

The hills turn out to be America. Girl traverses said America for six months. She sleeps on couches, on bunk beds, in hostels and strangers’ homes. She just keeps moving and goes right across The States. Newness oozes out of everything around her and for the first time ever Girl thinks:

“This is what it’s like to be alive! This is what it means to be free!”

Six months later her visa expires, her money disappears and her heart aches for her Lover left back in South Africa. Girl hops a plane and arrives back to turmoil and confusion. Said Lover wants nothing to do with her and has found new love in the arms of Other Girl Living Next Door. Who could blame him, but Girl’s disappointment is staggering. She spins and spins like a top that won’t stop. At night she dreams of planes and airports, of faraway places. She dreams of falling down rabbit holes and meeting strange characters in strange lands, and on waking her heart aches. She finds the perfect place to live, but she turns it down. Can’t figure out why. She struggles to get back to work. The idea of working for somebody else makes her throw up a little in her mouth. Eventually she rents another flat at twice the price and unpacks her life piece by piece. It’s not as fun as she thought it would be. Every now and again she still tries to convince the Lover to come back, but he won’t and he doesn’t. Somehow she feels out of place, like a sore thumb sticking out.


Life returns to what it was before she went on her journey (bar the love interest, the job, the cash flow and sea view) and soon boredom returns with a vengeance. Her money dwindles. Her cat dies. She finishes her crying quota till like the age of 60. The new car and apartment suck at her wallet like a vacuum cleaner on vendetta. She struggles to pay the rent.  Life turns a little grim.


The dreams of faraway places become overwhelming. When she closes her eyes she’s transported to Hawaii, Amsterdam and Panama. She starts spending large portions of her time fantasizing about these places in detail, conjuring up un-taken journeys and when she wakes she shakes uncontrollably. She buys herself a map of the world and stares at it for hours. The lottery becomes her religion and she spends the little money she has on buying up tickets and then praying loudly and continuously, but she doesn’t win. During her internet job searches she ends up on doing research about "how to find the perfect backpack", "location independent living" and "how to travel the world for free".


Ten months after her return to Africa she's flippin tired of it all. She lets go of the Lover. She lets go of the cat. She wakes up one morning with a hangover and gives notice on her flat when she's not looking. Contrary to what she expected she feels enormously relieved, perhaps even a little excited.  She gives in to herself, to her desire for awe and adventure.


She lets go and goes shopping for a new pair of boots!